Ella hadn't always been in love with Max.

She could remember a time when they were young, and he was just her older brother's best friend. When Max sat around her house eating hot dogs and hiding bugs in her room and annoying her in any way he could dream up.

Of course, Max was never entirely carefree.

Ella hated this part of the story. She tried not to think about it often, because it only made her heart ache.

When they were younger, Max and Louise's parents died in a skiing accident in the French Alps. Max was twelve at the time; Louise was ten. Their older sister, Millie, was fourteen. Ella didn't know details — Louise never spoke about it — but she knew that their only living relative was a grandfather in Canada affectionately deemed "Pops."

Pops was a whisky-slinging, horse-breeding, auspicious man that traveled to roughly 20 countries every year to race his horses. To be fair to Pops, he had no idea that he would have to look after three grandchildren — and he had no intention of doing so.

So Pops shipped Millie, Max and Louise off to Lovewood Academy.

And that's where Ella came in.

She met Louise in her first year at Lovewood. Louise stuck out for a number of reasons: her English accent, her ridiculously expensive handbags (even for Lovewood, where the girls wore Tory Burch and Kate Spade), and also the fact that she never went home. Like, ever. Not even on weekends when the academy let them visit family.

So in October, Ella invited her for Thanksgiving.

And Max and Millie tagged along.

Ella wasn't sure how it happened, exactly, but they absorbed the Bentley children into their family. They began visiting for holidays, and then once a month, and eventually every weekend. Ella's father taught Millie how to drive when she turned sixteen. Her mother bought Max his first guitar. And soon, the Bentleys became a regular staple in their lives.

Ella considered Louise and Millie to be sisters, and she knew Rory viewed Max as a brother.

She just couldn't say the same.

Ella remembered the exact moment that she realized it, too. Her parents took them away to Muskoka for the weekend for Louise's thirteenth birthday — a rare treat, considering that money was always tight — and they stayed in a little cabin on the lake. She and Louise were sitting in the hot tub, reading trashy magazines, and Max walked out shirtless and Ella temporarily forgot how to breathe.

No, really.

She even made a choking noise.

Because, somehow, Ella had never noticed how Max's hips dipped into a little V at the bottom. Or how broad his shoulders were. Or that he had a little white scar, just under his rib cage, from a bike riding accident the previous summer.

And that's when everything changed.

For Ella, at least; she wasn't an idiot. She knew that Max still thought of her as his little sister. Which is why, even though he was sitting so close to her right now that their shoulders were pressing together, Ella knew not to read too much into it.

But God, she wished she could.

"Elle?" Max looked at her quizzically. "You alright?"

"Hmm?"

"You made a weird sound."

Ella felt her cheeks color. "My calves hurt," she invented. "From my heels last night."

Max looked at her quizzically. "Your calves hurt?"

"Well, you try wearing stilettos to a restaurant and let me know how you like it."

"Who says I haven't?"

She bumped his shoulder, and Max grinned. They were sitting in the boys' dressing room, sipping lime-flavoured bottled water. Across the room, Oliver and Rory were engaged in a game of darts, hooting and hollering every time they scored a point. Theo was warming up on the drums, and Louise was watching him with a dreamy expression.

Ella made a mental note to speak to her about that later.

"Well?" Max asked. "What do you think?"

Ella blinked.

God, his eyes were so green — almost like summer seaglass, the kind softened by years of rough water. What were they talking about again?

Oh. Right. The sheet music he was showing her.

"It's good," Ella told him honestly, and Max gave her a dubious look. "No, really; I know it isn't your usual style, but I like it." She traced her finger along the page, whistling the melody as she went. "I really like the pre-verse. There's something haunting about it."

"How do you do that?" Max asked.

"What?" She pulled a face. "Whistle?"

"No. I mean sound out the music like that."

"Oh. I have perfect pitch." Ella could feel her cheeks heating, and she cursed her fair skin for the millionth time that evening. "So I was born with it, I guess."

Max stared at her. "How didn't I know that about you?"

He sounded mildly alarmed, as if he had bitten into a chocolate-chip cookie only to discover that it was filled with raisins. Before Ella had time to formulate a response, Oliver threw himself into the chair beside her.

"Not bad, Ella," he said, grinning. "Do you play an instrument?"

"Violin."

He whistled. "A classics girl. I like that."

"But I'm not very good," she added quickly. "Music is more Rory's forte."

"Don't lie to him," Max said, gathering up the sheet music. "You're excellent at violin, Ella. You always have been."

She stared at him;firstly, because it was unlike Max to give compliments, and secondly, because he didn't call her Elliephant. Something was clearly very wrong.

There was a knock at the door.

Margaux peeked her head into the room. Her brown, frizzy hair was secured in a knot on top of her head with a pencil, and her clipboard was tucked under her arm.

"Fifteen minutes, boys," she called. "Vienna's just finishing up her set."

At the sound of Vienna's name, Ella and Louise exchanged a loaded glance. They had met Vienna — the boys' opening act — briefly at breakfast that morning, and the ten-minute encounter over croissants and coffee was more than enough for a lifetime.

Ella wanted to like Vienna; she really did. With her short, bubblegum pink bob and signature star earrings, Vienna was the coolest thing since hydro flasks.

But Ella knew as soon as Vienna started berating the waiter that morning for bringing her cold coffee that she wasn't Ella's cup of tea.

Or coffee.

Whichever you'd prefer.

"Oh, Margaux," Rory said, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "What would we do without you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Stop buttering me up, Walker. You're not going out tonight."

His face fell. "Not even one club?"

"Not until the weekend."

"But—"

"I'm the manager," Margaux said. "Let me manage you."

"You know," Rory said, "you're kind of hot when you're bossy."

He ruffled her hair. Ella waited for Margaux to sigh, or roll her eyes, or say something rude, but to her great surprise, Margaux turned the same pink as Vienna's hair.

Ella and Louise exchanged another glance.

Interesting.

"Alright," Margaux said. "Let's go, please."

They followed Margaux to the holding area. The boys ran through their vocal warm-up, and then they were out on the stage. The applause was deafening, running through the stadium like wildfire. Rory's hands danced over the guitar strings, Theo took his seat behind the drums, and Oliver picked up his bass. And then there was music.

Ella recognized the song even before Max began to sing.

Now I ain't a gentleman

Won't be your toy

Call me less of a man

And more of a boy

Don't want no more love

Don't want no more talking

If I don't call

Baby, don't come knocking

The crowd was going insane. Ella blinked, unable to process what she was seeing.

Jesus.

Okay, Ella wasn't actually seeing Jesus or anything. But with the way these girls were screaming, you would think Max might be a saint of some sort.

"Oh, my god," Louise whispered, her eyes suspiciously glassy. "They're really good, aren't they? I knew they would be, but to see it..." She squeezed Ella's hand. "Are you happy for them? I'm happy for them."

"I am."

"They're idiots, but I love them."

Ella's eyes caught on Max. "Me, too."

Her throat felt tight as she watched him work the stage. Max was a natural performer — he always had been — but she could tell that he messed up a few times. It wouldn't be obvious to anyone else, but Ella knew his nervous tics. The way he scratched at his forehead when he was puzzled. Or the pulse that jumped in his jaw when he was angry at himself.

But why would Max be nervous? Was he trying to impress someone?

Ella sucked in a sharp breath.

Was Max trying to impress her?

But, no; Ella shut that idea down as soon as it occurred to her. That was wishful thinking. And anyways, she wasn't letting herself go there.

Bad idea.

The Patriots strummed their final chord, and the crowd went wild, jumping up and down as they roared their thunderous approval. Rory pumped a fist. Sweat soaked his shirt, and he looked exhausted but elated.

Ella was so damn proud of him.

They ran off the stage. Theo was first, and he picked Louise up, twirling her around like a small doll as she laughed. Rory and Oliver came off the stage next, slapping each other on the back.

And then there was Max.

He came off the stage last, cradling his guitar in his hands. He held it gently — reverently — and Ella was reminded oddly of when they used to go skiing at Blue Mountain growing up; after they got home from the slopes, Max would spend hours smoothing over his skis with wax, patiently massaging out the cracks and lumps.

Max was careful with the things he loved.

He always had been.

"Max!" Ella called.

His head jerked up, and she grinned.

"You were really—"

A squealing noise cut her off.

"Baby!" a brunette girl shrieked, hurrying towards them. "You were so good!"

And she kissed Max squarely on the lips.