The guitar's wail fills the room. It's a riff I've never heard before. It's heavy and melodic and totally captivating.

Either the drugs did wonders for my headache or the music is so beautiful it's chasing the pain away.

I dog-ear my page and drop my paperback in my lap. My eyes flutter closed. Nothing to distract me now. Nothing here except the sound of Drew's playing.

The music shifts. Something faster. It's not like the normal Sinful Serenade stuff. It's rawer. It's harder. It's way more aggressive.

Something stirs inside me. Like the song is throwing open a hiding place and letting all the dust free.

The music shifts back to the melody. All that dust swirls around my brain. I shake my head, willing it to settle down, but it does no good.

I don't want to think anything. I don't want to feel anything but Drew's song washing over me.

I play with the pages of my paperback. Something for my Russian Literature class. I'm supposed to be reading it.

My eyes open and my gaze goes straight to Drew. He's completely oblivious to anything except his guitar. There's this look on his face—a mix of concentration and serenity. His fingers glide over the fretboard, fast and exact.

We're early. It's just us. By all accounts, the room is huge. But it feels small. It feels like a closet. Like there's absolutely no room to move or even breathe.

The song ends. I grab my paperback and pretend to read it. Drew is looking at me, checking on me. I can feel it. I bury my eyes in the text and read the same sentence five times. There's a highlighter and a pen in my purse. If I'm going to pretend I'm doing homework, I should sell it better.

I sneak a peek at Drew as I reach for my purse. He's tuning his guitar, a pick between his teeth. He closes his eyes and plays a note. It must be right, because he moves to the next string. He does it again and again.

His eyes blink open. He glances at me. Crap, I'm staring at him. I nod like it's a coincidence. He doesn't seem to notice. He takes the pick from his mouth and rubs it between his fingers.

He plays.

A different song. Another song I've never heard before. This time, I don't fight the feelings whirling around inside me. I close my eyes and let the song wash over me. How can something that sounds so beautiful make me hurt somewhere so deep? It's like there's a hole in my gut out of nowhere.

The music picks up. Faster, harder, but still distinctly melancholy. Still threatening to tear me in pieces and leave me to blow away in the wind.

I open my eyes and watch Drew play. There's a hint of sadness on his face. He's off somewhere else, somewhere that hurts him. But even with his eyes turned down and his gaze drifting off into the distance, there's something comfortable and satisfied about his expression.

He's at home. Exactly where he belongs.

The door swings open and the music stops.

Pete storms inside, his hoodie up around his head, his attention on the floor. He pulls his hands from his pockets and flips off the open door.

Oh. Tom steps inside, all huffy and puffy. He must be the object of the middle finger. God knows he deserves it.

Tom spots me. He winks at me then turns to Drew. "What happened to our no-girls rule?"

Drew only barely looks up from his guitar. "Miles happened."

"You really going to bring one of your floozies to practice?" Pete asks.

"That's my prerogative." Tom pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it on the ground haphazardly.

Pete rolls his eyes and kicks the hoodie into the corner.

"Don't take your blue balls out on my clothing," Tom says.

"Fuck off, asshole." Pete hides behind his dark hair.

Drew lets out a sigh. "You want to fight or you want to play?"

"You volunteering to fill in for Miles?" Tom asks. "Fuck knows I don't ever need to hear Pete screaming or groaning again."

Drew glares. "We don't need the fucking vocals to practice."

Apparently, Tom agrees. He shakes his head as if to say whatever and hightails it to his drum kit.

The instruments are all set up in the same area. It's not quite a stage. It's more like a large section of the room.

Still, I scoot back until I'm pressed up against the wall. There's a good ten, fifteen feet between me and the guys in the band, but it still feels awfully close. It still feels like Drew can see inside me.

Then again, it always does.

Drew looks at Pete as if to say e tu, brute? Pete must want to fight. Pete and Tom are always like this. But, then, Drew did mention that they're brothers. Foster brothers, no blood relation, but they grew up together.

They certainly fight like brothers.

"You two want to pull this shit, fine. I'll leave," Drew says.

Pete pulls his phone from his pocket at stares at it. His face flashes with concern. "You want to indulge Tom's bullshit, go ahead. I'm busy." He taps a reply.

"I can't help it I'm the only one with a fucking mind for business." Tom snaps his fingers at me.

I fight a scowl. I'm playing along here. "Don't snap at me. I'm not a puppy."

Tom pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses that on the ground. "Let me ask you something, Kara."

"Yes?"

"You go to Club Blue?"

It's one of my favorites, actually. Good music. Decent drink prices. Plenty of room on the dance floor. "I do."

"You like dancing," he says. "And I like dancing."

Oh God.

Tom makes eye contact. He winks. "We could go dancing together."

Pete laughs. "Are you really hitting on his girlfriend in front of him?"

Cue the death glare from Drew. It doesn't scare Pete or Tom, but it's nice to know the idea of dating me is still just that disgusting.

"She's not his girlfriend," Tom says. "And it would not be a date. Just two sweaty people moving their bodies together." He looks back to Drew. "What do you say—do I have your permission?"

"Are you here to play or are you here to talk?" Drew glares.

"The guitar prince is so temperamental." Tom looks at me. "Doesn't sound like a no."

"Leave her alone." Drew huffs.

He's about fifteen seconds from protective caveman mode. Tom looks at me, raising his eyebrows as if to suggest success. I'm not so sure. It's easy to make Drew protective. It doesn't do anything to convince the man I'm anything more than a friend.

Tom grabs his drumsticks and stretches his arms in the air. Done with flirting for now. It's funny. Tom is clearly attractive. He's handsome. He's ripped—more than Drew even. Yes, he's controlling and bossy and slutty as all hell. He's also funny and competent and totally take-charge.

He's the kind of guy who used to make my heart race and my breath hitch.

But, right now I'm staring at his defined, tattooed chest and... nothing. My heart is plodding along at some sixty beats a minute. My breath is slow and even. There isn't a hint of heat in my body. In fact, the thought of dancing with Tom makes me utterly queasy.

My gaze shifts to Drew. His guitar strap is tugging his t-shirt down his shoulders. Mmm. That chest piece is begging for my fingertips. My tongue.

I press my lips together. My heartbeat picks up. That flutter builds below my bellybutton. Drew's shoulders are broad. His chest is strong.

My breath picks up. The guitar strap isn't doing enough. It should pull his shirt all the way to his belly button.

The door opens and everyone's attention turns to it. Thank God. Miles is here. His hair and clothes are messy like he just got out of bed. More likely, he just got out of Meg.

"About time." Tom huffs. "Where's your girl?"

"Recovering from last night. She needs to catch up on sleep after—"

"You're late." Tom glares.

Miles glances at the clock—ten minutes after noon—and he shoots Tom a sarcastically sweet wave.

Miles nods hello to me. "Nice to see you, Kara. These guys giving you trouble?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I say. "I should really get back to reading. Thanks for inviting me to practice."

Tom motions to Miles. Miles moves close enough for Tom to whisper something. Both the guys laugh.

They look straight at me.

Miles turns to Drew with a smug look in his eyes. "What happened to living alone?"

"Helping out a friend," Drew says. His voice is impossibly even.

I nod to my book like I'm just so done with this conversation.

The guys banter for another ten minutes. Mostly, I stare at my book. The words housewarming party after practice are thrown around half a dozen times before Drew finally agrees.

Someone dims the lights. I set my book back in my lap and turn all of my attention to Drew. It's dark enough that he can't make out my expression, the way my gaze travels over his body, the way my tongue slides over my lips, the way my fingers dig into the fabric of my jeans.

The flutter builds to my belly and thighs. I get lost in Drew's playing—the intense expression in his eyes, the delicate curves of his lips, the hard lines of his shoulders, the finesse of his hands.

It's magic.