Ian

Outside her studio the next morning—if you can even really call this hour of the day morning—the sun’s barely cutting through the last shadows of night and there’s a misty gray fog clinging to everything that’s making me shiver in my T-shirt. I rub my face to make sure there’s no sleep crust in my eyes. I’d barely managed to stumble in and out of the shower before getting ready, but I made it here, dammit. And I’m waiting for her.

She gave me the access code to the building, but there’s a rough-looking security guard inside that keeps eyeing me like he’ll call the cops if I take one step inside. So I’m still right outside the door, goosebumps up and down my arms, no coffee in my hand. Waiting.

Finally, another car joins mine in the nearly empty parking lot and I watch one long leg followed by the other stepping out of the car. My pulse crashes to a stop.

There’s no doubt that those perfect legs belong to Chelsea. And if I thought she looked good on stage the other night, that’s nothing compared to her in sweats and a T-shirt with her golden hair pulled up in a messy bun. The no-makeup look suits her too. She looks fresh, like she just rolled out of bed, and my dick’s already swelling at the thought of waking up to that view.

Then she turns toward the building, spots me, and frowns. Goodbye, erection. That isn’t just any frown. That’s a look of utter contempt. I’m not sure what’s made Chelsea Garten hate me so much, but there’s no mistaking that look in her eyes.

“Morning,” I call to her, lifting my hand in a greeting. She nods, sipping from a thermos and locking her sweet little white Corvette.

“Nice ride,” I say, trying to get any response out of her. She just smiles to herself, taking another drink from her thermos.

“I’m surprised you’re already here. Did the access code not work?” she asks, straight to business. Cracking Chelsea’s shell might be harder than I anticipated.

I shrug, trying not to show her how cold I am, standing out here because I don’t want to confront the security guy. “Thought it would be chivalrous to wait for you,” I say, offering her my winningest grin.

She rolls her eyes and steps past me to type in the code to the door, waving at the surly guard whose attitude does a 180 upon seeing her. Figures.

“Why did you want to meet at this unholy hour?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

Chelsea turns her head, giving me this satisfied little smile that sends all my blood straight to my cock. “I wanted to see if you could get up this early.”

I nearly laugh, but cover it up by clearing my throat. For her? I could get up any time. Though I’m pretty sure that’s not what she means.

“So I passed the test, then?”

She shrugs, turning that smile away from me. “That one.”

I mull that over the whole time we take the elevator up to the tenth floor. What is this girl playing at? Dragging me out of bed before sunrise just to “test” me? I should be angry—I know I should be—but I’m not. Instead, I’m ready to rise to the challenge. She wants to throw dumb little tests and challenges my way? Bring it on, baby. I know I’ll surprise her, and that’s one step closer to having her.

She’s quiet until we get to her studio; she flips on the lights and sets her thermos down next to a couch that her flowered guitar is propped against.

“So, I listened to some of your stuff,” she says, sitting down and crossing her legs under her.

That surprises me. I’m not sure why. I definitely listened to all of her music over the last couple of days. And I listened to it all again for good measure last night. You know, to prepare. Not because I’m obsessed with her or anything. She’s got this modern-alternative country vibe that I’m sure is going to mesh perfectly with my softer rock style. I’ve already been toying with chords and lyrics on my own time, but right now, I wait to see what she has to say as I sink into the second couch.

The two couches are positioned in a corner with a small end table shoved between them. She’s on the end of her couch closest to that table, so I take the same spot on the other, our knees nearly touching. Her expression freezes for just a moment and I’m sure I see her debating with herself whether or not she’s going to try and move away from me. But she stays there, not saying anything about my proximity. Doesn’t stop me from being all too satisfied when she scoots back into the couch a bit like she’s adjusting her seat. I know the truth: she’s squirming away from me, and it sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. Yeah, sweetheart, I can administer “tests” too. Let’s see how she likes that.

“What’d you think?” I finally prompt when it seems like she’s not going to offer more.

“It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting,” she admits.

“In a good way?” I ask, grinning.

I’m rewarded by the sight of a warm pink flush rising up her delicate neck, but she’s not going to give me the satisfaction of actually complimenting me.

“Well, I still showed up today, didn’t I?”

“Fair enough,” I chuckle, holding out my hands in surrender. I don’t know why she’s so uptight with me—maybe that’s just how she is, I don’t know—but I’m determined to help her loosen up. The music always flows better that way.

My motives have nothing to do with the thought of her relaxing enough to make those smiles more common. It’s just about the music.

Yeah, sure, buddy.

“Did you… listen to my stuff?” she finally asks, like she’s been sitting on that question for a while. So the unflappable Chelsea does care what I think. That’s good to know.

I shrug, trying to be nonchalant. “A little,” I say. “You’ve got a good sound. I think the execs knew what they were doing when they paired us together.”

Her eyes sparkle at the praise, but then her face falls and she seems to tense up again. “Maybe,” she says, casting her eyes off to another part of the studio.

“Should we get to it? I’ve got a couple songs in progress I can play for you if you’re not ready.”

She grins behind her coffee cup and gestures to the guitar. “Be my guest.”

This has got to be another test, seeing if I’m going to balk at the idea of playing her estrogen-coated instrument. Not a damn chance. Making girls swoon with my music has always been my superpower and I’m not about to let my secret weapon go to waste because of some misplaced male pride or some bullshit. I definitely should’ve brought my own guitar, but waking up at the hour she suggested, I’m lucky I remembered my damn pants. So I’ll make do.

I stand up, pull the notepad out of my back pocket, drop it on the cushion next to me, and lean over her across the other couch to grab her guitar. Yes, reaching across her was unnecessary, but her wide-eyed look of surprise when my chest nearly brushes against hers makes it completely worth it.

Like nothing happened at all, I sit back on my couch and start strumming a few chords, getting a feel for the instrument before I flip through the pages of my notepad and start to play.

She’s watching my fingers closely until I start to sing softly, and then, gradually, her eyes drift closed and she loses herself in the music. Seeing someone respond like that is probably the best part of my job, but seeing Chelsea respond like that? Hell, that’s going to be the best part of my damn week.

“That’s all I’ve got of that one,” I say, jumping right into another promising work-in-progress. She doesn’t say anything as I play through parts of three different other songs. She just sits there, sipping her coffee, eyes closed, feeling the music.

This feels strangely natural. Before I started playing, there was some kind of tension between us, like she really didn’t want to be here with me. Now that the music is filling the room, it feels like we both belong here together. She seems more relaxed, and when I finally set the guitar down, she opens her eyes and smiles.

“I think we can work with that. I like the second one, particularly. I might have some lyrics that will work with it.”

“All right, then. Let’s hear it,” I say, nudging the guitar toward her.

For a moment, I think she’s going to decline. She looks suddenly bashful, which is not at all what I saw out on stage the other night, so I’m not sure what that’s all about. But she doesn’t argue. She takes the guitar and strums and starts singing and then suddenly it’s my turn to be lost in the music. But I don’t lean back and close my eyes like she did. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. The soft shapes her lips make, the way her hands move so gracefully up and down the neck of the guitar. I think about that little hand gripping me, stroking me, and coupled with the beautiful sounds coming from her, that’s enough to have me rigid again.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees to hide my erection. Being around Chelsea makes my dick act like it’s never seen a pretty girl before and it’s fucking crazy. I’ve been with countless women, supermodels even, and none of them made my body respond the way one look from Chelsea does. Damn.

She sets down the guitar sheepishly and I give her a slow clap, smiling. Chelsea shakes her head, half rolling her eyes at me.

“So that’s what I’ve got.”

For about an hour, we work on our pieces of songs, trying to find ways to fit them together, working on rearranging them into duets, practicing harmonies. The hour goes by so fast I don’t even notice it. Apparently I’m not the only one; Chelsea goes to take a sip of her drink and spits it out immediately, making a face.

My eyebrows lift of their own volition and she shakes her head.

“It’s ice-cold. I’ll be right back. There’s a little kitchen down the hall.”

“Mind if I join you? I could use some caffeine.”

She looks like she wants to refuse, but there’s no real reason for it, so she shrugs and stands. “I can’t stop you.”

While that’s technically true, if Chelsea asked me not to do something, I don’t think anything in the world would make me want to defy her.

I follow her down the hall to the kitchen where they’ve got probably ten grand in fancy coffee equipment just sitting out. I wonder how much of it is hers or if other artists also have studio space up here. I make myself a quick cup of espresso and watch as she basically does fucking alchemy to make some sugary concoction that seems like it should barely qualify as coffee anymore. But I pay attention anyway, enjoying this strange feeling of comfort at observing her do something so normal and routine.

We’re all alone up here right now, and I can almost imagine—with her in those sweats she looked like she tumbled out of bed in—that this would be our routine if we spent the night together. Getting up, making coffee in comfortable silence as the sun dissolves the fog outside and paints the morning golden. It’s a nice thought, but a damn weird one. I’ve never wanted a routine with any woman. Hell, normally the thought of waking up with one is enough to send me running in the other direction. And routine? Forget it.

This has got to be some forbidden fruit thing mixed with three long years of celibacy. That’s it. It has to be.

“So, I think we should try to write a completely new song together,” I say as we head back down the hall. She just nods.

“Any idea for subject matter?”

“Well, good girl, bad boy duet, seems obvious, doesn’t it?”

She raises her brows at me, letting me know that whatever I think is obvious probably isn’t. Or she’s being coy. I don’t know her well enough yet to be sure.

“Forbidden romance,” I say. “That whole ‘I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself’ thing,” I add, pushing for a reaction.

She doesn’t disappoint, nearly choking on her coffee, sputtering as she wipes frantically at her shirt before it stains. “That’s obvious, huh?” she asks, her eyes practically glittering with laughter.

I shrug. I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what I’m talking about, but I can play it off. I can plant that seed and then turn it around to work like it was unintentional. She wants to be a tease? Well, she’s not the only one that knows how to do that.

“It’s the angle the execs will want, and I’m sure it’ll play with whatever PR our managers have cooked up for the tour.”

She sighs and sets her coffee down. “Okay, you’re probably right. All right. Let’s do it then.”

This girl just keeps surprising me. Every time I think I’ve stepped too close, she’s there, challenging me to step closer. I can’t get enough of it.

For another hour, we sit there working through lines, reworking weird phrasing, trying to find a melody to go with the words we’d already come up with. Songwriting is always tricky, but with Chelsea, it’s actually fun. When I suggest a line that I think has some poetic merit, she just laughs and shakes her head, saying it’s way too cheesy. But then I realize what a real, honest-to-goodness laugh from Chelsea Garten sounds like, and I’m hooked. I make it my mission to make her laugh from here on out.

“We need a line after ‘I know I should walk away,’” she says, tapping her pen on the notebook.

“‘But your eyes hit me like an x-ray,’” I offer, earning a snort from her.

“Are you even trying?”

“Of course I am! How about… ‘but I can’t resist your swordplay’?”

“Oh God,” she groans, giggles shaking her shoulders as she buries her head in her hands. “You’re not trying!” She tries to sound angry, but she’s laughing too much to do a good job of it.

“Okay, okay, you’re right, I’ll be serious.”

She takes a deep breath and composes herself, her face still flushed with laugher. “Away… away…”

“‘You heat my blood up like a flambé’?”

Her face splits into a grin and she throws her pen at me, hitting me square in the chest. “We’re not getting anywhere like this,” she sighs, letting her laughter die down as she sinks back into the couch. Maybe I should feel bad about not getting much accomplished, but I can tell that Chelsea’s having a good time, and I know I’m having a good time. That kind of rapport and chemistry is as important to the success of this venture as the actual music.

That’s the excuse I’m going with anyway.

We’re both just sitting there in the quiet, staring at this notebook, Chelsea occasionally chuckling at something and shaking her head, when the door suddenly swings open. We both instinctively move apart like we were caught doing something wrong.

“Rosa, I didn’t know you were here,” Chelsea says, sitting up straight, pulling on a mask of professionalism in two seconds flat.

“You weren’t answering your phone. You have an appointment. Did you forget?”

Chelsea’s eyes dart to the clock and she jumps to her feet. “Crap! Yes, I’m sorry. Give me ten minutes to get changed.”

Rosa—her manager, I presume—gives her a stone-faced look, her arms folded, giving Chelsea a curt nod as she darts out of the studio. Then she turns that ice-cold look to me, nothing but disappointment in her hard eyes. I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but I don’t like it.

“Guess I should be going then,” I say, snatching up my notebook and tucking it in my pocket. Rosa doesn’t say anything, just holds the door open with her body, giving me a total ‘any fucking time’ attitude.

By the time I’m back to my car, I’ve got a text from Chelsea, saying we should try working on lyrics again tomorrow before we start recording. I already can’t wait to see her again and fire off my response far too quickly.