I awoke in a strange place. It took me a few long moments to realize where I was and remember why I was there. Oh right. The ceiling was raining in my apartment, so I called my dad and he sent Ryan to help me. Ryan took me home with him. Now I was sleeping in his guest room until my apartment was livable again.

Ryan’s home was nothing like my own. For instance, in Ryan’s house, I couldn’t hear Sasquatch stomping around upstairs like he was testing the integrity of the floor joists. I couldn’t hear the pipes whistling and banging as they struggled to deliver water to tenants. I couldn’t hear my neighbor Maria’s colicky twins crying in the next apartment. I couldn’t hear Rebecca, my downstairs neighbor, practicing the oboe or whatever the hell it was that made a dying-duck noise in the early morning. Here, all I heard was the pre-dawn wind knocking branches against the window and the twittering of little birds outside.

I stretched out in the bed and stared around myself. It was early, just before seven a.m. Last semester I’d had an eight a.m. math class and it had trained me to rise early. Now, even on a Sunday, I was incapable of sleeping in. I itched to text Trina, but I knew she was still probably asleep.

Ryan was probably still asleep too. This early on a Sunday, anyone reasonable would be. I tiptoed down the stairs in my pajamas as quietly as I could. Downstairs, I felt a bit less nervous about waking Ryan. I peeked around at my surroundings with interest. I hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the house the night before, but now I could spy unsupervised.

And spy I did. In the hallway, there were a number of signed photographs. It took me a second to fully digest the faces and realize that I was looking at a rock and roll hall of fame. The names were all household ones. How the hell did Ryan have a signed picture of himself shaking hands with Bono? Or getting chummy with Eddie Vedder? Or one of Stevie Nicks giving him a kiss? My favorite was definitely the one of Dolly Parton gesturing at her ample bosoms while a much-younger Ryan stared bashfully at the ground. I snapped a picture of it with my phone.

My father was the senior, founding partner of one of the most famous Hollywood talent agencies. He called himself the ‘lawyer to the stars’. It made sense then, if Ryan worked for him, that he’d know a star or two (not to mention his brother’s connections). But my father focused on film, not music. Was it possible that Ryan was a music agent? The possibilities danced in my minds’ eye. He was smart, sexy, and a talent agent? What were the chances of that?

But the thought of asking Ryan for help made me feel surprisingly insecure. I’d been trying, and failing, to get representation for myself. The problem was that I didn’t have any connections outside of those my father could provide. I’d played a few coffee houses, a charity event or two, but breaking into the business wasn’t exactly easy. Knowing someone like Ryan could change everything for me.

Or maybe it would change nothing, because he wasn’t here to help my career. He was only interested in me (if interested is even the right term), because my father asked him to bail me out of my drowning apartment. Despite the way he looked at me, Ryan probably only thought of me as his boss’ daughter. Even if he was interested in me physically, and he did at least seem to be, he probably didn’t know, or care, that I wanted to sing for a living. There was no chance that I’d be the one to bring up the subject, that was for sure.

It was with feelings of insecurity and frustration that I threw open Ryan’s fridge and realized that the man had no food. Seriously. There were a few eggs, some milk, and almost nothing else in the refrigerator. He could hide the fact that he was a bachelor by purchasing a pre-decorated house, but his fridge told the real story. It seemed that Ryan—hot shot lawyer to apparently every big-name musician—lived off of bagel bites, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The pantry was almost totally empty as well, unless you counted junk food. He had a lot of junk food.

But in-between the microwavable trash and junk food, Ryan had a small amount of real food. I found eggs, flour, milk, baking powder, baking soda, butter, salt, and maple syrup. That meant he was about to have pancakes. I dumped the ingredients in a bowl, stirred, and heated up a pan. I was halfway through my whisking when I found myself relaxing.

Cooking has always been soothing for me. It’s almost like therapy, or maybe more like meditation. I’m not an amazing cook, but I make do. It doesn’t matter what I’m making or how well I’m making it though; it’s the act of cooking itself that makes me feel better. It reminds me of my mom, and of being a little girl standing on a chair over a pot while she showed me what to do.

Soon, I found myself humming as I drizzled the batter over the hot pan. The tune came from nowhere, but I didn’t fight it. Ryan was upstairs. He’d never hear me.