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The track came to an end, and Faith flexed her fingers then began to play. The tempo was a little slower than what Leah had just played her but she had the melody right. She ran through it once, nearly perfectly and then stopped. “Okay, let me hear it again.”
“Freak,” Leah said with a grin, but obliged.
The second time Faith ran through the part it was perfect. Then she did it again, adding a couple of variations while she did so. It sounded even better.
“Okay, remember that,” Leah said. “That was awesome. You’re awesome.”
“You wrote it,” Faith said. “I just played.”
“Then we’re awesome,” Leah said. “And now, you need to come down to the studio and let me record that.”
If she held her breath any longer, she was going to pass out. But Zach was standing in the middle of Grey’s studio, listening to the mix she’d made for his song, and she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.
Nerves. That was all it is. Nerves and the fact she’d spent almost all her spare time for the last two days working on his song. Sleep hadn’t featured much.
She forced herself to relax. Opened her mouth and let out her breath noisily. Zach slanted a glance at her, then turned his attention back to the laptop. Four minutes. The damn song was only four freaking minutes long. Who knew four minutes was eternity?
She always got nervous waiting to see what someone she was working with thought about a mix, but this was ridiculous. She twined her fingers together. Then loosened them and sat on her hands instead, sliding her palms under her thighs where they pressed against the wooden top of the stool she occupied. She picked the stool over a chair because she couldn’t curl up and assume the fetal position on a stool while she waited.
Being this nervous was one thing, but letting Zach see it was another. He needed to think she was one-hundred percent confident in her work. He needed to trust her. Or they’d never be able to work together. Producing an artist’s work was an intimate thing. A producer had to be a cheer squad, a critic, an inspiration, a hand-holder, a sounding board, a taskmaster, or any of a myriad of other things the particular musician or band needed. Every collaboration was unique and, while she hadn’t done a ton of producing on her own, she’d watched enough producers work their magic over the years to know that the key to all of it was trust. If the artist didn’t trust the producer, the relationship would never work.
She waited impatiently as the song went into the last chorus.
Silence descended. Zach stood there staring down at the laptop, hands shoved into his pockets.
God.
Was he going to say something? Did he like it? Did he hate it? Hell. She bit down on her lip—hard—to keep from asking.
She should give him time to reflect, to process his reaction but … hell, he was a guy. How much thinking time did he need? If he hated it, couldn’t he just put her out of her misery?
“Nice piano,” Zach said, turning to face her.
“Thanks.” It didn’t seem like the time to mention it was Faith playing. Zach probably knew anyway. He’d grown up listening to Faith play. Surely he would recognize her style. And anyway, she wanted to know what he thought about the whole song, not just the piano. It was just as well she was already sitting on her hands or she’d be gnawing her fingernails down to stubs.
Zach looked back at the laptop. Oh God. Was he going to play it again? She wasn’t sure she could survive another four minutes of limbo.
“Just tell me whether or not you like it already,” she blurted out and then wished she could sink through the floor. So much for professional.
He turned back to her, eyebrows lifting. “You know I did.”
“How exactly am I supposed to know that?” she said, indignant. “I forgot to turn my psychic powers on tonight and you were giving pretty good poker face while you listened.”
“I was concentrating. That was my concentrating face.”
“When you concentrate, you kind of frown and bite your lip,” she retorted and then wished for the second time for a great big hole to open up so she could climb inside and be done with it. She did not want Zach Harper getting the idea that she paid any kind of attention to his facial expressions. “I mean, when you play, that’s how you look. At least, from what I remember.”
“I do?”
“Yep. But don’t sweat it, most musicians have something they do when they play that they don’t know they’re doing. I used to wriggle my eyebrows when I was playing the piano, when I first learned. Used to drive old Mrs. Anthony mad. She threatened to tape them in place at one point.”
He laughed. “That would be a look.”
“I don’t think she actually would have done it,” Leah said hastily. “She was a softie underneath it all. But she had definite ideas about appropriate ways to address the piano. But enough about my childhood music traumas, we were talking about the song.”
“Which I like.”
“Just like?” she prompted. She slid off the stool. “Don’t make me come over there. I might be shorter than you but I can take you.”
