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“Is this how you woo all your potential clients?” he asked, looking amused.
“Only when they’re all manly and annoyingly nonverbal.
“I’d be verbal if you’d shut up for a second and let me talk.” He shook his head. “You always did talk a lot when you were nervous. Some things don’t change. But you can relax. It’s great. So yes, let’s try this thing. Make a little music together.”
She refrained from jumping up and down like a lunatic. But she couldn’t stop herself indulging in a fist pump. “Yes.”
Zach snorted.
“I mean, great,” she said, wrestling the grin threatening to spread across her face into a more-sedate expression. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Harper.”
He rolled his eyes. “Likewise, Ms. Santelli. You can talk money with Jay. He handles all that stuff.”
Money. Right. She hadn’t even thought about the money. She’d been too focused on getting the job. “It’s your studio,” she pointed out.
“I’m hiring you as producer, not studio manager. If I was hiring the studio it would cover your fee as engineer, not producer. So you need to work out a fee.”
“I’d—”
He held up a hand. “Do not say you’d do it for free. You’re good, if that track is anything to go by. Don’t sell yourself short. You wouldn’t tell anyone asking you for advice to work for free, would you?”
No. The working-for-exposure thing so many artists and musicians started out getting fobbed off with was bullshit. “Right.” She stuck her chin out. “You’d better hope you can afford me, now that you want me so bad.”
Her words floated out into the air and there was a long shimmering moment where they just stared at each other, neither of them breathing.
You want me so bad.
Her cheeks felt hot. Say something. Anything. Anything that couldn’t be interpreted as flirting like that last sentence to fall out of her mouth. “Jay. Fee. Right. I’ll get on that.”
“And you’re good with Eli still working on a couple of songs?”
“Sure.” She hadn’t expected Zach to change his plans entirely. “We can do some planning and scheduling once you know what songs you have. Two producers might even help with your timetable if you want stuff ready for CloudFest. In the meantime, when did you want to start? Like I said, the studio is free this week.”
His brow wrinkled. “Studio?”
“That’s what we agreed, remember?” Please say he remembered. The studio was safer than here. Less chance for more awkward moments like the one they’d just shared.
“I’ve been liking the sound in here.”
Dammit. “This is nice, Zach, but I’m not sure it’s the best plan for you.”
“What does that mean?”
She swept her arm at the room. “I mean, I know that you want to tap into the Blacklight mythos a bit—or at least the marketing machine will want that—but I think when it comes to your music, you need to be yourself.”
“I am being myself. I’m writing the songs and doing the vocal and playing lead guitar. Not sure how much more “myself” it can get.”
Awkward. But if she was going to be his producer, it seemed like she was going to have to get used to some awkward moments. And tell him the truth when he needed to hear it. Yes, she would be more comfortable working in the big studio but now, as she thought about what she was trying to convince him of, she knew there was a bigger argument. A less selfish one. “It’s just that this is Grey’s studio”—she nodded at the Martin on the guitar stand—“Grey’s guitar. And, if you want to break out, then I think you have to let Zach be Zach. In a place where there aren’t quite so many ghosts for you.”
“I have just as many memories of Dad at the studio as here,” Zach said, folding his arms, mouth set in a stubborn line.
“Maybe. But ‘here’ is the place where you used to sit outside the window and listen to him. The place you weren’t allowed into unless he asked you. Grey’s famous man cave. It’s all his. I mean, until you came back, I doubt anyone else had dared to come in here for years. At the studio, you could always walk right in and watch him. It was never exclusively his.” Blacklight’s recording sessions had been fairly open affairs unless the band was trying to work on something that wasn’t going well. Then Grey would get cranky and ban everyone from hanging around, but otherwise there’d been wives and girlfriends and kids and friends coming and going at all hours. She should know, she’d been one of them, just like Zach had been. “This place is…” she trailed off, not knowing exactly how to explain it. But this place was Grey’s. And maybe Zach could make it his own in time, but he was on a deadline. So why put himself at a disadvantage?
She changed tack. “At least come and try the big studio for a couple of days. You can always work here writing, if you like. But the big studio is easier all around. Better gear. More space when you get the rest of your band in.”
“When did you get so practical?” he said. But he smiled as he said it, and she knew she was winning him over.
“I’ve been running the studio for a few years now. I know what I’m doing. So, trust me. That’s what you’re going to pay me the big bucks for, after all.” Well, semi-big, maybe. She didn’t know how much she should ask for. Zach wouldn’t care—he’d never had to worry about money in his life. Never would. She’d have to talk to Sal. Or maybe Eli. He’d done some producing, and explaining to him that she was working with Zach might be easier than telling her dad. After all, her parents liked having her here on Lansing. If she started producing, not all the musicians she worked with would want to trek to the island. Her parents had always been supportive, but she knew damn well they were happy she’d never moved away.
