Not my time.
Not my body.
Not my soul.
I was getting ready to play the song again from the beginning whenI caught movement from the corner of my eye and froze.
Nathan was here.
He stood by the doorway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest like he had all the time in the world. His dark hair was slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it, and the ever-present scowl that made him untouchable at the office was absent. Instead, his expression was unreadable, his gaze locked onto me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
My pulse spiked for an entirely different reason.
“I thought you were in your office,” I said, my voice coming out a little breathless.
“And I thought you were on your way home.”
Caught.
I swallowed, wiping my hands on my shorts as I straightened. “I needed to clear my head. What are you doing here?”
The dance studio, tucked away on the lower level of Edge Records, was quiet at this hour and dimly lit except for the soft glow of recessed lights along the ceiling. The hardwood floors stretched wide beneath my feet, scuffed with years of movement, proof of every artist who had come before me.
Edge’s lower level was known as thecreative floor. A haven where artists could get lost in their craft. One studio was dedicated to songwriting and live instrumentation. Another had a small sound booth for late-night recording. This one, the dance studio, was my sanctuary. A place where no one asked questions. No one expected me to smile or be "on." I could justbe.
Nathan didn’t answer right away. He looked around the studio instead, his eyes trailing over the mounted speakers, thepolished mirrors, the soft ring light glowing from the corner and finally, the tripod still standing center floor, my phone perched in place.
His brow lifted.
I sighed. “I’m creating content,” I explained. “Now answer the question, what are you doing down here?”
I caught the faintest twitch of a smirk before he shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and finally replied, “Carl said you came down here.”
“Carl?” I gaped. “Oh, he issonot getting chocolate chip cookies from me this week.” I’ve been bringing Carl a batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies for just about as long I’ve been working at Edge Records. It started as a thank you for walking me to my car that first late night, and just kind of stuck. Carl claimed he liked them better than his wife's (I highly doubted that) but I still appreciated the loyalty.
Nathan arched a brow, clearly amused. “So that’s how you get security to keep your secrets. Baked goods?”
I shrugged, smirking. “You’d be amazed at what my hands can do.”
His eyes darkened to a navy blue so fast I could’ve imagined it. But the tension that curled between us at my words was very real.
“Noted,” he said, voice rougher than it had been a moment ago.
I turned back toward my phone, trying to keep my heart from sprinting. “Tell Carl he’s cut off for breaking my trust.”
“He only told me because he was worried about you.” Nathan’s voice gentled. “Said you didn’t look like yourself when he ran into you.”
It wasn’t like I could tell him about Jax.
I scoffed. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, tilting his head. “You still seem in your head.”
I shrugged. “I’m still planning to use your credit card, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His lips twitched. “I’m not worried.”
“Good. Because I fully intend on buying shoes and accessories.”
