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The coffee machine beeps. I take my mug, add some creamer, and meander around the first floor, watching the storm roll closer. On the opposite side of the house is a music room. At the center is a grand piano, and it’s been calling my name since I arrived. Back home, I have a keyboard that I plug my headphones into and play alone. I’ve been doing that since I was about five, when Dad bought it for me more as a toy than anything else. When I got proficient at that, I moved on to the guitar. In my heart, I prefer the keyboard and my voice as my instrument.

I set my mug down and sit at the piano.

It’s beautiful, probably a custom piece. I gently roll back the cover and rest my fingers on the smooth, cold keys. I can play quite a few pieces from heart; I’ve always been able to listen and replicate songs. Idly, I run my fingers up and down to warm them and slip into a quiet version of Dreams by The Cranberries. It ripples out, so different played on this piano instead of cramped in my room, coming through my headphones.

Everything goes away.

It’s just riding the soft waves. Like color slipping through my brain, rising, falling, dwindling, and swelling.

I’m lost in it. Until the back of my neck prickles and my fingers go still.

Turning, I bite the inside of my lip. Heat creeps up my neck.

He’s just in his sweats, arms crossed over his chest, leaning in the doorway. His face is unreadable.

I swallow. “Sorry, I thought you fell asleep.”

“I did,” he says.

He comes close and touches the keyboard.

“You read music?” he asks.

“Yeah, I can. But I usually just hear it and then play.”

His fingers travel, playing out a bit of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. “You sing, I heard you back at the ranch.”

“No, I’m good,” I retort.

“What?”

“I do not want to sing in front of you,” I say firmly.

“Alright, I won’t push you,” he says, taking up my mug of coffee. He circles the piano to face me, leaning on it. “So what do you like? What’s your genre?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

He cocks his head, studying me. Why is he looking at me like that? Like we’re on American Idol and he’s the judge, trying to figure out how to package me for the maximum amount of money.

“What?” I say, voice raspy.

He’s intimidating me. Whatever side of him this is, it’s different from the person he was an hour ago, upstairs. He shakes his head, then shrugs.

“I’m an agent. I sell people,” he says. “It’s hard for me not to look at you and want to sell your talent.”

I’m speechless. Should I be flattered or offended?

“Can you explain that?” I ask finally.

His jaw ticks as he thinks. “I heard you sing, and you’re good. I know a natural aptitude when I see it. More than that, I see when someone has the whole package.”

My mouth is dry. “You think I have the whole package?”

“I do,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t want to speak too loud.

“To be…what?”

He blinks slowly. His internal struggle is so clear. “A superstar. In the right hands, with the right connections who can get you into the rooms you need to be in.”