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“Okay, that works. Wanna meet in a couple hours?” He sounds so ready that I feel like a monster for denying him. But I’ve got to think about myself. I’ve got to protect myself.
“Can’t do it today. Tomorrow morning? Bright and early?” That’ll give me some time to get my head in the right space. Not to mention it’ll prevent any late-night songwriting that could too easily turn to bad decisions. I know how my body responds to a talented man—and it’s impossible for me to forget how it reacts to Ian in particular. I know that being tired and out late at night is only going to invite an offer of continuing to work on the music at one of our home studios ...which will probably lead to sex. And that’s not happening. Not with a guy like Ian. So the morning is a better choice, and with any luck he’ll oversleep and I can avoid the whole thing.
“Sure, that works,” he says, sounding almost disappointed. Oh well, it’s not my job to keep him happy. That’s what he’s got a manager for. Even if guilt squeezes around my chest and nearly makes me change my mind. I can’t let him manipulate me, though. I learned that with Eric. Addicts will do and say anything to get what they want and I needed to be vigilant and firm.
“See you then,” I say quickly before hanging up and texting him the address and access code to my downtown studio. I could listen to his voice all day long, trying to entice me into spending time with him, but I know better. I know I can’t let him get any closer than I absolutely have to.
Already, I’m thinking about changing the plans, inviting him over to my home studio, seeing how long he wants to stick around. I have a feeling that if Ian Monroe came to my house, he’d be spending the night and I can’t stop myself from thinking about his talented fingers, long and callused, touching me with that same masterful caress he used on his guitar. I can’t help but imagine his intense eyes staring into my soul as he filled me with his cock…
And just like that, I’ve made myself blush. I cannot be thinking things like that. I have a job to do and that job does not involve fucking Ian Monroe. It involves pretty much the exact opposite. Being linked with a him romantically could be murder for my reputation and I’m not even sure a guy like Ian does romance. He probably just has unending one-night stands without ever remembering anyone’s name.
I’ve had a few flings of my own, but I’m much more the relationship and commitment type. We’d never be compatible, no matter how good the music is. I learned that the hard way when I was still a kid in this business, infatuated with one of the guys I toured with. In the beginning, I opened for him, but then we started singing together on stage and the praise was intoxicating. That was definitely the launching point to my big solo career, but it was also my first real heartbreak and betrayal. I thought Jamie and I had chemistry, I thought he liked me too, but when I made my feelings clear to him, he all but laughed in my face.
“It’s just music, sweetheart. Don’t get it twisted. Everything out on that stage is an act. We’re not really together, you know that, don’t you?”
Even though I was only sixteen at the time, I felt like the world’s biggest idiot and I swore I would never get involved with another musician. I swore I’d never let myself confuse musical chemistry for actual chemistry, and I’d never mistake onstage flirting for the real thing. But that’s pretty much exactly what I’m doing with Ian and I need to put a stop to it before he burrows in any further.
But knowing all that isn’t the worst part of all of this. The worst part is that I still have to turn my phone off and jump in the shower to prevent myself from calling him back. The worst part is that under the steamy spray of the shower head, I can’t help letting my hand slide down my body, touching myself and moaning his name as I shudder with release. The worst part is that he’s doing all this to me and we haven’t even started yet.
Chapter 5
Ian
Outside her studio the next morning—if you can even really call this hour of the day morning—the sun’s barely cutting through the last shadows of night and there’s a misty gray fog clinging to everything that’s making me shiver in my T-shirt. I rub my face to make sure there’s no sleep crust in my eyes. I’d barely managed to stumble in and out of the shower before getting ready, but I made it here, dammit. And I’m waiting for her.
She gave me the access code to the building, but there’s a rough-looking security guard inside that keeps eyeing me like he’ll call the cops if I take one step inside. So I’m still right outside the door, goosebumps up and down my arms, no coffee in my hand. Waiting.
Finally, another car joins mine in the nearly empty parking lot and I watch one long leg followed by the other stepping out of the car. My pulse crashes to a stop.
There’s no doubt that those perfect legs belong to Chelsea. And if I thought she looked good on stage the other night, that’s nothing compared to her in sweats and a T-shirt with her golden hair pulled up in a messy bun. The no-makeup look suits her too. She looks fresh, like she just rolled out of bed, and my dick’s already swelling at the thought of waking up to that view.
Then she turns toward the building, spots me, and frowns. Goodbye, erection. That isn’t just any frown. That’s a look of utter contempt. I’m not sure what’s made Chelsea Garten hate me so much, but there’s no mistaking that look in her eyes.
“Morning,” I call to her, lifting my hand in a greeting. She nods, sipping from a thermos and locking her sweet little white Corvette.
“Nice ride,” I say, trying to get any response out of her. She just smiles to herself, taking another drink from her thermos.
“I’m surprised you’re already here. Did the access code not work?” she asks, straight to business. Cracking Chelsea’s shell might be harder than I anticipated.
I shrug, trying not to show her how cold I am, standing out here because I don’t want to confront the security guy. “Thought it would be chivalrous to wait for you,” I say, offering her my winningest grin.
She rolls her eyes and steps past me to type in the code to the door, waving at the surly guard whose attitude does a 180 upon seeing her. Figures.
“Why did you want to meet at this unholy hour?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
Chelsea turns her head, giving me this satisfied little smile that sends all my blood straight to my cock. “I wanted to see if you could get up this early.”
I nearly laugh, but cover it up by clearing my throat. For her? I could get up any time. Though I’m pretty sure that’s not what she means.
“So I passed the test, then?”
She shrugs, turning that smile away from me. “That one.”
I mull that over the whole time we take the elevator up to the tenth floor. What is this girl playing at? Dragging me out of bed before sunrise just to “test” me? I should be angry—I know I should be—but I’m not. Instead, I’m ready to rise to the challenge. She wants to throw dumb little tests and challenges my way? Bring it on, baby. I know I’ll surprise her, and that’s one step closer to having her.
She’s quiet until we get to her studio; she flips on the lights and sets her thermos down next to a couch th
at her flowered guitar is propped against.
