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“Sure, I guess we should really hammer that out with this tight schedule.”
“Cool, I’ll send you the address,” I say, heading out of the studio before I can lash out. That wariness in her eyes hurt. Like she really thinks after all the time we’ve spent together that I’d try to get her to my place to take advantage of her.
Fuck her crazy? Yes.
Take advantage of her? Never.
Whatever happens between Chelsea and me will be completely, undeniably consensual. Though after that look, I’m not sure there’s any danger of anything at all happening.
Chapter 8
Chelsea
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m being stupid enough to go to Ian’s house alone. It’s not that I’m worried about him doing something I don’t want… It’s that I do want it, and I definitely shouldn’t.
Singing with Ian is like foreplay. He knows all the right notes to hit, all the right buttons to press, and it never fails to make me weak in the knees.
I’m pretty sure no one else noticed the way every look from him made my body flush. And I’m praying that no one noticed how his smiles nearly made me forget my own damn lyrics.
But I did. So I should know better. And here I am, on my way to his damn house. Apparently, no matter how much I tell myself that Ian Monroe is off-limits, my body refuses to listen, pulling me toward him like we’re two magnets, unable to resist the connection between us.
I need a little extra time to give myself a pep talk, so I stop at my favorite sandwich place and grab us both subs. I don’t really know what he likes, but my experience with guys like him is that they’ll eat just about anything you put in front of them, so I’m not too worried. Besides, now he won’t have one-upped me with coffee and donuts.
I have to admit, that was a pretty big factor in me agreeing to go to his place. He paid enough attention to me yesterday to notice how I made my coffee and as silly as it sounds, it was really sweet. And remembering the hungry look in his eyes as I licked sugar off my fingers definitely contributed to me agreeing to meet him. Which is pretty much the opposite of what it should do, but even thinking about it now has me squirming and squeezing my thighs together to ward off the sudden rush of arousal.
That man is basically walking sex, and by all accounts, he wants me. That kind of attention is intoxicating, especially because I know with Ian it’s not just about my fame and money. With Ian, I know it’s the music that gets us both going, the way we work together so perfectly in the studio only makes us think we’d work together equally well in the bedroom.
But that is not why I’m going to his house. I’m going to his house because I had a ton of fun with him in the studio today and I’m not quite ready for it to be over. I’m going because we still have this song we need to finish and an album that might be done before we manage it.
So there are lots of reasons to be going to Ian’s house. Not sex.
I pull up to his address and nearly leave again. This is not really a house. This is a freaking mansion. There’s a big wrought-iron gate at the end of the drive, guitars made out of the swirls of metal, and I just shake my head. Leave it to a rockstar. There’s a button at the gate and I press it, expecting someone to ask me who I am and why I’m here, but the gates just swing open. Trees line the long drive up to the front of his house and huge columns flank the big double door. The place has kind of a modern Mediterranean vibe with ivy growing up the walls and wrought-iron balconies hanging from the upper levels. It’s definitely ostentatious, but it’s nice. A lot nicer than what I’d expect from someone with a drug addiction.
That’s because he’s clean, a little voice whispers.
You don’t know that for sure, my other, more reasonable voice snaps back. I thought Eric was clean too, and look how that turned out.
I park in front of the steps and the doors swing open to let Ian out.
“Glad you made it. I was starting to worry you’d got lost.”
“I brought lunch,” I say, walking around to the other side to grab the sandwiches. “I hope you’re cool with a ham and turkey club?” I wave the wrapped sub at him and he takes it without a second’s pause.
“Shit, and here I thought I was going to have to make a frozen pizza. You’re an angel.”
He’s already tearing into the paper and shoving the sandwich into his mouth as he turns and waves for me to follow. Just as well, I don’t want him to see the embarrassing blush that’s burning my cheeks right now. In my line of work I get plenty of compliments. Unending praise. But none of it ever feels as genuine as that one little comment from Ian, and that makes it mean so much more.
The front doors of the house spill into a huge three-story atrium with a skylight that makes the black marble floors glitter. Out past the living room and a wall of windows, I see a picture-perfect pool sparkling in the sun. I have a brief thought of jumping in to cool off from this heat that Ian’s ignited, but then the thought of him shirtless and me in a bikini only makes that heat worse.
“Studio’s in the basement,” he says through a mouthful of sandwich, turning down a spiral staircase.
“This is a really nice house,” I say absently. The basement is completely finished and probably nicer than the studio we recorded in this morning. The walls are covered with thick sound-dampening foam and there’s a comfortable-looking arrangement of sofas and armchairs along with a mini fridge and a pair of TVs. But the thing that catches my eye is the mixing board. It’s twice as big as any I’ve ever seen and has more flashing lights than a Vegas nightclub.
“Pretty, isn’t she? I barely know how to use half her features, but I couldn’t pass her up when someone offered.”
My fingers trail over the boards, just needing to touch something so pretty, but then I remember why I’m here.
“So, you’re done percolating?” I ask, snapping out of it.
