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Putting away my dog-eared notebook filled with poetry and lyrics, I shook my head. “I’m pretty tired.”
He grabbed himself a bottle of beer from a bar fridge and offered me one.
Opting for water instead, I declined.
“A big night with your hot-shot rich guy?” He chuckled as I followed him out into a courtyard.
“You could say that.” I’d known Orson long enough not to play the coy card.
“Why do you look so sad, then?” He pulled a clownish downturned smile.
I stifled a yawn by covering my mouth. “I’m good. I’m just tired.” Drained after a long session of playing, all I could think of was going to sleep.
“What about tonight? There’s a great gig I’d love you to see. Interested?”
He sucked back on his joint, and for some reason, my focus settled on his lips. Yes. He was a hot, talented man with important contacts in the music industry. If ambition burned through me, that would have worked. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be a musician forever, though, at least from a commercial point of view.
This was a moment in time when creativity had taken hold, but I hadn’t given a lot of thought to my future as an artist.
Thanks to a small inheritance, I owned my own flat, and I had a slush fund that was going down fast. Up to now, busking and selling CDs had brought in the same money as waitressing or cleaning, and on that front, playing music seemed like the more enjoyable option.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll see how I am at ten o’clock. I need to have a siesta, though.”
He looked at his psychedelic watch. “At five o’clock?”
I shrugged. “I’m stuffed.”
“Have a sleep here. Relax. Have a bath. Make yourself at home.” He puffed out a plume of smoke.
“Maybe a sleep.” I held up my finger. “Which doesn’t mean you hitting on me.”
His blue eyes twinkled as he chuckled. “I prefer it when the pleasure is mutual.”
“You were pretty insistent last night,” I said, sitting down on the wooden bench among pots of lavender and roses.
“I’d been drinking. Sorry about that.” He stubbed out his spliff in an ashtray with a Hilton logo. “I think that was a good session today. We’ve got down three tunes.”
I nodded. “Thanks so much for this.”
“I’m in for my cut—you know that.”
I thought of the contract I’d signed with him. Orson was a businessman at the end of the day. I hoped I’d managed to get it right.
I lifted my tired, sore body. “That bath’s looking nice. The door locks?”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “God, Bel, you don’t half trust me, do you?”
“Let me get back to you on that.” I smirked.
Orson was very slim, unlike buff Ethan, who fitted into my body like a glove. Even without Ethan invading my every waking thought, I wouldn’t have been that attracted to Orson, despite his talent and good looks.
I just had to keep reminding myself that Ethan Lovechilde was very wrong, like a guilty, late-night sugary snack that leaves a taste of regret.
Chapter 8
Ethan
Mybrand-newwhitetrainerssank in the mud as I tramped over puddles to the Newman farm. It had been a while since I’d visited the adjoining lands. and I’d forgotten how soggy it got.
