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“Let’s just say, people who are going to hold you accountable,” he explains. “People who are going to push you to always put forth your best. It’ll also differentiate you from the rest of the music landscape right now, with everyone wanting to be the solo star. It’ll be the perfect way to introduce you to the world, a woman in control, a woman who men are willing to perform in the background for.”
“That sounds good,” I reply slowly, as a wave of relief rolls right over me. There’s something immediately comforting about not having to be the only person singing on stage, the only person with a spotlight burning over their head.
“Well, hold on now.” Mr. Hanson chuckles. “Before you sign on the dotted line, I think it’d be a good idea for you to meet just the band I have in mind.”
* * *
I followMr. Hanson into a huge studio, which happens to be completely empty of any other musicians at the moment. Confused, I spare a look over at him, and see his brows knitting together and eyes narrowing as he glances around the vacant room.
“Goddammit, I told the boys to be here on time today,” he grumbles, his tone sounding entirely pissed off. “They’ve gotten way too used to pulling this kind of shit.”
“Maybe they just got the time mixed up?” I suggest, with a hint of a joke in my voice. “After all, I am coming from outside L.A. Maybe they thought we were going to be meeting up on East Coast time or something.”
Mr. Hanson turns to look back at me, before letting out a loud laugh. “You know, I’m starting to think that you and this band will be a match made in heaven. Here you are, already making excuses for them, which is going to be an excellent skill to have when touring with this group of—”
“This group of what, Gregory?” a man asks in a British accent. A stranger suddenly appears behind us in the studio, with a guitar hanging around his midsection, the strap golden and glowing underneath the studio’s lights.
Holy shit.
He’s absolutely gorgeous. The stranger’s eyes are just as dark as his hair, his sharp features perfect for a rock star, and he’s dressed in leather, tight denim that leaves little to be desired, and black boots that look both worn and expensive. Although, despite his dark appearance, I can tell that he has a playful side too, based on the tattoos lining his arms, the designs of which feature doodles of foxes, scrambled eggs, and vases. The tats are so silly that I can’t help but smile, even as I take in the rest of his arms, his bulging muscles drawing my attention right from his tattoos to the outline of muscles hidden underneath his black T-shirt.
“You weren’t going to insult us in front of this beautiful guest, were you?” the stranger asks, as he brings a hand up toward his chest in mock offense. “That’d be so unlike you, Gregory! Talking bollocks behind our backs.”
“Oh, fuck off, Rhys.” Mr. Hanson chuckles. “As if you don’t devote a large portion of your life to talking shit about the label who pays for all that crap you have permanently drawn all over you.”
“The label doesn’t pay for my sleeves,” Rhys corrects him. “Ipay for my sleeves with every note I give this fucking abysmal place.”
Rhys then turns to look directly at me, a grin coming over his face. “I don’t think I caught your name yet, beautiful. I’m Rhys Marshall. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I’m Alyssa.” I offer him a small wave. “I was just…getting a tour of the studio with Mr. Hanson and he told me that he wanted me to meet everyone—”
“Oh, brilliant!” Rhys’s eyes go wide. “Alyssa Smith! You’re the girl that Geesha absolutely lost her shit over, right? The little indie girl who makes music in her bedroom?”
“That’s me.”
“Huh.” Rhys nods, his gaze traveling up and down my frame. “She showed me some of your YouTube videos, and I have to say, you’re a peach in person, Alyssa Smith.”
“Oh. I don’t…” I feel myself blushing at the casual compliment, Rhys’s gaze still resting on the lower half of my T-shirt. “I don’t really know what to say to something like that.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replies as he moves closer to me, close enough that I’m able to smell him. “You’ll learn how to take a compliment, soon enough, Alyssa Smith.”
Fuck.
He smells like the perfect blend of sweat and woodsy nature, like he’s just coming back from a midday hike. I’m so enraptured by his scent that it’s hard for me to focus on the conversation, my mind drifting to things that I should in no way be thinking about a guy who’s about to be my full-timeco-worker—
Wait.
“Geesha Riley showed you videos of me?” I ask, coming back down to Earth. “Are you and her…are you guys, uh…is she your girlfriend or something?”
“Or something.” He chuckles, his laugh the kind I recognize as utterly contagious. “I’m not really thegirlfriendtype, if you know what I mean. And even if I were, I wouldn’t make that kind of leap with Geesha. Don’t get me wrong. She’s gorgeous and she’s great in bed, but God, all she ever wants to talk about is work, work, work.”
Rhys grins as he moves even closer to me, so close that he could kiss me if he leaned down just a few more inches. I haven’t been this close to a man in a long time. The smell of him is intoxicating, and I am feeling a bit lightheaded. His head tilts as he whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t you think that’s so boring? Only talking about work? Don’t you think there’s so much more to life?”
“Um…Like what?” My question too comes out as a whisper, as I stare into Rhys’s eyes.
“I have a feeling you already know exactly what I’m talking about, Alyssa Smith,” Rhys whispers back. “Don’t forget. I’ve already listened to all of your songs by now. I know how…unsatisfiedyou must be with things in your daily life.” His crooked finger rises and lifts my chin a little.
“Rhys,” Mr. Hanson interrupts the conversation. “Back away from Ms. Smith. And for the love of God, don’t make me add a No-Touch clause to your goddamn contract—”
