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Fuck. My cheeks flush. My chest too. "You will bite. Just in a different way, if I ask."
He smiles true and pats the spot next to him.
I take it. I set my notebook on the comforter and spread it open. It feels like I'm opening myself. In a way, I am.
Even though these lyrics are for Bryce, they're personal. They're from the heart. That's as scary as kissing him. Scarier even.
I thought the music was the easy part of this, and it is, in a certain way. We fit together here. We work well here.
That's the problem. We're too good here. It's overwhelming.
I push my fear aside. This is the one place where I know how to be brave. "You go first," I say. "Whatever you have for it."
At first, I keep my eyes on the paper as he plays. I scribble a few words. An edited version of a line. A shorter chorus. A longer verse.
Then I turn and I look at him. And he's there in that place where he's lost in the music, and I want to be there with him so badly.
As a collaborator. And as so much more.
I thought it was dangerous playing his girlfriend. But this is a million times more dangerous. This is my heart and my career on the line.
Chapter Fifteen
Damon
All week, Cassie works me hard. She arrives every day, just after ten, and she comes straight to my room. She's always in the same outfit—jeans and a tank top, winged eyeliner, high-top sneakers. And I always struggle to ignore the way the fabric hugs her chest and ass. I struggle to ignore the intensity in her eyes and the passion in her voice.
And when she sings the lyrics to the melody I wrote?
She's not an annoying try-hard.
She's a gorgeous, engaged chanteuse.
The time passes in a blink. Wake up, work out, breakfast, Cassie, lunch, Cassie, dinner, Cassie. I fall asleep with her voice in my head, and I wake up desperate to finish our work.
When we finally get to Friday, I don't need to try to step into my role.
I don't need to practice.
I may not like Cassie Steele, but I want her so bad I can barely breathe.
Bryce's producer lives about an hour from my parents' house, past Ventura, almost all the way to Santa Barbara.
Despite the distance, his house looks like every other Southern California eight-figure mansion. All money, no taste.
A rectangular shape, white walls, big windows that look out on the ocean, with bamboo shades.
Of course, there's a Tesla parked in the driveway. The producer's car, no doubt. The flashy red thing next to it must belong to Bryce. Which means the sensible grey sedan is Frederick's car.
It suits him. He's bland, and he seems safe and reliable, but he's not. (My mom has a weird obsession with Consumer Reports and their ratings on cars).
Cassie doesn't notice the lack of style. She's too, well, starstruck. This producer is Babyface level big. She could only be more excited if we were actually meeting Babyface. In that case, she'd probably die from anticipation.
Could I fill her with that kind of anticipation?
I could tease her for hours…
No fly zone. Absolute no-fly zone.
I step out of the car and lock the door. "How are you feeling?"
"Great." She smooths her black dress and adjusts her leather jacket. "And the story is good, right? Our story."
I nod. "I drive you crazy." And she drives me crazy. Especially in that professional rock star outfit. Why does she look so good in combat boots? It's criminal. "Crazy in love." I offer my hand.
She takes it. "Right. That's good. That's really good. And our pitch? Should we practice again?"
"You got it, Cass." Once she starts discussing music, she falls into the zone right away. She could talk to the ghost of Mozart and feel confident.
She smiles at the compliment. For a second, her nerves disappear, and my heart thuds against my chest. She's cute like this. Sexy too. There's something about seeing her vulnerable side—
I like it too much.
I take her hand and lead her to the door. We knock and wait.
Then, all at once, Cassie's confidence disappears.
Her ex-boyfriend Frederick pulls the door open. He stands there, tall and proud and handsome, like that guy on the first season of Bridgerton, only with huge glasses. "Cassie. Hey." He ignores me completely to focus on her. "Did you find the place okay?"
"Because we missed the turn and we were late. That's why we're still here. Well, that and all the snacks." A melodic voice cuts through the space. Even though she's speaking, she sounds like a singer. A Christina Perri type, with vocal range and emotion in every note. "You know how Freddie is. Helpless without Maps, but he insisted he knew how to find the place."
Frederick pulls the door open a little wider to reveal the source of the voice. A slim woman in an oversized pastel blue sweater and jeans.
