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  I turn to Lenora and ask, “Is this a good deal?”

  “This is a good deal for a relatively unknown artist. However, you do have a track record. You almost won The Stage. And you’ve been in the news a lot lately—which helps with promotions.”

  “Tell me what you think, please,” I urge. “Kolton said the other record companies would own my name and then I couldn’t produce another album until the contract ended. But this says it’s only for one year. Is this like a trial contract?”

  “The trial goes in their favor, Mia,” Bob says. “After the first year, the contract ends, but the lock-out clause keeps you from releasing anything under your own name. Plus, they own the rights to all your songs.”

  “But, we don’t anticipate there’s going to be any need for us to cancel the contract. We’d like to use all of our options,” Richard interjects.

  “Yes, but then those other albums would be at the thirty percent royalty.”

  “Yes,” Richard says, “which is a very high rate. Most new artists are lucky to get twenty.”

  “What about touring?” I ask. “Would I be able to tour with Kolton?”

  “Of course. That could be negotiated, schedule permitting,” Richard says.

  “What else could be negotiated?” I ask, Richard. “I mean, this sounds like just a step above what an unknown artist would be offered.”

  “Maybe you’ve misunderstood, Mia. This is our final, take it or leave it, offer. I know you’ve brought your lawyers, but we’re not interested in negotiating at this time.”

  I abruptly stand, I can’t help it. My legs tell me it’s time to go. “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say as politely as I can manage. “Thank you for meeting with me.” I lean across the table and shake hands with Richard and the other guy—I forgot his name. I pick up the paperwork and walk toward Devon, who’s standing at the door.

  Lenora and Bob must push out their chairs, because I hear a shuffle and them mumbling “Thanks” and “We’ll be in touch.”

  We ride the elevator back down and when we reach the first floor, I step into the corridor with them.

  “Do you think that’s a good deal?” I ask. “Be honest, please.”

  “I’d continue to look around and see what other options you have,” Lenora says. “What about Bad Heart Records?”

  “Kolton says they aren’t going to own the rights to my songs. But I don’t know the rest of the terms.”

  “Ask for the contract,” Bob says. “Then have it sent to Lenora and me.” He takes a card out of his front pocket, and she hands me one out of her Michael Kors purse before shaking my hand and wishing me well.

  “Will do,” I say, just as they’re walking away. I turn to Devon, and he shrugs.

  “What would you do, Devon?”

  “I’d take the deal that gives me the most control over my own career.” And that’s all he says the entire way back to the Peninsula but it’s enough to keep me thinking all the way there.

  What if working together isn’t the right thing? There are no options in the contract of our relationship to renew if it fails. And the lock-out clause on my heart will be a hefty penalty to pay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Sounds We Make Together

  When Devon and I walk into the enormous hotel room, which is really more like a house, he and I part ways. I find Kolton by following the slightly happier tune coming from the piano. When he sees me, his eyes light up and he nods, an invitation to sit down with him at the bench.

  “I’m writing something,” he says, but doesn’t stop playing.

  “Don’t you want to ask me what happened?” I ask, confused.

  “What do you think of this?” he asks instead of answering, playing a different version of the tune he’d just been playing. “What if I do this?” He leans to the right, toward me, and changes one of the notes, and then another.

  “I like it,” I answer truthfully. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

  “It’s your song,” he says, and I close my eyes to listen.

  “Call Me Angel?” I ask, and he nods. “From my YouTube channel?”

  “Sing it for me, love,” he says, his voice full of appeal. He starts to play the chorus and I take a chance rather than sitting perplexed. If he’s not ready to talk about his record label’s competition, and how they’re trying to burn me, then, yeah, let’s play some music together instead.

  “Call me angel and I’ll be your valentine. Call me angel, and I—I—I’ll find the time. Call me yours, and I’ll call you mine…” I sing. He sinks into the seat, his eyes closed, and his head sways from side to side. The appreciation in his expression is making me put my heart into it and he hums with me, giving me a different note to hit.

  “I’ll find the time,” he sings. Using his voice as a model and his fingers on the keys to change where I should inflect. I nod and sing it back the way he’d done. He smiles and leans in toward me again. “Perfect,” he says. “That’s all it needed. Just a couple little tweaks here and there.”

  “Yeah, I had a hard time with the melody when I was writing it on my own,” I admit, and he stops playing. He turns to face me, his expression like he’s just fit together some missing link between us. It’s like he knows we should have been working this way together all along. “Where is everyone?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Deloris took Riley to the museum. Apparently you can see into the outdoor exhibit from Riley’s room.” I nod and stick out my bottom lip. I should check that out before we go home.

  “So do you want to know, or not?” I ask, trying to discuss the shitty deal I was just offered, but he starts to play again. This time, it’s Fur Elise.

  “I already know,” he says along with the song. “Thirty percent. Two-fifty up front. Light-weight on the advertising budget, options for mother-fucking-days. Lock-out clause.”

  “So why did you have me go?” I ask, feeling my eyebrows furrow.

  “Because. This is your decision.” His eyes close, and he rubs his thumb between his brows.

  Something shifts between us; I know now he really means it. I think, last night he could feel me holding back because he’s trying to control too much of my life, and he wants me to make my own decisions. My breathing is speeding up and my eyes narrow in on his perfect face. He opens his eyes, and they look honest and sure. I feel my body respond to him, to his mouth as his tongue comes out and brushes his bottom lip, to the twinkle in his flawed green eyes. His chest clues me into his need as it rises up and down. He makes me feel so wanted. The chemistry between us feels fluid and urgent; his influence envelopes me like the air I breathe.

  “You never give yourself enough credit,” he says before putting the cover down over the keys. “Maybe because I’ve been holding onto you too tight.” He leans in, pulls me to him until I feel his breath on my mouth. I close my eyes just before his lips meet mine. His tongue comes out to tease me until I’m breathless and he’s pulled me onto his lap. I’m facing him and open, my skirt pulled up over my hips. He presses into me from beneath his jeans. I have to exhale, force myself to breathe. “I’m scared to let go. But I know you’ll choose the right thing.”

  All I know right now is I choose this. The sound he makes deep in his throat as his hips move in circles bubbles under my skin. He reaches up and tickles a path up the inside of my thigh. The way he kisses and lightly bites my bottom lip makes me forget my own name. He pulls me to my feet and then lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, before setting me on top of the piano. I shake my head. I can’t believe he’s real, that this is real. I press my back against the raised edge and close my eyes, listening as he unbuttons his jeans, seconds before I feel him push my panties to the side. I’m shaking with need, writhing up against his hips.

  “Look at me,” he growls. I open my eyes just as the perfect soft skin of his erection presses into my wetness. His hand cups my backside, pulling me down onto the closed piano keys. Abruptly, his other
hand comes up and squeezes my breast, before he presses his palm all the way down the center of me, marking me with his hand. Every movement says, no matter what, I’m his.

  He reaches up again and rips open my bright white shirt, and the buttons fly, the sound of them hitting the floor like pebbles thrashing against calm water. He makes an angry sound at my bra and pulls the cup down, giving his hand and mouth access to my straining nipple. He nuzzles against me and bites through the lace cup still covering my other breast.

  I cry out as he pushes himself inside me, his fingers pinching perfectly as I arch in appreciation. He pulls me down farther and then lifts me, pressing my calves into the tops of his shoulders. My head comes rests on the smooth black surface and I’m begging, the sounds incoherent. The image isn’t lost on me: him in charge, bending me, making me feel all of him. The sounds, like fear and love. Like hope and reality. Like real love.

  I can’t even fathom it all. Right now, I can think of nothing better than the sounds we make together.

  * * *

  I am lying on my back, staring up into the eyes of the man I love. His skin is hot, we’re wet and slippery, and he’s breathing heavily. I’m just coming down from my release—so many times today. My ears go numb to every sound other than the drumming of his heart and mine, like a song.

  My whole body is aware, lit up. Light and open to him. His arms come up from under mine, and he grasps my face, his thumb moving down my cheek so gently, looking into my eyes like he can’t comprehend something, like I’m an anomaly. “I’ve never known love could be this way. It’s like I can’t get enough. I need you more and more no matter how much you give me, it’s not enough,” he says. I shake my head. I don’t know how to explain it either.

  “I feel like I’m swelling from the inside out. My heart burns like it’s going to burst open at any moment,” I confirm, since maybe that’s how he feels, too.

  His eyes look from my mouth to my eyes. “Mia?” he nods, sinking into me once more, filling me, still, straining against the shivering of both our bodies. His lips meet mine as if the only thing he can do with his confusion is kiss me, light and sweet, tickling my lips and just the tip of my tongue. Again and again. Deeper. This kiss is different. It’s not meant to drive me higher, but to express. It says love. It’s like our own love language.

  He rolls onto his side and scoops me up, pulling my back to his chest. He’s still shaking a little as his leg moves to cover mine and his arms grasp me tightly.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs. “I know you have to. And I know you’ll be okay, but I can’t imagine my life without you now. It hurts. It actually hurts,” he says, reaching down and cupping my sex. With his fingers, he rubs his scent into me like he’s marking me. His nose runs up and down my neck as I start to come alive and press into his hand.

  I’m aching. Exhausted. And he’s not trying to make love to me again. He wants me to know I’m his. A point very well made.

  “Before you leave, I want to try something.” The fear in his voice makes me wonder. Does he want something bad? Or weird?

  “What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ear.

  “Record your song with me,” he whispers in my ear. I bite my bottom lip and turn my face toward him. The word ‘with’ makes it sound like we’re partners—not like he’s my boss.

  “Of course,” I answer, with no hesitation. “I’m honored to record with you.” He takes a sharp breath and holds me tighter, but there’s something about his hold that feels peaceful. It’s like some of the worry has left him. Like he knows I trust him with my music. It was never about that, anyway. I just don’t want to be dependent—I want to be equal.

  For the first time, I understand, that’s what he wants, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Strings and Keys

  “Where are we recording?” I ask, as Kolton and I take the elevator down to the car.

  “We’re going to Mellow’s studio.” He’s been bouncing around all morning. Telling jokes, poking fun at Devon and Manny, teasing Riley. It must be all the sex yesterday. Jesus. The piano. The floor next to the piano. The bedroom chair. The tub. The bed… two times. I’m sore but that didn’t stop me from taking him up on his offer this morning as he lifted me onto the bathroom counter.

  The man’s freaking insatiable, not that I’m complaining. I feel it, too—the constant rumble of need for him runs through my bloodstream with every heartbeat. It’s just part of me.

  Even now. I lean into his arm and he turns, looking down at me. His perfect face, the tilt of his eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the way his hair goes every which way. That one red fleck in his green eyes. I feel crazy things for him—crazy enough to bond with him even after he’s let me know there’s still a weak link between us making him fearful we won’t be able to stay together. He runs his finger along my jawline and kisses me, sweet and firm.

  The door opens, and there’s a whole crowd gathered to go up. Two girls, probably my age, turn to each other. “Kolton Royce!” They squeal, jumping up and down, sprinting toward him.

  “Can you sign my bra?” one asks, pulling her shirt down, exposing the top of her breast.

  “Only paper, ladies,” he answers, giving them a version of his side smirk.

  “Can you sign my iPad?” the other says, taking out the tablet and handing him a pen. He turns it over, and signs the bright pink case, handing it back to her.

  They both ignore me. It seems we all just want Kolton Royce.

  But, can I blame them?

  * * *

  Devon drives us to an obscure steel building. I don’t even know where we are. It took us about forty-five minutes to get here. I’ve been reading the lyrics and Kolton’s been humming them, his fingers playing on top of his thighs. I think we’re in ‘the zone’.

  When the car stops, Devon gets out and looks around, more on edge than usual. He opens the door and escorts us inside, where it’s warm and smells of popcorn. A receptionist greets us, and then an older man with a round stomach appears and shakes Kolton’s hand.

  “This is my Mia,” Kolton says. My Mia. I think I’m going to swoon. I’m grinning so hard when I shake the man’s hand, I don’t hear what his name is.

  I follow them down a hallway, up a staircase, and down another hall. We walk through a door into a large room filled with so many instruments I could only dream about, and then in real life, lust over at a Guitar Center.

  There’s a piano, a DW drum set, a Paul Reed Smith guitar and a Music Man bass, an acoustic electric Taylor, a Fender Stratocaster, and two different Gibson Les Pauls. Holy shit!

  I’m stunned enough that it takes a minute to realize there are four guys standing around, tuning their guitars and chatting. They must be session guys—hired to work with us on the spot. This isn’t what I was expecting. On The Stage, we recorded in a little booth. This is a big, huge room. How does it even work?

  “We’re going to record live,” Kolton whispers and I nod, though still confused. He wraps his arm over my shoulder and shakes me a little. “Relax, love.” I realize, he’s been calling me ‘love’ as an endearment. The word alone turns me all warm and liquid inside.

  The guy with the round belly claps his hands and the four guys turn and start the introductions. All of them, with their direct smiles and relaxed manner of speaking, help put me at ease.

  Kolton sits down at the piano. “Mia, why don’t you help yourself to the Taylor? Play it one-time through with me.” I nod and bite the inside of my lip.

  “Is it recording?” I ask, looking at all the microphones as I’m walking back to the chair nearest him with the Taylor in my hand.

  “Nah,” he shakes his head. “Not ’till you’re ready.”

  “I haven’t played in months,” I say nervously, strumming the strings. The sound feels like home so I do it again. Kolton starts to play the piano along with me.

  “See,” he says, “this change right here,” he points out, showing me a change in th
e note leading toward the first verse. I nod and make the change, too. He’s good at this. I’m working with an expert. I feel honored.

  As we start over, he exaggerates a little with his chin to have me start the first verse.

  “I woke up to it. The sound of trees in the wind…” I start, trying the new arrangement Kolton’s created. Soon, the drummer starts, and then the bass and the guitar.

  “What about this?” I ask, getting them to stop so I can make a change on the guitar to one line of the verse.

  “That’s good, Mia,” Kolton says. “Let’s try the chorus.” He surprises me when we sing it together.

  “Call me angel and I’ll be your valentine. Call me angel and I—I—I’ll find the time. Call me yours and I’ll call you mine…”

  We try his changes, and we try mine. We harmonize. The light shines in through the windows onto his hair, making it glow around his head like a halo. I watch his fingers as they tap, and he takes a sip from a straw.

  We try again and make it better and my heart swells. My fingertips are sore, but it doesn’t matter because my cheeks hurt worse from smiling so hard. I’m mirroring him. There’s nothing like the sound of his voice, especially when it gets raspy and he has to close his eyes to sing.

  He listens to me, and I feel heard. It works. Everything we do with this song, all the changes, make it better. It’s not my song on YouTube. It’s something new. A creation that is me and him. It’s like our music version of a baby.

  By the time the sun goes down, we’ve recorded our song. There was no paperwork involved, no promises of advances or who gets what share.

  When the guy with the round belly, who Kolton calls ‘Sam,’ plays it back to us, Kolton holds me tight and whispers in my ear, “Thank you, Mia.”

  I wish I’d said it first. “It’s better than it ever could have been without you.”