CHAPTER 49

"I don't want to wear that." Sophia gives me pre-schooler side-eye, then runs across the room toward her toys. I sit back on my heels, the dress clutched in my hands, and wish for caffeine. I offered to take my half sister to daycare today before starting on my work, but it's proving harder than expected. I scan her room, looking at the white furniture, the rainbow bedspread, the corner box of toys and puzzles where she's currently pulling things out, one after another. "Hey, let's play a game," I decide. "If you can pick out all your school things, I'll sing you a song in the car." Miracle of miracles, it works. After dropping her off, I head to the café that used to be my favorite in high school and open my tablet. When I emailed Miranda to say I'd be in Dallas a couple of weeks working, she agreed. I promised we'd email every day or two to talk progress. There's another person I need to update, and I'm less optimistic about the response I'll get. Most of the musical is scored, but some of the lyrics aren't finished. In particular, there's a song between the two main characters I can't get right. Back in school, it always seemed that emotions flowed through me, desperate to get out. All I had to do was put them on a page. But writing a musical isn't only about feeling—it's about story—a narrative that was born to be told through song, one that can only be fulfilled in that format. Even though I was involved in this show from the earliest days—the idea was Miranda's and mine, and it started being crafted back the first semester we worked together on the other show—it's not something you can half-ass like an assignment for course credit and cross your fingers for a good grade. Getting a new musical to the stage requires millions of dollars, and while there's not one way to get it right, there are so many ways to get it wrong. Which is why I need to call Ian. He didn't leave a message when he called yesterday, which is Ian-speak for "I'm too important to leave a message." But I can't put this off. I hit his contact on my cell, my stomach clenching. The line rings, and I turn the coffee cup in my hand. Voicemail kicks in and I take a breath before starting. "Ian, it's Emily. Andie said you were looking for me. I wanted to let you know I'm staying in Dallas for a couple of weeks while I finish the book for the musical. Once Miranda and I are satisfied with it, we'll send it to you and the three of us can discuss it in advance of the reading. Despite…what happened between us, I assume you're still interested in being a primary funder, which is why I want to keep you as informed as possible. If you have any questions or concerns, you know where to reach me." I click off, satisfied I got my point across. It's a moment before I realize someone's stopped near my elbow. I glance up and nearly knock my tablet off the table. "Avery!" I squeal as my friend breaks into a grin. I jump up and hug her familiar form, dressed in a cute black jumpsuit and wedge sandals. "What are you doing here? I thought you were traveling to cover entertainment news at the newspaper!" "It's my parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and a bunch of our family's in town. So, I'm home for the week." My friend cuts a look toward the menu, and I scan the pastry cabinet while she orders. "What are you doing here?" I tell her about my dad's party, that I decided to stay. "But my dad and I haven't really talked," I finish. "Which is why you're here at the café, avoiding him and wearing clothes you bought junior year?" "Not avoiding. Working." I glance down at my white tank top tucked into denim shorts. "And I didn't really pack for an extended stay, so I raided my high school clothes. They're tighter than I remember." "Yes. And also, you look amazing." I laugh. Avery gets her drink, and I order a croissant. "So, you using your dad's new studio while you're home?" she says once we're sitting back at the table. "No, but Timothy's working with my dad." She nearly spits out her coffee, laughing. "Timothy Adams, international music sensation, Prince of Oakwood, King of Vanier, Duke of Emily Carlton's heart, is in Dallas." She has the decency to lower her voice when she says it. I break off a piece of the croissant and shift in my seat. "We went to a concert last night." When he showed up at the pool, all frustrated and gorgeous and making me remember how things used to be, I wanted to go with him even though it was a bad idea. Plus, we had fun. God, we had so much fun, more than I've had in a long time. His intensity's still there, but he has this new relaxedness too. He was always sure of how to act in the world because he figures out everything and everyone, but now it's like the wheels in his head aren't turning quite so fast, as though he's not so busy judging everything and everyone. "I'm glad you guys are making nice. I remember how hard it was on you when he left." Avery's voice pulls me back. "Would you ever get back together?" "No." The word comes out fast. "I'm not going near men for a long time." Even if Timothy's more gorgeous than ever, and everything about him Jacobs me closer. Lying in bed next to him last night, hearing his steady breathing, feeling his closeness, was not something I'd planned. But we'd had such a good time and I didn't want to wake up half the house by getting home late. Saying yes to the innocent offer to crash left me with more than I bargained for. "I know you and Ian dated for six months," Avery goes on. "Meaning?" I arch a brow and she lifts both palms. "Hot rebound sex. Hear me out," she goes on at my expression. "Timothy's fire. Always was, and he's only gotten hotter with age and the whole famous thing." "He's not that famous." She cringes. "If you're in Rolling Stone, you're famous. If you're playing a benefit concert this weekend in LA with four other Grammy-winning acts? You're famous. The point is, you're both unattached. You're in Dallas, and he's living in the pool house." "Helping at my dad's studio," I correct. "The universe doesn't want us to get back together." "Maybe the universe wants you to bang for old time's sake." Shivers run down my spine, settle in my breasts and between my thighs. Sex with Timothy is a terrible idea. Not because I'm not attracted to him. Seeing him strip off his shirt last night to reveal miles of cut pecs and abs covered with swirls of ink... It took everything in me not to melt into the carpet of the fancy hotel suite. Is that why I didn't want to tell him about Ian—because I was afraid I couldn't handle him if he knew? I shove the thought down. I can handle Timothy. All of him. He's changed over the past two years, and so have I. I'm not a kid anymore, I'm a grown woman with a career and the ability to know what's right for her. Avery gets up and hugs me again. "Well, I need to go check in with the caterer. It was good to see you. We need to get lunch when we're both back in New York." "Done." She waves and vanishes out the door, and I glance at my phone. I had it set to silent, but the voicemail is lit up, and the number has my good vibes evaporating. Ian's smooth voice flows out of the speaker when I hit Listen. "Emily. When you called, I was having breakfast with a couple of colleagues who'll be attending the reading at the end of the summer. Given how soon that is, I need more than a promise to share the book when it's finished. Not only am I hosting this reading, but I'm inviting funders from my own network. It may be your work, but it's my reputation on the line." Pause. "I don't want you to turn what happened between us into an excuse to be unprofessional. What happened with that woman wasn't personal, and it had nothing to do with you and me. Maybe you're too young to understand the difference. Someday, you'll—" I hang up without listening to the rest. I'm being unprofessional? You fucked some actress who wanted your connections. Unreal. I rub my forehead. Looking back, I know why I was attracted to Ian. He was older and confident and knew the business. When he advised me, it didn't come off as controlling, it was helpful. Turned out he liked to advise more than me. I walked in on him in his apartment with an actress who was, apparently, even more desperate for his mentorship than I was. Fuck it. I have bigger things to worry about than him. The café is filling up, and I'm not getting done what I need to here. I remember the piano in Timothy's office at the studio. Maybe having the instrument in front of me will help. On impulse, I buy a second coffee and take that one, plus the one I'm barely halfway through, with me in Haley's car. Once I get back to the house, I head around to the patio, letting myself in the side door of the studio. Shane's not at the desk, and my hands are too full for signing the visitor's log, so I start down the hall. The first studio is full, and I can see unfamiliar artists recording inside. The door to the second is open. I move toward it, pulling up when a figure comes out first. "Dad!" I exclaim when I nearly bump into him. He looks as surprised as me. "Emily." We haven't spoken alone since I've been here. I guess we're speaking now. "I was checking on my investment." He cuts a look over his shoulder toward the studio, as if expecting someone to appear, but turns back to me almost as fast. "Thank you for offering to help with your sister," he says. "We started building the label before Haley got pregnant again, and she didn't want to hold things up." "Sure." "You came to watch too?" Shane appears at the end of the hall, bouncing toward me. "They're so good." She balks when she realizes my dad is there. "Mr. Eddie Carlton, I'm sorry. I didn't see you come in." "Shane, call me Eddie." "I can't. It's weird." He frowns, uncomfortable. "Well, get over it." Dad looks between us then heads for the door without another word. "God, I fucked that up, didn't I?" she breathes. "It's fine. My dad doesn't know what to do with candid women who aren't intimidated by him." "Is that why he married Haley?" Her mouth rounds. "I didn't mean it the way it sounds." But I'm laughing. "Exactly." I reach for the door and head inside. Timothy's on the other side of the soundproof glass, arms folded as he listens to the guy that must be my dad's new protégé play his guitar into the mic. The levels bouncing on the computer screen tell me they're recording something. My attention is all on Timothy. He's gorgeous and breathtaking, and parts of me that felt like they were asleep these past months are suddenly awake again. The kid catches us watching and grins, cocky. His attention still on us, he messes up and Timothy shifts off the wall and jerks the door between us. "Get out," he says to the boy. "Eddie wouldn't—" "I don't care what Eddie would. You have a problem, you can go take it up with him. But I promise you, he gives less fucks than I do." The kid stalks out the door, kicking a wall on the way. Timothy emerges next, and he's more frustrated than his charge. I know the feeling. Since Ian's voicemail, I'm on edge, ready to rip into someone. Timothy's gaze warms as he spots me. I resist the urge to run my hands over my clothes before his attention lands on the cup in my hands. "You brought me a present." His words strokes over my skin, tugs between my thighs. "Assuming you take it more cream than coffee, yes. It's a thank you for using the piano in your office. Which isn't technically your office, but I wanted to be polite. I thought you might not even be here given you have that benefit concert in LA tomorrow night." "I'm leaving in the morning." He hits a few keystrokes on the computer setup, frowning. "But you're coming back?" Not that I care. I'm being polite. "The day after. When'd you use the piano?" "I'm about to." I take a sip of my coffee and make a face. "The coffee's a bit cold." "I'll microwave it for you!" Shane grabs the second cup from me and dashes out toward the kitchenette. When she's gone, I say, "You've got yourself a fan club." Timothy shakes his head. His mouth curves in a gorgeous half smile as he finishes working on the computer. "The girl knows music. But my heart's unavailable." My chest caves in a little. Timothy let me in once. The idea he hasn't let anyone in since feels tragic. My hand strays to one of the buttons in front of us and Timothy's fingers close over mine. "Don't touch my board." "You used to like it when I touched your board." His eyes darken, in arousal or warning or hell, maybe both. Avery's words come back to me. Hot rebound sex. I shove them down. He swipes my cup before I can protest, inspecting the label. "Double espresso. Someone didn't sleep last night." I grab it back. "I was up late," I grumble, turning and heading for his office. Timothy follows. "Not that late." He closes the door behind me, his shoulder brushing my chest and giving me a hit of that cedar and sunshine scent. "It was hard to sleep in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar person next to me." "Bullshit. You know every inch of me." He looks even better today with messy hair, second-day stubble, a button-down rolled at the sleeves, and dark jeans that hug his hips and legs. Tyler's every bit the rock star, gorgeous enough to send legions swooning, but he has the credibility to back it up. All of it adds to the frustration from my morning so far. "Apparently I don't know anything," I blurt before I can stop myself. "I'm young and naïve and can't be trusted with my own feelings, not to mention to finish a musical." I brush past him to put my coffee cup on his desk before taking a seat on the piano bench, setting out my notebook. "According to who?" his measured voice comes from right behind me. I close my eyes. "It doesn't matter. I need to work on this song." I set my fingers on the keys but don't press them. He waits me out as I count my breaths, my mind still spinning, my chest tight with anger and something that I can't name. "Timothy..." I start before he can leave. "I need to ask you something. Promise you won't read too much into it." He doesn't answer, so I keep going. "Tell me you're still attracted to me." Timothy's heavy exhale is the only response for a long time. His hands find my shoulders, the bare skin revealed by my tank top. "I'll be attracted to you when we're dead." Our conversation last night comes back to me in a blur of emotions, past and present and through it all, a kind of need and regret and impatient arousal. I can't fix the first two, but maybe I can fix the third. I turn on the bench to find his belt at eye-level. "You said you wished things were different between us at the end." I think of the times we were together, when I was hoping the physicality would bring us closer and it only drove us further apart. "Before you left for tour, you said you owed me." He lifts my chin to stare into me, through me. "And?" "And I want to collect." The inscrutable expression is gone, replaced by heat and arousal. "You want sex." "Yes." He wants a chance to make amends, and I want to prove I can handle myself. That I'm not some child who loses my heart at every turn. But the look on his face has me second-guessing my idea. "Timothy! Your coffee's here." Shane bursts through the door, and Timothy steps back. "I'll put it on your desk," she decides, smiling our way. "Thank you," he answers. "And Shane?" "Yes?" "Knock next time." Her brows pull together. "I did." "Knock and wait, next time." "Oh. Sure. Sorry." With a wave of apology, she ducks out, the door clicking after her. I exhale hard. "I shouldn't have…" My words trail off as Timothy steps back in front of me, his fingers threading in my hair. He's living this as much as I am, his eyes darkening to whiskey mixed with earth. It's an answer. Adrenaline surges through me as I reach for his jeans, my fingers working on the snap. It's not until the zipper's halfway down that his hand closes over mine. "Those weren't the terms." "What do you mean?" My head snaps up. "I didn't owe you my cock, Six. I owed you my mouth. Take it or leave it." His words startle me. They're a rough piece of fabric stroking across my skin, making me resist and aware of every inch of him at once. We've been intimate, sure, but there's so much we haven't done. I realize that now from the way he's looking at me. "I'll take it." I may live to regret it, but it's the only answer I have. Triumph flashes in his eyes. "Good. Spread your legs." My brows shoot up but I do it, my knees bumping the corners of the bench. His hand is right there between my thighs, rubbing the seam of denim. "These shorts look familiar." I bite my cheek to keep from moaning under his touch. "They're from high school. I stopped short of putting on the Oakwood skirt." "Too bad. Would've been even easier to do this." I never thought of him being careful with me before, but when he slips two fingers under the edge of my shorts and beneath my thong, sliding them along my wetness before pressing all the way inside on a long, undeniable stroke, I know it's true. He's not careful now. My body squeezes around the invasion, and I gasp as I fall back against the piano, my elbows banging on the keys. He touches me like that, stroking with those fingers while he circles my clit with his thumb. Unlike the last times we were together, he's all in this. Present, in this moment. So am I. He builds me up with that simple touch. I'm panting by the time he pulls back. "You know what you want. Say it." God, he's sexy. All of it makes me stronger, bolder. "I want your filthy mouth on me." His chuckle is half groan. "That makes two of us. Take off everything except your thong. Kneel on the bench and brace your elbows on the piano." There's a hint of something earnest under the command, something that reminds me of last night—how good it felt to be close to him, how he might have something at stake here, too. It's enough that I don't argue as I shimmy out of the rest of my clothes and his hungry gaze drags over my body. My nipples are hard buds, and I've soaked through the last remaining item of clothing as I lean over the dark wood, my forearms resting on the cool surface. Timothy palms my ass. "The show you saw in London. Tell me you fucked yourself to sleep after and wished it was me." He presses a thick finger inside me and I fall forward, my eyes squeezing shut. Emotions clash in my chest, but I don't want to lie to him. "Yes." Instead of continuing, he pulls out and plants a kiss on my bare shoulder. This was a bad idea. The tension inside me is stronger, bigger, tighter. He's making it worse, not better. If I ever questioned what happened to the quiet, repressed teenage boy I loved… He turned into a man. One who won't be denied. Timothy's fingers comb through my hair. "Wider." My knees ache from the hard surface but I force them apart another inch. "Happy?" "Ecstatic. Tell me something. Are you young and naive?" he asks. I look over my shoulder to meet his gaze. It's hot and hungry and steals my breath. "No." I drop my forehead back to the piano and wait. Timothy drops kisses down my skin, soft but deliberate, one after another. "No, you're fucking not." He spreads my ass and doesn't hesitate, not even there, until finally, his lips press where I'm hot and wet and aching for him. "Oh shit, Timothy," I moan. His scarred hand covers my mouth the next instant. It's all I can do to keep from crying out as his mouth settles between my thighs and he devours me. Yes. It might be his mouth on me, but we're equals in giving, in taking. The energy flows between us, tension and relief. We're two musicians improvising together, inspired by one another's actions and reactions. Nothing in the last two years has felt like this. Nothing has ever felt like this. My back arches hard, the pressure between the hand on my mouth and his lips where I'm wet and aching forcing me to coil like a tight, needy spring. It's only physical. I repeat it like a mantra, hoping I'll believe it. "Your legs are shaking," he rasps, his hot breath warming my already-heated skin. "I bet it's been years since you came so hard you forgot your name." I shudder into his hand. "Bet it's been even longer since you came so hard you forgot my name." Fuck. When we had sex before, there was always a sweetness to it. A reverence. As if we were afraid we'd lose each other. Now it's as if the last shred of protectiveness between us broke. This isn't sweet. It's anarchy. We're not in love. We're at war. My first crush, my first love, my first heartbreak… He's back, and he's fucking me with every inch of our baggage. Timothy builds me up with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. I'm mindless, my hands sweaty on the piano, to keep my balance or my sanity as I drown in the pleasure. "Scream if you want," he murmurs against my slick skin, the hand not covering my mouth tracing wet lines down the back of my thigh before gripping possessively around the top. "I've got you." I don't scream. But I do come. In a shaking, sweaty mess of past and present, of bittersweet memories and shocking desire, I break. Pleasure washes over me in waves, each one rippling further, echoing more faintly, as my cheek sticks to the polished wood. The tremors leave me smooth and fresh, like sand after the tide goes out. This was what I needed. I almost believe it until Timothy leans over me, brushing back my hair to graze his lips across my cheek. Sweet. Chaste. Except that if I turned to catch that mouth with mine, I'd taste exactly what he did to me. I don't remember my name. But I remember his.