by Lee Piper
“What time do you call this?” Zeke spins around to face me. His striking features are harsh, cold, so arctic it’s a miracle my freckled nose doesn’t turn gangrenous.
I freeze, my mouth opening and closing a few times in an attempt to justify myself. Nothing. Oh hell.
He glares.
I swallow.
Searching for a clock on the wall, I mumble, “Um—”
“I’ll tell you what time it is,” he interrupts, his face a roadmap of harsh lines and accusatory angles. “Forty fucking minutes after nine.”
In the studio, Reid pauses behind his drums, his eyes darting between the irate music producer and me. “Everything okay, Wil?”
I nod, though the tremble in my voice betrays my words. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Drake?”
There is a heavy weight as Drake’s arm relaxes against the back of my chair. “We’re all good, man.”
The protective gesture is sweet, though unnecessary. I’m unequivocally late for recording, and despite the shitty way Zeke is reminding me of the fact, it’s only fair I accept the consequences.
“I made it perfectly clear yesterday,” Zeke continues, his amber stare sparking fire. “Don’t waste my time. If you’re not serious about this, if you can’t show up when I tell you to, you need to find another fucking producer.” His broad chest heaves. I refuse to let my gaze linger on his muscular pectorals. “Got it?”
Meekly, I nod. “Yes, I’m sorry.” Knowing he deserves the truth, I lick suddenly dry lips. “Um, I wasn’t here earlier because I—”
“Does it look like I give a shit? I’m not your fucking keeper.”
Whoa.
“Don’t mess with my recording schedule again.” His gaze narrows. “Understood?”
Swallowing my shock, I ignore the curse words Zeke mutters under his breath as he spins to face the console. Instead, I focus on deep-breathing exercises and reach into my skirt pocket to clutch the blue lace agate crystal I placed there earlier. Sadly, the stone is doing little to ease my stress. It’s not helping me ignore Zeke’s white fitted T-shirt either. My gaze traces the corded muscles of his back as they ripple and shift whenever he adjusts the settings on the production desk. And it’s when I zero in on his trapezius, wondering what exercises he does to build definition there, that I realize checking him out after being yelled at is all kinds of messed up.
I look away.
Drake nudges my shoulder. “Where were you?”
“Visiting Mom,” I murmur back.
His large hand clasps my shoulder. “How’s she doing?”
“Not great.” Blinking back tears, I exhale. “But I’m sure she’ll have a better day tomorrow.”
Smiling sadly, he nods. He’s a good enough friend not to offer false promises, however, a small part of me desperately wanted to hear them today. Instead, Drake leans in close. “He thought you left, you know.”
“Who?” I spin to face my friend.
He tilts his head in the direction of Zeke. “Thought you bailed on us. He was fucking fuming.”
“Why would he think that?” I whisper-shriek. “We didn’t work our asses off in Rising Star for me to walk away now. Besides, I don’t quit. Ever.”
“Shhh.” He darts a quick look at the music producer, who is thankfully immersed in his console desk. “Reid researched Zeke before we started recording. He mentioned something about a messed-up childhood or some shit. We were at a bar when Reid told me and there was this chick with massive….” Blinking, he shakes his head. “I didn’t get the whole story. Anyways, the guy doesn’t know shit if he thinks you’d up and leave us.”
Following Drake’s line of sight, my eyes narrow. “Obviously.”
The day passes. The drum track of our first song is recorded, and Drake’s vocals turn out better than we imagined, but it takes time. A long, long time. If there’s one lesson I learn over the course of the ten-hour day, it’s that Zeke is a perfectionist, never happy until every last molecule of energy is spent by my bandmates. He is beyond demanding. He also gets results. I’ve never seen Drake bleed so much of himself into a song; I’ve never witnessed Reid pounding his drums with such targeted aggression. It’s both awe-inspiring and humbling at the same time.
The man is a genius.
Finally, he turns to me. “Your turn.”
I wipe damp palms down the front of my skirt.
Just as I’m about to stand, Reid looks up from his phone. “It’s past seven. I need to go home.”
Drake nods. “And my dick hasn’t been wet in forty-eight hours. I need pussy.”
Grimacing, I shudder.
“Mind if we finish up, boss?”
Zeke’s voice is a warning. “We’re starting at nine sharp tomorrow.”
Rising, Drake lifts a hand as though to thump him good-naturedly on the shoulder but decides against it. “You got it.” He walks to where I’m waiting in the doorway and winks. “Don’t wait up.”
“Use protection.”
“Always, Wil. Always.” Drake kisses my forehead before Reid pushes him out of the way and envelops me in a hug. He doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives me is weighted with unspoken words I refuse to decipher.
Rolling my eyes, I shoo him from the room. Soon enough they’re gone, leaving Zeke and me alone in the studio. I want to appear nonchalant, aloof to his presence as it fills the room with white noise. However, my body is having none of it. It doesn’t care that he chewed me out this morning. It doesn’t care that he ignored me for the remainder of the day. It doesn’t care that he isn’t mine to lust over; it wants him anyway.
Needing a moment to calm the heck down, I close my eyes. Breathe in.
“Why are you still sitting there?”
Breathe out.
“Get your ass in the studio.”
Breathe in.
“Don’t have all fucking night.”
I stand; however, as soon as I’m on my feet, the room spins. Quickly reaching for the back of my chair, I right myself before falling over.
“What the hell?”
But I’m too busy waiting for the dizziness to subside to respond.
“Willow?” With a firm hand, Zeke forces me into my seat. He crouches in front of me, his brows furrowed in anger-fueled concern. “Are you okay?”
I nod, frowning when the room tilts to the right.
“When did you last eat?”
Rubbing my forehead, I think back on what I’ve eaten that day. “At five?” My voice wavers, the response coming out as a question rather than a statement.
“That was only two hours ago.”
“I meant five o’clock this morning.”
His grip on my shoulder intensifies. The warmth from his touch sends sparks shooting along my arms, causing my fingers to tingle. “You haven’t eaten in fourteen hours? Why the fuck didn’t you have anything during the day?”
I cross my arms, uncaring when Zeke’s eyes drop to the swell of my breasts before snapping away again. His jaw ticks. “No breaks, remember? You said nothing was going to get in the way of tracking.”
He blinks.
Sighing, I shrug his hand away and stand, though slower this time. “I know Drake and Reid stepped out during the day to grab some food, but I didn’t want to give you any more reason to think I’m slacking off. And I’m not, by the way. I’m working just as hard as the boys, even if I haven’t recorded yet.” I stumble toward the studio. “Let’s just get this done. I’ll eat something later.”
But Zeke is fast on his feet. With precise movements, he collects my oversized bag, grabs my hand, and pulls me through the exit.
“Hey, where are we going? We’ve got tracking to do!”
“Won’t get much recording done if you’re unconscious. Come on.” After setting the alarm, he leads me to the elevator. Shaking his head, he swears under his breath, muttering something about stubborn women being pains in his ass.
The elevator ride is beyond tense. Zeke refuses to look at
me, yet won’t let go of my hand, while I try not to yank him close and trace his scowl lines with my tongue. I keep reminding myself he’s not mine to touch, that I have no right to want a man who has been a jerk to me. But my body won’t hear of it. It wants what it wants, and for some stupid reason, it wants Zeke. A lot.
My mind, however, is adamant. Are you crazy, Wil? Don’t let the guy touch you. Step away from the sexy man. Now.
I try to ease out of his clasp, but his hold tightens. Giving up far too quickly, I sigh, frustrated by my quick submission.
When we step into the hallway, Zeke leads me toward the apartment Drake and I are sharing. He punches in the code and opens the door. Finally letting go of me, he points to the couch. “Sit.”
“I’m fine. Give me five minutes to make myself a snack and I’ll be good to go.”
With a low growl, he slams the door shut behind me. I jump. Zeke shifts his body until I’m pushed against the cold wood and he is standing a hairsbreadth away. His hands rest on either side of my head. Craning my neck, I take in his thunderous expression. Something about the barely veiled ferocity calls to me. It dares me to step closer, spread my arms, and dance in the tempest.
I’ve always loved storms, and this man is a storm personified.
Tingles break out on my skin. My heart pounds against my chest as deviant fingers itch to reach out and cup his strong jawline. I want to press my lips to his. I want to taste his tongue, his mouth, his soul. I want him to gift that essential part of him, so I can keep it safely locked away for eternity. But I won’t. It’s not mine to take, and he’s not a man who’d give it anyway.
Zeke’s low growl snaps me from my reverie. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Don’t argue, don’t question, just get it fucking done. Understand?”
Rather than intimidate me, his dominance triggers a tension that has no place between us. A warmth swells in my belly, heat rushes to my cheeks, and desire fuels my movements. Tipping my chin up, I narrow my eyes, daring him to bark directives again.
Beside me, Zeke’s hands curl into fists. For a long moment, we stare at each other, the standoff growing, building, morphing into a tangible being. Heat and annoyance war on his face. I’m transfixed by the interplay—couldn’t look away if I tried.
Without warning, he wrenches from the wall and marches to the kitchen. My eyes, traitorous heathens, follow him the whole way.
After taking a steadying breath, I move to the couch and collapse onto the soft leather. Like always, my attention is drawn to the window. It’s dark out, not that it stops me from imagining what it must be like standing in the cold. Despite my shakiness, I want to step onto the balcony, lean over the handrail, and scream at the Anemoi, daring them to do their worst. Then I want to laugh as the wind pummels my body, savoring the harsh wildness of it all. I would do anything to erase the attraction I have for Zeke. My boss. My asshole boss.
Groaning, I throw my head back, determined to stare at the ceiling until the world makes sense.
“Here.”
Blinking, I face Zeke. Must have zoned out for longer than I thought. Outstretched hands hold my dinner. They’re strong, capable, able to turn discord into harmonious sound. Reddened scars slash across the knuckles, a stark contrast to the way those long fingers cradle the bowl.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, taking the proffered cutlery and steaming pasta. Without another word, Zeke sits in the armchair closest to the coffee table, bends over his meal, and eats.
Shrugging, I follow suit. “Oh, wow. This is amazing.”
He grunts.
I shove more pasta in my mouth. “When did you learn to cook?” It’s only when I crunch down on something hard that I stop, my eyes widening.
Zeke’s fork pauses partway to his mouth. “What?”
“Are there pine nuts in this pasta?”
The fork clatters in his bowl. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
“No.” Bangs fall into my eyes as I shake my head, but I push them away again. It’s highly probable my grin is wider than my face. “I love pine nuts. Like, really, really love them. They’re my favorite food. When I was a kid, Mom would put them in everything, salads, pasta, you name it. How did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
Taking another mouthful, I close my eyes, moaning. When I open them, Zeke is staring at me.
Blink. Stare. Blink.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. His gaze is coolly distant, with a hint of curiosity thrown in for kicks. It’s as though he’s observing a perplexing anomaly, one he has no inclination to demystify. Like always, my heart is blind to this crucial fact. Foolishly, it uses his observation as an excuse to wriggle from my ribcage and sprint toward him. But I won’t let it. After all, Zeke could be staring at me because I have sauce dripping down my chin. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand just in case. “What?”
He is silent.
Shaking my head, I vow normalcy. “Anyway, pine nuts are amazing. They’re jam-packed full of omega-6, vitamin E, B group vitamins, and essential minerals.” My free hand gestures wildly. “They’re the pocket rocket of the nut family.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“Do you need a moment alone with your nuts?”
Throwing my head back, I laugh. “Zeke Danton, was that a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it.” Picking up his fork, he resumes eating.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Know what?” he mumbles around a mouthful of food.
“That you’re funny.”
He rolls his eyes.
Leaning forward, I wink. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
He pauses midchew, his gaze trained on my hair, my face, my lips. Gulping, I try to ignore the heavy silence, the one weighted with words I refuse to say.
I see you.
I want you.
Open up to me.
Stop.
Hoping my swallow isn’t too noticeable, I clear my throat, desperate for conversation. Heck, I’m desperate for anything that’ll keep me from straddling his lap and tracing the column of his neck with my tongue. So, after gesturing to the lounge room with my empty fork, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Nice place you’ve got here. It’s very… white.”
Zeke snorts. “It’s sterile as fuck.”
“Oh, I dunno.” My eyes land on an X-rated black-and-white print on the far wall. The corner of my mouth twitches. “It’s got a certain charm.”
He raises an eyebrow.
Shrugging one shoulder, I smile. “You’re right, it’s emotionally dead in here. I take it you didn’t decorate?”
“No.”
Silence.
Exhaling, I stare out the window. “So, how long have you lived here? It’s a beautiful part of the world.”
“Couple years.”
“Do you rent it?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
My fork whirls in the air once again. “The music production business must be very lucrative.”
“What’s it to you?” he snarls.
His question is a slap across the face. Confused, I gape.
Shaking his head, Zeke stabs at the remaining pasta in his bowl. If he’s not careful, the porcelain is going to shatter. “Forget it.”
Knowing I won’t have a chance in hell of falling asleep later unless I clear the air, I place a soothing hand on his forearm. It’s hard, strong, far too wide to wrap my fingers around. He stills. “Hey, are you okay?”
Head down, he refuses to meet my gaze. “Fine.”
“Are you sure? Because it feels like I’ve said something to upset you. If I have, I’m sorry. I just meant….” Blowing out a breath, I continue, “I meant you’re lucky to live where you do. Not many people can afford to own a place like this, that’s all.”
“Don’t I fucking know it.”
Even more perplexed than before, I remove my hand and sit back, wat
ching him. He doesn’t glance my way for the remainder of the meal. I don’t like it. For some reason, I want his gaze trained on me. When it is, he invests his sole focus, like every atom in his body pairs with every particle in mine. I crave the connection.
After Zeke swallows his last bite, I stand. “Here, let me do the dishes. You cooked, it’s the least I can do.”
“Thought I told you to sit your ass down.”
My backside hits the sofa. “You really need to work on your manners.”
“Too old to be changing my ways now, little girl.” He smirks. “You’d best remember that.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Don’t care.” His eyes are fixed on my lips.
My tongue darts out, wetting them. Zeke’s expression darkens. But then I realize what I’m doing and avert my gaze. “Sorry, I—” Rubbing my forehead, I stare out the window and sigh. “We should get back to the studio. It’s late and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Picking up our empty bowls, Zeke stalks to the kitchen, leaving me alone on the couch.
It’s a good thing we ate, because tracking takes an eternity. I lose all sense of time somewhere between midnight and Zeke yelling, “No, do it again,” for the millionth time. When he finally hollers, “We’re done,” I place my guitar back on its stand and stumble to the production room. After collapsing onto the well-worn couch, I spread out, my bare feet hanging over the armrest while my head sinks into a crimson cushion.
Zeke adjusts the levels and I stare bleary-eyed at the ceiling. Rolling to one side, I mumble to his broad back, “How was it?”
He grumbles something about needing to raise the tempo of the chorus but my eyes drift shut before he finishes the sentence.
The alarm sounds.
Normally I enjoy the gentle melody, but after sleeping for less than four hours, it’s not welcome. At all. Moaning, I throw out my hand, silencing the unwanted noise.
After sitting upright, I struggle with the covers before yanking them off, and freeze. “What the…?” Glancing down, I take in my sleepwear. Yesterday’s T-shirt—sans bra—and panties. That’s it.