by Ally Blake
“Fine,” she gritted out, crossing her arms now they’d been returned to her.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?”
Lori licked her dry lips, his gaze followed. “No, thank you. I’d appreciate it if we could get straight to the lesson.”
When his gaze moseyed back to hers his eyes glinted with a mix of heat and anger that she understood only too well. “That’s…better,” he murmured, even though a vein had now popped out in his neck. And he definitely appeared less casual than he had before.
With a grunt, he waved her before him, and this time she acquiesced. She could pretend to relax, but only so far as it got her what she wanted. Despite the fact that Dash Mills seemed intent on making her work for every step of this project it would happen, it would be fabulous, and it would change everything. Because the alternative was unbearable.
Lori spilled out of the hall and into what must have been Dash’s living room, and it occurred to her—compared with her ultra-feminine Pacific Heights apartment with its white on white décor and vibrant jewel-toned accents—it would be clear to anyone who entered Dash’s home that A Man Lived There.
Rough-hewn beams criss-crossed the thirty-foot vaulted ceiling, not a single decorative pillow softened the fat dimpled cushions of a beige L-shaped couch, the twelve-foot dining table was surrounded by three mismatched chairs, and the only rug breaking the expanse of unpolished wood was for the dogs, who lay upon it snoring.
One exposed brick wall boasted a fireplace large enough to house a small car, while another was nothing but glass. The view outside cold and green; fresh rain sparkling like crystal tears before acres of mighty trees stretching off into the distance. Making the house feel…warm. Comfortable. Like a sanctuary from the noise of the world.
“Lori?” Dash asked, snapping Lori from her odd moment of fancifulness.
His warm hand landed on the small of her back, and she nearly leapt from the intensity of the touch.
“Everything okay?” he asked, the glint in his eye making it perfectly clear he knew exactly why she’d jumped.
“Fine, fine,” she insisted. “It’s just… No signed posters from your fellow rock stars? No half-naked models lying stoned on your floor? No gun-shot holes in the walls? I have to admit it’s a little disappointing.”
Dash’s hands sank into the pockets of his jeans, the glint flashing as a small smile played across his mouth. “My first home away from family was a tour bus shared with three other smelly, horny, loud seventeen-year-old boys. Six shows a week in dingy pubs, town halls, and the occasional concert venue. Living off fast food and cheap beer, getting an hour’s sleep here and there, mostly after sunrise. I lived that way for more than thirteen years. Sure the hotels improved, as did the beer.” He looked around the room, out at the view, breathing it in. “But this is better.”
Shaking his head he then waved toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll go get cleaned up.”
When he pulled the T-shirt away from his chest, Lori said, “No!” rather more effusively than she’d have liked. Sweaty and rumpled, he made a mockery of her constitution; she’d hate to think how jumpy she’d be if he cleaned himself up.
She walked around and sank into the soft couch. Then her stomach gave a little heave at the sight of a pair of guitars lying across the coffee table, a battered old chest that could well have come from the stash of Captain Jack Sparrow.
Lifting her gaze, she discovered Dash’s shirt-flapping had left an inch of exposed stomach—taut, brown, with an arrow of hair spearing into his jeans. Somehow she managed, “I have three more meetings after this, and to suggest I’m musically challenged is not an exaggeration. So…please.”
His eyebrow rose at the please. As if he knew that was the hardest part for her. Harder even than admitting she wasn’t good at something.
“You’ve never played?” He played a little air guitar.
Watching his long strong fingers strum the air with easy grace, it felt like an age since she’d played in any capacity. Trying to right a sinking ship didn’t leave much time for the ‘blue’ sections of her calendar, so no wonder she’d had such a visceral reaction to the guy. Look at the pretty man! Don’t think about the other big horrible hard stuff you have to do. Just enjoy the pretty!
Figuring the guitars were the lesser of two evils, she shuffled out of the over-soft cushion and grabbed one by the neck. And realized she truly didn’t have a clue which way was up.
“Right-handed or left?” he asked.
“Right,” she said, and, going by instinct, slipped the strap over her shoulder.
The instrument was lighter than she expected. The wood cool against her palms, a neat weight on her thighs. She ran her fingers down the strings to find them tight. As her left palm landed on the lower curve of the body of the guitar, it fit as if an indentation had been worn there by another hand doing the same a million times before.
Probably the same big hand that threw several pages on the coffee table. Paper covered in smudged pencil dabbling, like a drunken chicken had stepped in ink and gone for a stroll. Sheet music. She recognized that at the very least.
“I set Callie up with a singing teacher,” he said. “Discreet, old school. I sent her a copy. This is the only other copy.”
“Right.”
“And it’ll remain here.”
“Okay. Sheesh.”
Lori glanced down at the chicken scratches to find the title of the song was scrawled across the top in the same hand: I Pick You.
A prickle of sweat broke out across the back of her neck as she imagined Callie writing those words about the man who was blithely ruining their lives.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do with that,” she said.
“You can’t read music?”
Happy to be distracted from those three little words on the page, Lori turned to the man at her side. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Most people can a little. Recorder as a kid. School choir.”
“I worked three jobs in high school. Not much time for the cheerleading squad or harp lessons.”
A beat, then, “Three jobs?”
Having no intention of going there with the man, she glared at him. Whatever small amount of chill she’d been able to scramble together having long since turned to ice.
Dash held up his hands in surrender, then glared at the music as if he was more wary of it than she was.
Which is when something occurred to her. “Have you ever taught music before?”
His cheek twitched before he shook his head.
“Fabulous,” she muttered. “So, what now? You play, and I vainly attempt to copy?”
“I told you; I don’t play. Not anymore.” He glanced at her guitar as if it might bite.
“What’s that for then?” she motioned to the one she hadn’t picked.
“Right-handers.”
“But–” Lori felt the red rising in her cheeks as she realized she’d picked the leftie, and he hadn’t even let her know. “This has to be the most stupid idea my sister has ever had. Check that, I can think of one other.”
Its name was Jake Mitchell. And his stupid band. And painful friends. And the fact that he’d virtually stolen her sister from her life…
Picking up on the implication, Dash’s eyes lifted to hers. This time there was no reining in of his energy, no attempt to calm the situation down. As if for the first time she’d truly managed to knock against something he didn’t like.
She had to give him props that it had taken her that long to rub him so completely the wrong way. It was one of her more finely honed skills.
“Want to swap?” he asked, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “It’ll be easier.”
Animosity sitting on her far more comfortably than the zing of attraction, Lori perked up. “Not a chance in the world.”
If the villain wanted to teach her how to play the thing against her will, then he could damn well do it upside down.
Another blast o
f energy leaked from his containment field, as he smiled so wide she felt it in the backs of her knees. “As someone somewhere once said, let’s get this over and done with.”
…
Forty-five minutes later, Lori could feel herself sweating in half a dozen unmentionable places. Her fingers couldn’t seem to stretch where Dash tried to put them. She had no clue what noise she was meant to be making. And she wished she’d let the man get changed.
Sitting so close on the soft couch, his earthy manly woodsy scent filled her every breath, whispering inside her like a promise, a wish, like desire incarnate so that she’d never again be able to walk past fresh cut lumber without feeling like she was half way to orgasm.
When he leaned closer to shift her wrist a fraction on the strut/neck/fret—whatever it was called—his hair tickled her cheek making her insides tingle to the point of pain. She murmured, “Enough.”
He tilted his face until she was close enough she felt like she could see right to the bottom of the dark brown depths of his eyes. All she’d have to do was lean a little and their lips would meet. She could claim it was accidental. An oops I didn’t see you there kiss. Would it taste like pasta? Or somehow more indefinably him?
“Hour’s up?” he said, frowning as he drew back. “Felt like longer.”
Lori laughed at the jab, only it ended on a sob as she ran her hands over her face, not caring if she smudged her make-up. In fact the first chance she got she was going to scrub down every inch of herself in a shower. And make it a cold one. “I’m never going to get this, am I?”
“You’re not what I’d call a natural.”
“I’ll give you a free hint, Dash, next time try a sandwich critique—a compliment, things to work on, a compliment. Works wonders.”
“What if I have nothing good to say?”
“Make it up,” Lori deadpanned.
The frown eased as his gaze once again dropped to her mouth. He shifted on the couch, his knee hooking to edge near hers, one arm draping over the back of the couch behind her.
While Lori sat so still she was in danger of pulling a muscle.
“How’s this?” he rumbled. “I appreciate you’re trying. You can’t play for shit. And I like your hair like this. Feels like all I have to do is find the one pin holding it in place and it would come tumbling down.”
His fingers lifted, as if he might be about to find a loose strand that had fallen from the chignon and give it a tug. Her breath caught in her throat as she imagined how that might feel; a man famous for his magical touch playing with her hair. But his arm drifted back to the couch and she let out a slow painful breath.
“That’s not exactly the kind of compliment I meant,” she managed.
He shrugged. “Best I could come up with on short notice.”
And she realized that while he flat-out refused to play a guitar to help the process, he had no such compunction against playing her.
She lifted the guitar strap over her head. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not the only one who’s ever had the urge to punch you in the nose?”
He ran a thumb over the bump. “Only one person’s ever managed it.”
“Jake,” she said, knowing it a moment before she said it.
“First time was my fault—a badly-timed duck and weave. I was twelve. Still counts, though.”
“Meaning there was a second.”
“My fault then, too.” Shadows poured over his face even as he smiled. “It happened a month or two after I left the band.”
“You hadn’t learned the first time?”
“Had. I knew the left hook was coming. I let it.”
“You let him break your nose?”
“I knew it was the only way our friendship had a chance of surviving my turning tail.”
Men. She honest to goodness would never understand them.
“How’d that work out for you, then?” she asked.
“It’s a process.”
“I’ll bet.”
With a grin, Dash stretched both arms over his head, like he could happily fall asleep on the couch once she left. Or maybe before, if the glint in his eyes had any say in the matter.
But it didn’t.
Lori pressed herself to standing, wobbled a little on her unusually flat feet, the guitar hanging from her fingers by a tuning knob. She dangled it his way, but he eased back onto the couch.
“Take her with you. Borrow her for practice. You need it.”
“Won’t you?”
He slowly shook his head.
“Okay, then.” She backed away, holding the guitar like a shield. “So. We’re done. Till next time.” She pulled out her phone, searched her calendar. “Next Monday good for you?”
Dash’s brow clouded over and she felt another speech coming.
“I’ll come to you,” she said on a sigh, “so that you don’t have to deign to uproot yourself. And I will do my utmost to chill. But in my world a calendar is a necessary thing.”
His cheek twitched. “Monday, then.”
“Excellent. I’ll let myself out.”
He sank back into the couch without argument, the glint still well and truly in place. A glint far too fuelled with understanding as to why she didn’t want him following her down the hall, or pressing a guiding hand to her back, or filling the doorway while she slunk through.
Which was why, with a bright parting smile, she said, “So I’ll leave the schedule I’ve made on the kitchen counter on the way out. As well as my notes about future lesson plans. No need to thank me. I’m happy to help!”
His smile disappeared. Lori left the room with a little spring in her step.
She squeezed her feet into her damp shoes, and opened Dash’s front door to find a man standing there with his fist raised. His general roundness was clad in top to toe black leather, the bits of skin poking out layered in tattoos. He was bald on top with long red hair in a ponytail down his back and a wild frizzy beard.
A huge black motorbike sat clicking and decompressing beside her town car. And even while he smelled incongruously like icing sugar, instinct had Lori wielding the guitar like a weapon, in case the need arose to slam the thing in the guy’s face.
“You’re not Dash,” he said with a smile that included more gold than tooth. But his gentle blue eyes twinkled and Lori’s grip softened.
“Thanks for noticing.”
“I’m Reg Blatt. Dash about? Or should I head back to the studio?”
Studio? Dash didn’t write anymore. Didn’t play. He wouldn’t have a studio. Unless of course he’d been pulling her leg the whole time, in which case she’d head back to his living room and hit him over the head.
Instead, she lowered her weapon. Taking Dash’s advice, she attempted to chill. The man’s games were not hers to play. He was nothing but a means to an end.
“He’s in the living room,” she said, inviting Reg inside whether Dash wanted her to or not.
“Excellent,” said Reg, slipping past as she slipped out.
He gave Lori a little wave as she hustled out to the car. Mack looked up from lusting over the motor bike to give the instrument in her hands a surprised look.
Lori slid into the back seat. “Super secret project.”
“Yes, miss.” Mack gunned the engine and headed off down the long slippery tree-shrouded driveway leading out of Dash’s forest home and back toward the real world.
…
An hour and a half later, Lori made it past the paparazzo yelling at her about “Callie the vixen” and “Jake the playboy” as they lurked outside the Nob Hill offices of Calliope Shoes without ‘accidentally’ tripping any. Pity.
Lori’s heart fell to find Callie wasn’t in her studio sketching. And lifted again when she did find her slouched down in the peacock blue wing chair in Lori’s office, a bare foot hooked over the armrest, flicking through the latest Rolling Stone. She half wished the paps had followed her in—then they’d see that ‘vixen’ was the least appropriate word to describe he
r little sister.
“Hey, kiddo,” said Lori, dropping to give her sister a massive hug.
“Hey,” said Callie, pulling herself up to seated. “How’d it go?”
Lori moved to sit in her big, soft, leather, bouncy chair with a sigh. “Pretty sure I should not give up my day job,” she said, pushing down the thought she might not have a choice.
“But the song! Isn’t it gorgeous? My lyrics are hardly Shakespeare, but with Dash’s music I can honestly say it’s the best song ever written.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve only attempted to play the first page and it was horrible.”
“Ha! I sound like an animal caught in a trap. But I have potential to…sound less like one. Or so says Miss Mimi.”
“Miss who?”
“The singing teacher Dash found. She’s a hundred years old, her hair is bright purple, and her entire house is filled with old-fashioned collect-a-dolls. Apparently Jake took lessons from her when he was sixteen and the record companies were first sniffing around. And I can’t even rib him about it because it was my idea to make the song this big secret.”
“Don’t,” Lori shot back. “You’ll regret it if you let the cat out of the bag before the big night.” And the immediacy, the PR benefit, would be dissipated beyond repair.
Callie laughed. “Ye of little faith. There is no way I’m spoiling this. Before I had this idea, I’d wake in a cold sweat after having dreamt I was standing at the altar in a big white dress announcing I was calling the whole thing off because I still hadn’t found him a wedding present.”
Lori’s heart cooled and slowed as it always did when her protective instincts perked up. “Callie, honey, if you’re worried—”
“No, no, no. Not like that. It’s just that he’s literally the man who has everything, which makes it hard to feel original at times.”
Callie, not original? The girl was so unique she was a national treasure. Lori bit her lip with the effort not to curse Jake Mitchell’s very name. “Is that why you’re behind on your deadlines? Because he’s made you feel like you’re not as creative?”
Callie’s head snapped back. “No! I…I just need to slow down a bit, I think. It’s been go go go since we moved here. Once the well has been refilled I’ll be better than ever.”