Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more romance from Entangled… Across the Aisle

  Wishing For A Cowboy

  Hot on the Ice

  Back in the Burbs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Negeen Papehn. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Amy Acosta and Heather Howland

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by AllaSerebrina/Deposit Photos

  ISBN 978-1-64937-133-1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2021

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  For Maziar

  I’d give anything to sing with you again

  Chapter One

  Darya

  The rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of my black clogs against the linoleum floor of the St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital ER is familiar and soothing.

  Halfway through the late-night shift, I need something to focus on other than the unyielding ache in my calves, an unwelcome parting gift from too many patients and no time to sit down. I rub my heavy lids and make a mental note to detour toward the break room for a third cup of the sludge-like concoction we refer to as coffee. But before I have a chance to escape, another slew of charts get racked up for the evening.

  “Trina owes me big time.”

  I try to daydream of the sunny California beach day the forecast has promised me tomorrow, hoping I have enough energy to indulge in it after a few hours of sleep, but it’s no use. My body protests louder than the images can form in my mind.

  I spare one more glance toward the double doors leading to my caffeine salvation and huff loudly. Not that anyone’s there to hear me. They’re all dragging themselves around on wobbly legs, too, trying to hustle through the midnight shift as best as they can, just as exhausted as I am.

  There’s no use in delaying the inevitable. There’s work to be done, and thanks to my undying devotion to my best friend, Trina is out meeting the man of her dreams while I take her graveyard shift. The pain shoots up to my knees. Remember you love her.

  I shouldn’t be complaining. I bet a ton of my classmates would trade places with me in a heartbeat for a position at this hospital. Ranked among the top ten in the country, I was lucky to land this gig right out of residency. I have Trina to thank for that, so I guess giving her a night off while I waste away in emergency purgatory isn’t a big ask.

  My stomach grumbles, and I grieve missing dinner at Maman’s tonight. She was making my favorite, khoresh bademjan. Thoughts of my mom’s delicious eggplant stew make the hunger pangs worsen in my belly, but sadly, all these patients won’t take care of themselves. I ignore it with promises of a protein bar from the vending machine once I’m done. I grab the next chart and am met by the head nurse, before we make our way over to room two.

  “Just a few more hours to go.” Lindsey sighs, trying to smile through her own exhaustion. She pulls the curtain aside and lets me pass then steps in behind me.

  Lying on the white sheets is a younger Latino man. He straightens up in the hospital bed, tucking the shoulder-length strands of his chestnut hair behind his ear when he sees me, a small smirk teasing the tips of his lips.

  Two men flank each side of his bed. One is tall and tank-like, his frame towering in the tiny space. His hands are clasped behind his back and his eyes facing forward like a soldier. The other is small in comparison, fit but shorter. Persian, I think. His dark goatee is precise and his eyebrows shaped to perfection, but his eyes are concerned as he looks between the patient and me.

  “Hello, Mr. Castillo,” I say to the patient. “I’m Dr. Zameeni.”

  “Well, hello there.” His piercing eyes bore into me, their intensity evaporating off my white coat in puffs of steam. For a man who was just rushed to the hospital, his undeniable confidence has been left unaffected. I divert my gaze to the chart I’m holding, too sleepy to be flattered by his obvious interest. Focusing on the words scrawled across the pages is hard enough. I scan his details: twenty-five-year-old male, occupation guitarist, no history of medical conditions. That explains why he’s trying to be all cool with his “I’m the shit” vibe, like he’s some legit rock star.

  When my eyes meet his again, the fierceness in his expression hasn’t faltered. He definitely gets an A for effort, I’ll give him that much. I fix a generic smile on my lips, trying to adhere to proper bedside etiquette, as I suppress the chuckle taking shape in my chest. I imagine laughing at his attempt to woo me with his bad-boy stare would surely bruise his unwavering ego.

  “Mr. Castillo, would you like me to have your…friends step outside?” I don’t know what else to call them.

  “Nah, they’re cool,” he answers. “And call me Carlos.”

  My face scrunches up at his lack of taking this conversation seriously. His carefree exterior irritates me, cocky and full of himself. But just as I’m about to reprimand him, he exchanges a worried glance with his companion. One completely at odds with his badass pers
ona.

  “Okay, Carlos, it says here that you fainted. Have you ever fainted before?”

  “Nope. This was the first time.” He shifts uncomfortably in the bed, folding his hands in his lap. The gesture makes him appear small and vulnerable. But just when I think I may have pegged him wrong, he grins up at me, and the humility disappears.

  “Do you remember anything before it happened? Any symptoms you were experiencing?”

  “Not really.”

  “Shortness of breath? Or feeling lightheaded before you fainted?”

  “Um, maybe a little lightheaded, but that’s not abnormal.”

  “So you feel lightheaded often?”

  “No. I mean yes. But only when I’m up on stage dancing around and stuff. Music bumping, hotties grooving, you feel me?” He fist-bumps the burly man to his right. The Persian guy winces.

  “I see,” I answer, returning to scribbling notes on the chart. I hear him grumble something to his companions, but I let it go, entirely not interested in how uptight this guy thinks I am. “How about tightness in your chest? Heart palpitations?” When he doesn’t answer, I look up and smile again, thinking he needs some sort of reassurance to urge him forward. Most attention seekers do.

  “What are those?”

  He diverts his gaze to the stark white sheet pooling around his waist, pulling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. A look of boyish embarrassment claims his once confident features.

  “It means an irregular heartbeat. It may have felt like it was beating too fast. Or some describe it as a strange flutter. Do you remember any of that?”

  “Yeah, actually. But we had just finished ‘Cariño Extraño’ and the crowd was electric. Major adrenaline rush, you know?”

  I don’t know, but I widen my grin as if I have a clue what he’s talking about.

  He takes it to mean I want to hear more about this concert of his, so he turns to his bodyguards and says, “James, how many people would you say that was?” His expression lights up with childlike enthusiasm.

  I’m expecting James to say one hundred, or maybe two.

  “Easily five thousand, bro.”

  I almost choke, earning me a satisfied chuckle. Oh shit, he is a rock star!

  “Come on, mamita, did you think I was small-time?”

  Mamita? Who does this kid think he is? I quickly regain my composure, molding my features back into the business expression of an ER doctor. I did not spend eons in medical school so this guy could call me by a pet name. One I don’t even like. “Your career isn’t any of my concern,” I answer. “And it’s Dr. Zameeni.”

  “Jeez.” When I give him a hard glare, he raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, sorry doc.”

  “Mr. Castillo.” His mouth opens in protest but then he decides otherwise as I continue pinning him to the bed with my focus. “Do you have any family history of heart disease?”

  “My father died of a heart attack. Does that count?”

  “Yes, that counts.” I’m hoping my dry tone convinces him I’m unamused. His energy becomes somber as he watches me scribble more notes in his chart.

  “Is that bad?” The trepidation in his voice forces my attention back to him. I’m met with the uneasiness of fear in his now-slackened expression. Despite my better judgment, I get the sudden urge to ease his worries.

  “It could be nothing. But I’d like to make sure.” I step up beside him. “I’m going to do a physical exam now.” Carlos nods. I begin my assessment as I play musical chairs with his two companions. Everyone looks uncomfortable and I’m about tell them to head to the waiting room. “Did you hit anything when you fell?”

  “No,” he answers. “Mike caught me.”

  The Iranian man gives me a humorless grin. “We were talking and he pitched forward so I grabbed him. The rest of the band members came down then and helped me move him to a chair.” He shifts on his feet, oddly nervous about the admission.

  “Well, he’s lucky you were there.” I smile, hoping to ease the tension. I turn toward Lindsey. “Let’s get a complete blood panel, chest X-ray, and an EKG.”

  “Okay, doctor.”

  Lindsey, Trina, and I have been friends for years. Ones who Uber to dinner so we can all wash away the hectic stress of our work week in cranberry and vodkas without the annoying worry of assigning a designated driver. But unless it’s just us, Lindsey makes sure to refer to Trina and me as “doctor” when we’re on the clock. As head nurse, she’s responsible for setting the proper boundaries, but it always makes me feel strange to have her speak to me so formally.

  “Get comfortable, Mr. Castillo. It will be a little while.” I give him one last courtesy nod before I head out the door.

  “Sounds good, m—”

  I glare at him.

  “Pretty doctor lady.” He stretches out on the bed, putting his arms behind his head, seemingly satisfied that he’s come up with an alternate name for me. Back is the flirty assuredness he wore when I walked in. Obviously, the potential for heart disease isn’t enough to rid him of his swagger. I shake my head, letting it slide for now as I make my way to room four.

  I’ve never wanted to be a doctor to the rich and cocky. God help me, it’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Two

  Anthony

  “Gracias, Los Angeles! We are Ternura!” I shout into the microphone and wave blindly out to the audience as the fading notes of our encore echo through the venue. My T-shirt is drenched. I yank it up over my head, needing to shed the layer of wet fabric sticking to my skin. The crowd goes crazy. Nothing like a bare chest to really get them screaming for more.

  Fame is a strange beast. All smoke and mirrors. And hours in the gym. My life belongs to the band and the fans. It’s a waste of time to wish things were different, but sometimes it’s hard to stop. I toss one last smile over my shoulder. It’s a look magazines plaster in their pages, and it’s my job to keep up appearances. But all I want to do is get the fuck out of here so I can make sure my brother is okay.

  I ball up my shirt and throw it into the anonymous mass of people as I head offstage. The roars get more intense, following me down the steps.

  A stagehand gives me another T-shirt and I pull it on as I’m hustled out of the venue through the back doors where two black SUVs are idling. It’s been five years and I’m still not used to the flashing lights of the paparazzi’s cameras. Blinded, I fall into the vehicle’s backseat as Travis, my bodyguard, climbs into the front.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath. “I can’t see shit when they do that.”

  “Irritating as hell,” Travis agrees, offering me a bottle of water and a towel. I wipe off the sweat and stage makeup from the concert and start to feel almost human.

  “How fast can we get to the hospital?” We’re waiting on the rest of the guys, but I’m ready to get a move on.

  “I can have you there in about fifteen minutes, sir,” the driver replies.

  That’s ten minutes too long, but there’s not much that can be done about Los Angeles traffic. We’ll be lucky if it’s only that long.

  “Don’t worry,” Travis says. “I’ve been in contact with my men the entire time, and Carlos is doing fine. The doctor has seen him, and they’ve run some initial tests. They’re waiting for the results now.”

  Travis’s dark blue eyes are sharp and alert as he takes in our surroundings, always watching for the next threat among the chaos of stardom. He’s been head of my security for years now, morphing from an employee into a trusted friend. And he never lies. A condition earned from years in the military and one of the reasons I trust him implicitly. If he says all is well at the hospital, then I know it is. I nod, turning my attention out the window.

  Breathe, Anthony. He’s okay. Carlos is okay.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat it, the weight of dread feels
like a punch to the gut. Images of my father—hand clasped to his chest, sprawled across the living room floor—flash through my mind. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories as I flex my fingers into fists. The thought of Carlos inheriting that bastard’s heart condition fills me with rage.

  Emmanuel slides into the seat beside me. “Okay, let’s go. Hugo and Mateo will be right behind us. Are you going to call your mom?”

  He holds out my cell phone, but I shake my head. “It’s late and she’s sleeping. I don’t want to worry her if there isn’t anything to worry about.”

  “Are you sure?” He raises a brow. “Mamá Carmen isn’t going to be happy about that.”

  No, she definitely will not. “I know. I just can’t deal with her twenty questions right now.”

  “Okay, but if she calls, you’re picking up your own damn phone.”

  “Why? You know she likes you better.”

  “Exactly. I’m trying to keep your mom on my good side. She terrifies me.” He shudders, even though we both know he loves her just as much as she loves all the guys associated with the band.

  If I call Mamá now, she’s going to fly into a total panic. I wouldn’t be surprised if her and Tía Amelia jump in the car immediately and head over. I’ll call her after I know what’s going on, even if she kills me for it.

  The driver turns left and my cell slides across the seat, smacking my thigh like a warning from the universe.

  Emmanuel pats my shoulder. “He’s fine, compadre.”

  I give him a tight-lipped smile and try to distract myself with the city streets.

  It feels like a lifetime before the driver says, “We’re here.”

  There’s already a group of ten paps huddling around the entrance, with more joining the ranks as we undo our seat belts to get out of the van.

  “What the fuck? How did they already hear about this?”

  Emmanuel shakes his head, as frustrated as I am. Nothing is private anymore. I exhale sharply. Despite the shitstorm we’ll inevitably face once they publish these photos, I can’t worry about whether Carlos’s collapse has them staking out the ER, and if the news has already hit all the major outlets. All I can think about is my brother and getting inside.