Contents
Overtones
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
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Book Club
About Jerica MacMillan
Other Titles on Amazon
Reverb
Songs and Sonatas Book 7
Jerica MacMillan
Copyright © 2019 by Jerica MacMillan
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Brendan
Swallowing hard, I glance behind me where my stupid brothers stand off to the side, shoving each other and trying and mostly failing to be quiet.
“Shh!” Jonathan hisses at Colt. “You’ll ruin the surprise if you’re loud.”
Ignoring them, I raise my hand and knock on the door.
This could be awesome or horrible regardless of whether they’re quiet. They have nothing to do with it.
It’s all up to Lauren.
The last time I showed up out of nowhere, she was pissed.
For good reason.
Even though we agreed to go our separate ways after our impromptu trip to New York, that didn’t last. I couldn’t take it. I reached out to her first. We’ve texted some. Talked on the phone a few times. She invited me to her junior recital, which I know was a big deal. Not only because she’d be performing solo in front of all her family and friends—including her professors and people who are most likely the harshest critics in her life. But also because it meant she thought I was important enough to want me there.
I bought a plane ticket as soon as we got off the phone.
Then, two days before her recital, The Professor tapped me to help with a new song he was working on for Jordyn Carr, the latest breakout star. The label wanted him to take her second album to the next level and get her a number one hit. He’d been sitting on the project for a while, and decided to give it to me days before the deadline, knowing full well I’d intended to be out of town for at least two of those days. Knowing I couldn’t just decline the job, I worked my ass off, not leaving the studio, eating crappy takeout, and napping under my desk for an hour or two at a time trying to get it done in time.
But it was impossible. I sent the files to The Professor and passed out on my desk. By the time I woke up—with a crick in my neck, my mouth tasting like a swamp, and a puddle of drool under my cheek—I’d missed my flight.
With a groan, I sent an apology by text, dragged my ass home, and slept for twelve hours before getting another ticket on the next flight to Spokane so I could grovel appropriately.
I showed up on her doorstep that night, but she wasn’t home. So I waited in my rental car, because it was fucking freezing in Spokane in February, until she came back.
When she did, she squinted at my car after climbing out of her own. I got out, approaching her in the dark, my shoulders hunched against the cold and my hands stuffed into the pockets of the jacket I’d bought on our trip in December.
As I got closer, she gasped, then her face closed down, her mouth pinched, her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
I spread my hands. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come for your recital. I had a ticket. But The Professor—”
“It’s fine, Brendan,” she interrupted before I could even explain. “You don’t owe me anything.”
I wanted to protest, but I didn’t know what to say.
With a sigh, she invited me inside and gave me a blanket and pillow to sleep on the couch before declaring that she was tired and going to bed.
The next day didn’t go much better. We had breakfast together in her kitchen, but it was awkward and stilted, and she only let me talk about superficial things, though she did at least fill me in on how her recital went and promised to send me a recording when she got it from the music department.
She never sent it to me, though. That was three months ago.
And that’s what I’m thinking about when she opens the door and freezes, staring at me.
After a long moment, Gabby’s voice calls, “Who is it?”
Her voice is a tortured whisper when she says my name, “Brendan.”
I offer my best grin, but it does nothing to soften her impression of a statue.
The door is jerked from her hand, and Gabby’s curious face appears. She gives me a wide smile and gently bumps Lauren out of the way so she can step closer to me. “Brendan! What are you doing here?” She opens her arms for a hug, and I lean down so she can hug me, giving her a quick, brotherly squeeze while she scans the twilight behind my shoulder. “Is Jonathan with you?”
Releasing her, I glance over my shoulder as he and Colt step out from behind a tree. Jonathan wastes no time getting to his wife, shoving me toward Lauren as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her like we’re not even here.
“Seriously, guys?” Colt mutters behind me.
But I’m not paying attention to any of them anymore, and I’m only dimly aware that Charlie’s appeared as well and is talking about calling Damian to come over if we’re crashing their girls’ night. My attention is all on Lauren.
Who’s staring up at me, her brown eyes wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth like she’s not sure what to think about me being here.
I can’t blame her. I don’t even know what to think about the fact that I’m here.
“Hey.” I clear my throat. “Can, uh, we come in?”
Her eyes flicker over everyone else, and then she jerks her chin down in a nod, though her expression doesn’t look very happy about it. “Yeah. I guess so.” She glances at Jonathan and Gabby one more time, who’ve stopped kissing at least, but are still wrapped around each other, whispering things. “If I try to make you leave, I’m pretty sure Gabby’ll go with yo
u. You might as well all come in.”
Who could turn down an invitation like that? But I’m not in a position to criticize. We did crash the night they’d planned. And it’s been almost two months since we’ve talked, so for all I know she’s dating someone now. There was a picture of her on Instagram with some guy recently …
Shaking my head, I follow her inside. Nothing’s changed since I crashed here that night in February. Except there are a few extras here and there—shoes and purses that obviously belong to Gabby and Charlie. But the books on the coffee table are essentially the same. Which makes sense. Lauren’s not quite finished with spring semester. She’s probably studying for finals. Not tonight, though. Tonight was supposed to be fun with her friends who she rarely sees these days.
And now us.
Suddenly, crashing her house seems like a terrible idea. I feel like even more of an ass than I did before. I wanted to talk to her, but with everyone here that’s going to be impossible. If I wanted to see her, I should’ve called. Texted. Something other than just showing up at her door. I should’ve learned from last time, but apparently I’m too much of a dumbass to learn from my mistakes. I act without thinking. That’s always been my problem.
It worked out well for us in the beginning—our impulsive trip to New York, hooking up on the road, all of it.
But now?
Every time I give into impulse, it just fucks everything up even more.
Following her into the kitchen, I reach out and grip her arm, trying hard to ignore the zing that still rushes through me anytime I touch her. Five months and thousands of miles have done nothing to dull my reaction to her.
I don’t know why I thought it would. Being around her has only ever caused me to crave her more.
She whirls at my touch, pulling her arm away from me, her eyes flashing and her nostrils flaring.
I hold my hands up. “Sorry. I just … I’m sorry. About everything. Showing up like this. Colt and Jonathan were hassling me, and it seemed like a good idea, but now …”
Her initial reaction has relaxed, and she stands with her arms crossed, one hip cocked to the side, her eyes lazy as she surveys me, raising her brows as I trail off. “But now?”
I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. “But now I just feel like an ass.”
That provokes a low, sexy chuckle. Damn. I miss that laugh.
She shakes her head and drops her arms, turning to the fridge. “Well, that makes sense. You kind of are an ass. Are you just now figuring that out?”
One corner of my mouth kicks up in a rueful grin. And there’s the Lauren I’m used to. “No. I’ve known for a while. You’ve never missed an opportunity to tell me.”
She straightens, looking at me over the door of the refrigerator, her face serious again. “Look, it’s not—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear anything she has to say that starts with those words. “It’s okay. You can call me an ass all you like. We both know it’s true. I’m just sorry for ruining your night.”
We stare at each other for several heartbeats, and then she sighs and looks back into the fridge. “You didn’t ruin my night.” The words are so quiet, I almost don’t hear them.
But I do.
And those five little words spark a flare of hope in my heart. If showing up out of the blue didn’t ruin her night, maybe she’s not mad at me after all.
Chapter Two
Lauren
I rummage in the fridge, acutely conscious of Brendan’s eyes on me. His presence in my little kitchen seems to dominate everything.
I don’t even know what I’m trying to get out of the fridge, but if I come out empty-handed, I’ll look like a moron.
Everything about him makes me feel wrong-footed, or like I keep missing my cue to come in.
Or like I’m in the joint orchestra and choir performance that we did earlier this year. The choir director conducted us. And he was sooo awful. There was no clear downbeat. Ever. And the entire orchestra had to trust our collective instincts to come in at the right time.
That’s what this situation is like.
The first rehearsal with a conductor with no clear pattern.
Guesswork and unreliable instincts.
Basically, I’m completely at a loss.
Giving up, I decide to just look like a moron.
Brendan meets my eyes, a tiny smile tipping up the corners of his mouth, his hands still stuffed in his pockets as he leans against the counter.
“What?” I demand, crossing my arms.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just good to see you.”
My bristly irritation softens for a moment. But then I remember that we’re not supposed to be anything to each other anymore. That was what we said on our trip. And even though we broke that rule—he broke that rule—nothing about our contact since then has been good, really. Our handful of phone calls were all stilted and short, except for the one where I cried about losing the concerto competition. He made all the right sympathetic noises, and I’d missed him so much at that moment, craved his touch so badly that I ached. But it didn’t make up for him missing my recital. And even though he explained why he didn’t make it, it still hurts that all I got was a text that said, “Sorry. Work,” and nothing else until he showed up on my doorstep the next day. Which seems like it should’ve made me feel better, but only served to highlight how different we are. How far apart our lives are. How this can’t work. And I rebuild my defenses, cementing the bricks back in place.
If I let him in, I’ll only end up heartbroken. Again. Still. I can’t even tell. All I know is that I won’t come through anything with him unscathed. I’ve already been worked over once. And every time I reach out and he answers, or he shows up and I let him in, I’m only hurting myself more.
“Why did you come here, Brendan?”
He flinches. It’s barely there, and even though we’ve literally spent less than a week in each other’s company, our time together was all so concentrated that I know his tells. His mouth tightens, his nostrils flare, his head pulls back a fraction of an inch.
I landed a blow, and he doesn’t like it.
Of course he doesn’t like it. He just said he was happy to see me, and I sounded like an annoyed bitch in response.
But I can’t help it. He’s always brought out the worst of my snark. Only at first it was more playful. Now …
Now I’m just tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of wondering. Tired of wishing things could be different.
Things are the way they are. Neither of us is willing to do anything to change our situation.
So we’re stuck in this weird limbo where we end up hurting each other again and again.
Sighing, I reach a hand up to rub my forehead. “I’m sorry.” I don’t like hurting him, even if I’m tired of the fact that he has the power to hurt me. “That came out a lot bitchier than I intended. I guess that’s what happens when you show up unannounced, huh?” I offer a half-smile, hoping that my patented sarcasm helps smooth things over.
His half-smile back just looks sad, though. “Yeah, I guess so.” He turns away, his eyes roaming over the gray and slate blue color palette of the counter and backsplash. “I’m playing a show with Jonathan soon. He wanted us all to have a chance to rehearse. He’s a perfectionist, so showing up and playing a song we’ve played a million times since we were kids isn’t good enough. He needs to know it’ll be the best performance ever. He picked me up in LA. I didn’t realize we’d be stopping for the night here.” His eyes wander back to mine. “Not until we’d landed and Gabby kept talking about meeting up with you and Charlie. I didn’t put it together and realize where we’d landed until we got off the plane, though. I’ve been working constantly this last week, trying to get all my projects done before going out of town, so I wasn’t paying attention to anything but making it to the airport on time and then finally relaxing once we were all on the plane.”
I lean back
against the counter next to the fridge, openly watching him now. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten to look my fill, and in February it was freezing so we were all bundled up. Now, it’s May, and even though it’s still a little chilly in the evenings, he’s dressed in simple jeans and a long-sleeve heather green henley that picks out the green in his eyes. The thin cotton clings to his shoulders and chest—not in a too-tight shirt kind of way that certain guys who try too hard like to wear. No, in the just-right way that highlights his muscles and makes me wish I could see him shirtless again.
With another sigh, I glance away. “So whose idea was it to crash? Yours?”
“No. But I didn’t put up much of a fight.” He pauses, like he’s considering what to say next. “I’ve missed you.”
Even though the words are quiet, they suck the air out of my lungs. “Have you?” I manage to choke out.
His face softens, his eyes warming as he looks me over.
Pictures of him with other women flit through my mind—famous pop singers, up-and-coming starlets, and “regular” girls. Pictures that I’ve seen while stalking him on social media.
No, I’m not proud of it. Some compulsions are just too hard to ignore.
But that little reminder is enough to have me straightening my spine, shoring myself up. “You haven’t seemed too hard up for company from what I can tell.”
His mouth twists, and he sucks in a breath. But then a sexy smirk slowly spreads across his face. “You’ve been checking up on me?”
My cheeks heat, and I look away, which only serves to emphasize my slipup. “No.”
A low chuckle sends more heat rushing to my cheeks—and parts farther south. My hands clamp onto the counter behind me hard enough that my knuckles are surely white. They’d be fists if they were at my sides. I love and hate that he has this effect on me. Still. After everything.
He steps across the kitchen, closing the distance between us, until he’s right in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. But he doesn’t touch me.
Not him.
Reverb (Songs and Sonatas Book 7) Page 1