CHAPTER 33 (2)

Timothy: I can do us one better if you’re willing to go to Brooklyn. Emily: ??? Timothy: I’m playing a session gig for Zeke. We’ll probably finish early, and we can use the studio for a bit if so. Thursday after class at Columbia, I have lunch with Avery, catching up on both of our gossip. According to her eyebrows plastered to her hairline, I’ve won this round. Before I leave campus, she hands me the oversized package that was delivered to her room with my name on it. It’s perfect timing, and I take it on the subway with me to Brooklyn. I use the map on my phone to find the brick building on the corner. Inside, the woman at the desk gets me an escort to studio two. The producer acknowledges me with a nod through the glass panel in the door, and moments later, the door opens. I head into the booth as my attention’s drawn to the guy on the other side of the glass. Timothy’s sitting on a stool, guitar in his lap, laughing with the other guys in the band. He’s so handsome and competent, perfectly at ease, and my chest expands as I watch him. I’m proud of him but a little envious, too. “They’re wrapping up. I’m Zeke.” My head turns toward the fit, middle-aged man on this side of the glass wearing a sport coat with jeans. “Emily.” I hold out a hand. His gaze narrows as he takes it. “Emily…?” “Just Emily.” Timothy comes through the door. His eyes brighten with pleasure as he sees me. “Nice work today, Timothy,” Zeke says. “I might have a gig for you. You free Tuesday night?” His brows lift. “What kind of gig?” “The kind that you’d change anything in your calendar for.” Zeke claps a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “It’s at Madison Square Garden. I’ll send you the details.” I think Zeke’s going to leave, but his attention homes in on the guitar case at my side. “If you wanted a different guitar, we could’ve gotten you one,” he says, shaking Timothy’s hand before disappearing out the door, leaving us alone. I set the case next to the board and step back. Timothy doesn’t say anything as he flips the latches on the hardtop case, lifts the guitar, and hooks it over his head. He tunes it before striking up a melody that’s haunting at first, then switches to something lively and joyful, then ending with notes of tension and resolution. It’s breathtaking. He sets the guitar back in its case, then drops into a chair, leaning back. His eyes darken. “Tell me something—were you ever tempted to return it?” “Yeah,” I half groan, half laugh. “For a while, it was all I wanted.” I reach for a chair of my own, but a restraint closes around my wrist. I glance at Timothy’s strong grip in surprise. “I appreciate the guitar, Six. But it’s not the only thing I want back.” I lift my chin, studying the intensity on his face. “I know.” He tugs me into his lap, and I don’t fight it. I drape an arm over the back of his chair, his hair brushing my hand. His body is hard under me. I give in to the urge to trace my finger along his rounded shoulder, stop short of hooking it in the rounded collar and burying my face in his neck to absorb the scent of him like I want to. “We’re here to practice,” I point out, but my voice is low. He pulls me closer, brushing the hair back behind my ear to drop kisses up my neck. “We will. But first, I’m saying thanks for the guitar.” My head drops back. “You’re so”—I bite back a moan as his teeth find my earlobe, arching my ass against his crotch—“welcome.” God, I want him right here in this room, and from the hardness of him everywhere, he wants that too. “So, first a studio and second a gig at MSG?” I pull back, try to focus on work. Timothy resists, tracing a finger along my neck, making me bite my tongue. “Yeah. Zeke called me yesterday to say congrats on the showcase. I didn’t even have to tell him. It’s weird.” Around the haze of desire, I realize Jacob’s email must have worked. Zeke got wind people were sniffing around Timothy. Good. “I’m sure he realized what he was missing,” I murmur, all innocence. Timothy shifts me so I’m straddling him, and that only makes the need pulsing between my thighs worse. “Um… this is seriously distracting,” I mumble even as I link my hands behind his head. “I’m counting on it. That way you’ll say yes when I tell you I want to take you out.” “How’s tomorrow?” I ask, breathless. His smile freezes as he cocks his head. “Honestly, I expected more pushback.” I laugh. “I have tickets to a musical my acting professor wrote. I’m actually kind of excited. I know people write musicals because obviously, for them to exist, someone needed to create them… but in my mind, those shows are timeless. The idea that someone”—I almost say “I” but stop—“could actually weave one from nothing is mind blowing. So, can you make it?” “I need to head out of town this weekend for a personal thing,” he says, regret coloring his voice. Disappointment courses through me. I assume he means for his dad, and I squeeze his arm. “Sure. You want to talk about it?” His expression softens. “Nah. But thanks for understanding.” I want him, and more than that, I care about him. There’s still so much up in the air between us. But it’s hard to be caught up in that. It’s hard to do anything but relax into his arms, surveying the room. “Just think. In another year, you could be on contract. On tour,” I say, even though the idea of him being gone tugs at my heart. “You might have to come with me.” My stomach flips over. “You invite a girl on tour with you, that’s serious,” I warn. His gaze searches mine, his hands tightening around me. “I know this showcase is everything to you. But it’s not all that matters to me. Every time I picture my future, I think of you in it.” My heart squeezes as he leans in, brushing his mouth over mine. I kiss him back, putting all the words we haven’t said into it until he pulls back an inch. “You need to tell your dad you’re here,” Timothy murmurs against my mouth. My head drops back. “I will. I don’t know why it matters so much.” His expression. “I don’t want this hanging over you.” I sigh, tracing a finger over his parted lips. I want them on me again. “It almost seems as if this is bothering you more than it’s bothering me,” I tease. Timothy stiffens under me, but before he can respond, an alert on his phone has us both jumping. “Thirty minutes,” he curses. “We better work.” I’m already missing his warmth before he shifts me off him.