CHAPTER 45 (2)
Even though I’m not yet sure what I want to say to him, he must have some idea what he wants to say to me since he invited me here. That he was wrong would be a good start. “Thank you for coming,” he says to the crowd. “The music industry is changing in ways it never has. The old labels have consolidated, adapted, but they’re not meant for this new world. They put money in the pockets of executives. This new label is going to change all of it. Put the music and the musicians back in the…” His gaze meets mine, and his words trail off as an expression of disbelief takes over his face. I suck in a slow breath as I connect the pieces. Haley’s emphatic words. Rudy’s surprise. My dad didn’t invite me. He didn’t even know I was coming. He clears his throat and continues. “Back in the middle, where they belong. Enjoy yourselves today and celebrate with us. Not only for the label, but for music.” Applause and cheers rise up, but I barely hear them. The patio is suddenly too loud, too stimulating. I need to get out of here. I turn away, taking a long, urgent drink of champagne as my gaze lands on the pool house. Except it’s not a pool house anymore. There’s a decorative iron gate—open, for now—between the patio and the structure, and the building itself has been renovated, expanded to twice its original size. I head toward the building, winding through the crowd, and a parking lot on the other side comes into view through the hedge of shrubs angled to afford privacy and separate the two areas. The main entrance to the building is off the parking lot, meaning the door by the pool is a side entrance, likely intended for family only and accessible solely from this direction. My dad would never want someone else’s business in his backyard. But his business, with a literal door he can close, a way to access it anytime and close it just as easily. That he’d like. The door is etched glass, and I turn the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it gives. For all the noise outside, it’s quiet inside. I step inside to find sleek off-white carpet with geometric designs. I follow the short hallway that opens into the old pool house bedroom, which is now a lobby unlike any I’ve ever seen. Display cases line the walls, but instead of rows of hard seats, there’s a couch and comfy chairs, plus two more hot-desk workstations on the far side. A more permanent-looking desk—probably for reception—is where the bed used to be. Feelings slam into me, the scent of sun and cedar I must be making up from memory. It takes a second for me to notice a curvy, dark-haired woman younger than me behind the desk. Her hair is in braids, her smile wide. “I know you. You’re Emily Carlton. I recognize you from photos,” she says, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I’m Shane.” “Nice to meet you.” “You must’ve come to look around. Good idea to wait until after the rush.” She gestures toward the desks. “These are for visiting artists and staff. On each side of the hall there’s a studio, an office, and a meeting room. It’s for music, not luxury. Function, not form. But I think it’s beautiful.” She says the last part under her breath, as if she’s rebelling by merely voicing the words. “You saw it before the renovations,” Shane goes on. “Do you miss what it was?” Feelings slam into me—nostalgia, longing, regret. “Sometimes. But things are meant to change.” I walk down the hall and try the handle of the first studio door. It’s locked. When I look across at the second studio, I see movement on the other side of the door. I try the handle, and it gives, opening soundlessly. Laughter fills my ears. There’s a man standing straight, a woman pressed close to him. I clear my throat. They both turn toward me. The woman’s beautiful, but it’s not her I’m looking at. It’s him. Strong legs are encased in indigo jeans. Broad shoulders stretch the black jacket, which is rolled up at the sleeves to reveal swirls of inky tattoos. The top two buttons of the matching shirt are undone. And above that… There’s a face so familiar it hits me in the gut. Not because it’s impossible to scan an entertainment news feed without seeing him. No, the gut punch is because I’ve kissed that face. Dreamed about it. I’ve felt it between my thighs. He was a man when he left on tour, but he’s more than that now. I see it in every hard line of his body, every shadow on his face. “You surprised us.” The woman laughs, reminding me we’re not alone. She keeps talking, but I don’t get any of it. Timothy’s dark eyes intensify as he takes me in. His chin drops as he starts a slow survey at my heels, drags up my legs, lingering at the top as if he can see what’s beneath my dress. Or he’s remembering it. There shouldn’t be so many feelings colliding in my chest. “And you are?” the woman asks me, jerking me back. I should’ve had something to eat on the plane. That feeling in the air, that sense of unease lifting the hairs on my neck… He’s standing in front of me wearing black and an unreadable expression. Timothy Adams might’ve changed in two years, but so have I. I’m better at hiding my heart instead of wearing it on my sleeve. But that doesn’t stop me from draining my champagne before answering. “Too old for this shit.”
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