Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Juniper
I make sure I close the screen door as quietly as possible. Riley should be asleep by now, but I don’t want to tempt fate. This is my golden hour. Today’s chores are done. I have sixty minutes to myself before I need to head to bed.
I take a seat on the bench and open my book. I chose it from the library because it had a picture of the Empire State Building on the cover. Reading about it is the closest thing I’ll ever get to visiting New York City.
Just as I finish the first paragraph, the headlights of a truck light up the porch.
Is it my dad? He didn’t say he’d be coming by. As the truck swings to the side, my stomach flips. That’s Byron’s truck.
It’s Fisher.
He offers me a grin through his window. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see him until right now.
We’ve been trading texts all day, trying to get another night on the calendar.
It hasn’t been easy. Mom has clubs most days—knitting, reading, pottery.
And anyway, if I ask her to sit more than once in a week, she’s going to pin me down and make me spill my guts.
I can’t face the idea of saying I’m having really great casual sex with an out-of-towner and I want to make the most of it.
It’s not that she’s a prude; my mom would probably encourage it.
I just don’t want her—and everyone else, including Riley—thinking that Fisher and I are riding off into the sunset together.
We’re both clear this isn’t anything it’s not.
“Hey,” I say as he takes the steps up to the porch. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He grins, and my stomach flips like it’s a goddamn dolphin’s tail. It’s just that he’s so pretty and so, so good with his tongue.
“I thought I’d drop by and ask you out the old-fashioned way—face-to-face.” He holds up a bottle of wine. “I brought a beverage this time.”
I laugh and stand to get glasses. But I don’t get a chance. Fisher puts the bottle on the table and wraps his hands around my waist.
He sweeps his lips against mine and lets out a groan. “God, you smell good.”
He kisses my smile, and I sink into him, relaxing my body against his, threading my hands into his hair.
It shouldn’t be this easy with him. But it is. It’s like we’ve skipped three months of dating, and he knows exactly what I want from him. A long, slow kiss.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he says. “In fact, all week, since the last time I saw you.”
I wince. “Sorry. My schedule is—”
“You don’t need to apologize. I know you have a lot going on. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss kissing you.”
I tilt my head and push his hair from his face. “Well, I’m available for kisses on my porch every evening from eight thirty till midnight.”
I grin, but he doesn’t laugh like I expected him to do.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“Fisher, if you wanna drive down here every night, then I’m more than happy to kiss you.”
This time, he smiles and presses his lips against mine, pulling my body against his, sliding his tongue between my lips, finding mine eager and willing.
I feel him harden between us, and eventually, he pulls away.
“Tell me your mom isn’t inside.”
I laugh. “No. And Riley’s in bed. But let me get some glasses, and we can… take a break.”
I head into the house. Quickly, I check on Riley, but she’s fast asleep. I grab two of my three wineglasses and a corkscrew and head out.
“How was your day?” Fisher asks from where he’s sitting on the bench, his arm stretched out on the back. He takes the wine and expertly opens the bottle and pours out two glasses.
“Oh, you know, a lot like yesterday.” I take a seat beside him, and he scoots me closer and puts his arm around me. I lean my head against him. “Except today, Riley and I had a difficult conversation about her trying out for cheer squad.”
“You’re worried she won’t get in?” he asks, like he’s genuinely interested. He’s so sweet. He hands me a glass of the wine he poured.
“No, I’m worried she will get in. I hate the whole idea of cheer. I used to do it at school, and I know there are plenty of positives, but I don’t like my daughter participating in something that’s basically cheering on the boys doing a sport. It’s gross.”
“But it’s a sport in its own right, right? I mean, they do gymnastics and stuff, don’t they?”
I straighten my head and shrug. “Yeah, but ultimately, the idea of cheer is to hype up the crowd so they go wild for the boys. I don’t like the message it sends. I want her to do gymnastics. To swim. Do any sport. But cheer?” I groan.
If Riley really wants to do it, I’ll support her, but I don’t like the message it sends to impressionable young brains.
“I imagine most parents are thrilled if their kid gets on the cheer squad.”
“True,” I say. “But I’m not most parents. I want more for Riley than cheering on the boys. I want people cheering her on.”
He smiles at me like he’s mesmerized.
“Sorry. I’ll get down off my high horse now.”
“Don’t. You look hot up there, standing up for what you want. Cheers to that.” He raises his glass, takes a sip, and sets it back down.
I shake my head, grinning at his cheesy joke. “Tell me about your day.”
He pulls in a breath. “Well, I spent this morning in the studio. My artist wants my input on a couple of tracks, so I’ve been helping a little.”
“Like giving it marks out of ten? What does input look like?”
“Can you imagine?” he asks, pulling me closer and pressing a kiss on the top of my head. “Me holding up numbers one to ten, depending on whether I like a track.”
I laugh.
“I don’t think that would go down well. Not because what she’s doing isn’t good, but…”
“Your artist is a woman?” I ask. “I don’t know why, but I expected it to be a man.”
“Yeah. She’s here with her husband and child.” He says it quickly and reassuringly, like he doesn’t want me to think there’s potentially another woman in the picture. It’s kind and thoughtful, but that’s not what I was thinking.
“You can’t tell me who it is? Would I have heard of her?”
He sighs, and my hand, which is resting on his chest, rises and falls. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’ve promised her complete privacy.”
“That’s okay. I mean, I’d like to know, but I’m not getting my panties in a wedge because I don’t.
It’s business. I get it.” I pull away from him a little because I want to see him when he talks.
“So, tell me. You go into the studio, and you don’t pull out a paddle with a number out of ten on it.
You’re not scoring it. But what do you do?
You say, I liked that trombone, but I think your lyrics stink? ”
Fisher chuckles. “Not exactly that, but kinda. I used to dabble in record production and writing. And so I help with the mix, the arrangement, maybe even some of the lyrics and music.”
“Wow. That’s not what I thought you’d say. I expected you to be the money guy. I mean, you’re friends with Byron, and he seems like the money guy.”
“Byron’s definitely the money guy,” he says. “But I started off in A my career has changed a lot from how I started before Right Records grew into what it is now.
Before that, I was working with different people all the time.
And even when I was working in A&R, I’d go to gigs all the time, scour YouTube for the latest thing.
Now, I’m the guy that says yes or no across a desk. ”
“You miss being on the ground.”
He pulls his eyebrows together in that way he does when he’s really thinking about something.
“I’m not sure. In some ways. I haven’t questioned it in a long time.
Right Records exploded after a couple of artists I was working with went viral and became overnight sensations.
It happened one right after another. For a long time, I was just trying to keep up.
I don’t know if it’s being here with one artist, or that I’ve been back in the studio, or maybe because Gerry Banks has resurfaced, but now I’m thinking about it. ”
“Huh, you know the other thing that’s changed?” I point at myself, and then shake my head. “Don’t go falling in love with me, blowing up your whole life.”
A shy smile curls around his lips, and I can’t help but lean forward and press my mouth to his.
He’s just so freaking adorable. As I go to pull back, he clasps my face and pushes his tongue through to meet mine.
It’s like he can’t let me go without getting more first. The thought circles my heart and squeezes.
He grins. “I’ll do my best.”
I turn so I can’t see him. Maybe if I can’t see his expression, I’ll be able to resist him easier.
“Now, tell me more about whoever the hell Gerry Banks is.”
He chuckles and tells me the story of this guy who seems straight-up jealous of Fisher. And frankly, I’m not surprised.
“And you think it’s only you who he targets? Does he have a reputation for being an asshole?”
“No more than anyone else in my industry—me excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, feigning shock that he’d even suggest that he might be an asshole in business.
I pull out my phone. “Where did he go to school? Harvard, I bet. I heard everyone who goes to Harvard is an asshole.”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you mean, you have no idea? You must know everything about Gerry Banks. He’s your nemesis.”
“He’s my nemesis, so I should know where he went to college?”
“You should know what he eats for breakfast and what his favorite tie is.”
“We don’t wear ties. No one in the industry wears ties.”
“Okay then, not his favorite tie, but you need to know everything else about him. Have you never read The Art of War?”