Chapter 26 #2
Gia’s got relatives coming to the show tonight. Distant cousins from Bologna. She had to walk them off a ledge when they found out we weren’t visiting. The consolation prize? A family lunch neither of us can miss. Saying no to Italian relatives is not an option.
“What time are we meeting them?” I ask.
“After sound check. They picked a place close to the venue.” She nips playfully at my lower lip. “And what about this dinner tonight with Sawyer? He’s dragging us to some ten-star place?”
“One Michelin star is his minimum,” I joke.
“You know I’m not that kind of girl. And this,” she points at her dress, “is all I have.”
“We could Pretty Woman it,” I suggest. “We’re in the fashion capital of Italy.”
Gia laughs out an incredulous “no way.” Then, “You actually watched that movie?”
“At least ten times. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Her eyes flicker, then her smile slides away as quickly as it arrived.
Dammit. Wrong words. I wanted to steer this conversation in a meaningful direction. Like, where we see ourselves in five or ten years. The things we want that music can’t give us. But how do I frame that Amber’s reappearance stirred up my buried desire for a family without upsetting Gia?
And a conversation of that magnitude needs the proper air to breathe.
Gia, forever moving breathlessly fast, doesn’t let the moment linger. She taps her fingers on my guitar like she owns the rhythm of my pulse.
“Speaking of upholding … is it time to negotiate?”
And there it is: the topic I didn’t want to trigger.
“I was wondering when you were going to bring that up.” Hoping never, I don’t say.
“C’mon,” she gives me a playful shove, “you know that song is perfect for us.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I mean,” she says, “our voices together. That song is begging for it.”
“Sounds like you’re begging for it.”
Well, well. Stop the presses. I’ve made the great Gia Barlow blush. She scratches her neck as if she can stop the spreading pink.
After some throat clearing, she says, “If you weren’t the most stunning human I’ve ever met, inside and out, I’d slap you.”
“I don’t think anything will ever stop you from slapping me. Or throwing things at me.”
“Hey!” she protests. “I threw a pillow in the studio. Hardly a weapon.”
“And a banana,” I remind her.
She pouts, slouching against my shoulder, apology nowhere in sight. “Because you were teasing me.”
I grin, having the best time putting Gia on her back foot, a place she rarely stands on.
Sunlight slants in through the blinds, brightening the dark corners of the bus and her skin.
God, she’s beautiful. The human version of a hit single—rare and undeniable.
I should do whatever it takes to keep her close.
Maybe even offer her my most personal song.
“So,” I start. “If you really want a crack at this song, it’s you and me. Right now.”
She bolts upright. Smiles like they’re offering a million bucks for the biggest one. “Bring it on.” Her shoulders rock back and forth to the invisible melody. “You start, and I’ll slide in.”
Gia told me last year that she can memorize melodies and lyrics after one listen.
After adjusting the guitar, I start finger-picking the chords.
I sing the first verse; Gia comes in strong for the second.
It’s incredible, her innate sense. There are so many ways into a song, and she finds the right path just like that.
We duet on the chorus, seamlessly finding harmony, like we’ve rehearsed it a hundred times.
Listening to her sculpt the song the way I’ve only heard it in my head is irresistible.
No surprise, she makes the song better.
Sexier. More alive.
When we finish, the air hums with the echo of our voices. Gia, radiant from the inner glow she exudes after a performance, teases, “Gravity called and claimed copyright infringement. Stealing its thunder.”
“Musicians never steal, remember?” I counter.
“Only hearts, right?” she flips back.
Her eyes land on mine in no uncertain terms. I get the drift. Why haven’t I stepped up to the plate and confessed my feelings when she left hers strung out in the cold?
I hold her gaze until I can’t.
“Talk to me about the lyrics,” she says. “Who are you singing about?”
“No one specific. The universal muse.”
I side-eye her, wondering if she can sense the truth lodged in my throat. Now’s the perfect time to tell her she’s the muse. So why don’t I?
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Gia pokes my arm, staring at me as if relentless eye contact will force me to answer, which it doesn’t. “C’mon, sailor. What’s it going to take? I will do your song justice. Pinky swear.”
I tuck my hair behind both ears and pluck a few lazy notes. “Can you give me a few weeks?”
“As long as the negotiation table remains open.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
I see the hurt flash across her face and want to rewind to earlier, when I found her eyes deep with desire, with some other thing that didn’t look destructive at all. Roots, not chaos. Belief in us. The thing is, I want to give her everything. My heart, my song, all of it.
But it’s so fucking hard to trust anyone.
Through Tai, I learned she told Brady she wanted the song. Yes, she said she loved me, but what if she meant she loved what I could give her? What if I’m just the vehicle for her music career? I don’t want to be the guy who falls in love again and puts the past on repeat.
Gia watches me in the heavy silence, brows knit together.
No need for words. The question is written all over her face:
What the hell is wrong with you, JC?