Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The next morning, I stare up at the tree the same way a climber faces Mount Everest—equal parts dread and resolve.
I’m so not looking forward to this.
It doesn’t help that I was up half the night taking care of my other work.
Just because I’m here chasing a story doesn’t mean my other responsibilities stop.
I’ve got a dozen articles to write, deadlines to hit, and contacts to keep warm.
The music biz is my jam (pun intended), and I have to stay plugged in if I want to keep my edge.
It helps that I’ve built solid connections with people in Nashville, LA, and every other music hot spot in between.
When I first started working for The See, I couldn’t figure out how we were supposed to write insider stories while remaining anonymous. According to the NDA I was required to sign when I was hired, anonymity is paramount.
To get insider information, you have to mingle with the big shots—the “who’s who” of the industry. Harmony came up with the idea of hiring people to be our eyes and ears. I argued that it would cost a fortune, but Harmony brushed my worry aside, saying that money wasn’t an issue.
All five writers were hired through email and only have contact with each other.
None of the staff, including Harmony, knows who owns The See.
It’s funded through the Charleston and Media Arts Endowment, which we know little about.
It has a one-page website with a short mission statement about supporting the arts.
The address points back to a law office that represents family trusts and individuals with a high net worth.
Our benefactor could be anyone. Monthly funds are transferred into The See’s business account and are managed by a firm that oversees the day-to-day operations.
Bonuses are paid with no explanation, but they often coincide when a member of the team breaks a big story.
Whoever is in charge seems to be watching us closely.
It was Harmony’s idea for us to operate out of Charleston. “Everyone will assume we’ve got some high-rise office in New York. They’ll never suspect that our headquarters is a strip-mall office in Charleston, disguised as a distributor. It’s the perfect setup,” Harmony said, and she was right.
Anyway, the bottom line is that my job never stops. I have to talk to my contacts, get information, and write. By the time I finished last night, it was after two a.m. Now my eyes are blurry, my back aches from contorting around branches, and my hands are raw from stringing lights.
“Enough complaining,” I mutter. “Time to work.” It’s so dang early. I yawn, wishing I were still in bed. I don’t sleep great in hotels—another grievance to add to my list.
Bianca gave me the code to the door yesterday, so I let myself in. From what I can tell, I’m here alone. It’s bound to be another long, boring day.
I get an hour into my task before I hear a sound behind me. I jerk around as Axel strolls into the kitchen. He’s barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt. His hair is damp and tousled like he just stepped out of the shower.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
“Morning,” I respond.
Light streams in through the tall windows, and his presence fills the quiet space.
Focus, London. You’re here for the story, not to repeat the same mistake of the past.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk. “How’s the decorating coming?”
“Peachy,” I say in a peppy tone. “Working on the next tree.”
“Well, I admire your determination. Thanks for all that you’re doing.”
“It’s my job.” I shrug, aiming for casual.
He pours himself a bowl of cereal and takes a seat at the kitchen table.
I turn back to my work and go through the motions of wrapping branches, but I’m keenly aware of him—the clink of the spoon against the bowl, the faint scratch of his chair against the tile.
I steal a glance. He’s scrolling through his phone as he eats, his dark hair catching the light. Even doing mundane things and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, he looks infuriatingly good.
His phone rings.
“Hey.” His voice goes sharp. “Yeah, I saw it. Jovie’s up to her normal. All hype with no basis in fact.”
My pulse quickens.
I wrote a filler piece last night—something to stoke the fire and keep fans speculating about why Axel split from his band. I sent it off to Harmony around nine p.m. Apparently, she wasted no time publishing it. I don’t know if I should be flattered or mortified that Axel’s talking about me.
“I’d love to get ahold of Jovie Chord and give her a piece of my mind.”
A startled laugh bubbles up my throat, but I swallow it down. This is getting … complicated. I focus on wrapping the lights, pretending to be utterly absorbed. If Axel knew who I was, he’d throw me out this instant.
He ends the call, goes to the sink, rinses out his bowl, and leaves the kitchen. I expect him to keep walking past me, but he stops.
“Are you seriously wrapping each branch?”
“Yep.”
He makes a face. “That’s gonna take forever.”
“Tell me about it.” My pulse jumps up a few notches. Now’s my chance to form a connection. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Everything okay?”
He grunts. “Some idiotic reporter’s writing a bunch of garbage without having a clue what’s really going on.”
“Oh?” It’s all I can do to keep my expression neutral. “What was the article about?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” His jaw tightens. “Just trash.”
I nod, forcing a sympathetic smile. “People love to stir the pot.” I’m such a hypocrite!
“Exactly.” He takes in a breath. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” He heads down the hall. A few minutes later, the mellow sound of a trumpet drifts through the house.
The soulful notes take me straight back to the past—when I was smitten by the cool guy with a trumpet and cocky grin.
“Finally, another tree done.” I plug in the lights, but the top half of the tree stays dark. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
I’ve spent two hours working on this stupid tree, and half the lights don’t work. I want to rip them off and hurl them across the room. Instead, I take a deep breath and force myself to walk away.
A trip to the restroom helps—slightly. When I come out, Axel’s trumpet is still echoing through the hall. A wicked thought circles through my brain. Do I dare?
I go down the hall and stop in the doorway of the music room. He’s lost in the music, eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of him—lean and handsome, mouth pressed to the instrument—sends a strange flutter through me.
When he opens his eyes and sees me, surprise flickers across his rugged face.
“Don’t stop on my account.” A grin curls my lips.
He laughs. “What do you think?”
“It was … okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow.
I cross my arms. “Maybe a little laggy. If you sped it up on the chorus, it’ll flow better.”
“Oh, really? And you’re such an expert on music?”
“You asked,” I smirk.
He chuckles. “Fair enough.” His eyes glint with challenge. “Maybe you could show me what kind of tempo you have in mind.”
“Is that an invitation?” I arch a brow. “Because I should really get back to—”
“The all-important task of wrapping lights?” he cuts in, grinning.
“Yeah. Ones that don’t work.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sadly, no. I have to start over on the tree I just did.”
He gestures to the drums. “Sounds like a good time to take a break.”
“You talked me into it.” I cross the room and sit on the drum throne, picking up the sticks. “Okay, tell me what tempo you’re thinking.”
“Oh no.” A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. “You’re the expert.”
We catch eyes as sparks ping between us. His t-shirt makes his eyes pop blue today. He flashes a crooked grin that takes me right back to junior high. Oh, how I used to swoon over that grin.
“This is what I was thinking.” I start drumming, light but steady.
He nods as if committing the rhythm to memory. “Okay. Let’s try it.”
He starts again, and I follow, improvising as I go. To my delight, the faster pace works wonders. The song comes alive.
When he finishes, he lowers the trumpet. “Well?”
“Much better.”
His lips twitch. “We’re a good team.”
“Don’t push it,” I joke.
“Should we run it again?”
“Sure.”
The second time flows even better. When we finish, he smiles. “I like that. It feels right. Do you remember what you played?”
I make a face. “Of course.”
“I mean, could you play it again from memory?”
“You bet I can.”
He sets the instrument down. “I’m still working on the lyrics. Wanna hear them?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to hide how much I’m enjoying this. The synergy between us is visceral. I never would’ve thought that. It would do me well to remember why I’m really here.
He grabs a notebook, reads a few lines, then grimaces. “Does that sound cheesy?”
“A little.” I grin to soften my bluntness. “The part about moving on right after saying your heart’s still broken is contradictory.”
“Good point.” He writes something on the page. A lock of hair falls over one eye. He pushes it back with an unconscious gesture that’s way too attractive.
“Maybe tweak it to show the struggle.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Any other suggestions?”
“Not at the moment. I’d have to give it some thought.” I can hold my own where poetry is concerned, but I have to put some effort into it.
He sets the notebook aside. “So tell me more about you. You’re good on those drums. Where’d you learn to play?”
Uh oh. Here it comes—the part where I have to lie. It’s better to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I started in junior high when I joined the band. I’ve been playing ever since.”
His eyes widen. “Really? I also joined the band in junior high.”
Is this the moment when he’s going to recognize me? “I have a drum set—nothing fancy, but it gets the job done.”
“You’ve got a gift.”
Warmth mushrooms through me. Axel Cox just paid me a high compliment. What alternate world did I step into? I can’t believe I’m here with him in his music room. Yes, I’m geeking out.
“So are you from around here?”