CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hendrix
I stand outside the studio’s open door and listen to Jase as he plays through different lyrics and sounds. Each time he replays it, he either tweaks a line or changes the chord going with it.
I’m the least musical person on the face of the planet so no doubt even that description of what he’s doing is incorrect. He talks or hums when he can’t finish lines. All I know is it sounds like he’s trying to make something sound like what he’s hearing in his head and is getting frustrated by it.
“I built these walls, stone by stone
Told myself I’d walk alone
Love was just a hmmm-hmmm-hmmm
One more spark, one more flame
But then you –”
He stops and mumbles to himself, “I need to figure out a line to sing here,” before picking right back up and singing the next lines.
“Sweet surrender, I’m falling now
No more running, no more doubt
Take my heart, don’t let me go
Hmm-Hmm-Hmm”
Eating crow is never fun and yet this is what I need to do.
I came into this situation knowing exactly what it was—a deal, an agreement, a way to better his image and my bank account. It’s not Jase’s fault that I liked the man I thought he was and misinterpreted the kiss. Again .
I’ve been corrected and while I still think he was in the wrong for not telling me about the photographer, my footing has been reaffirmed and I know squarely where I stand.
Jase Gizmodo is a flirt. While it’s probably innocent in nature, it’s just how he is, he doesn’t understand that casual kisses and crooked smirks aren’t the norm... for me .
Or that a man who looks like he does and can sing like he can is a hard one not to like.
With a deep breath, I step into the doorway to try to right the wrongs from earlier. It’s the least I can do since we’re stuck with each other for the next few months.
Jase is sitting so I’m met with his profile. He’s shirtless with his hair falling on his brow as he hunches over an acoustic guitar. He holds a pencil between his lips as he nods at whatever he’s been writing on the scribbled sheet of paper in front of him. A keyboard is to his right and a computer that looks like it has some kind of program open is to his left and angled in my direction.
That reminder that I can’t crush on him just hit hard and heavy as I stare at him in his element.
“Hey,” he says when he catches sight of me. “Give me one second. I don’t want to forget what’s in my head.”
“Of course.” I stay where I am, conscious that this is his inner sanctum and he may not want me here.
He hums through a few more notes as his fingers hit the keys on the keyboard before setting the guitar in its stand and looking over to me. His expression is stoic. “Did you need me?”
“You play all these instruments?” I ask and move into the studio, completely impressed.
He nods as I reach out and run a finger over the cymbal so that it moves. “I do. Well enough to get by but drums is my main instrument.”
“That’s admirable. I can’t even play one let alone three. I mean, what are those things that kids take home in grade school that parents despise?”
“A recorder?”
“Yeah. That.” My smile is automatic at the thought of how hard I tried to play that damn thing. “I think my mom may have ‘accidentally’ thrown it away.” I glance his way. He’s standing on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching me as I move around the space.
“No doubt you drove her up a wall playing it.”
“Definitely. Did you drive your parents crazy practicing the drums?”
His smile is quick but strained. “Something like that.”
It’s a non-answer but I don’t push. He’s uncomfortable talking about his family—that’s obvious—and if he wants to tell me, he’ll tell me.
“Your dad?” he asks.
I shrug. “Never knew him. From what I’ve heard about him, don’t think I want to.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You can’t miss what you never had, right?” I say the words, the ones I tell everyone, but it doesn’t lessen that small pang I get. It doesn’t ease that curiosity over why he didn’t want me.
“Doesn’t make it any easier,” he says softly.
“Perhaps.” I run my finger across several keys of the keyboard, the sound harsh despite the beauty of the individual notes. “I don’t mean to bug you.”
He moves to the opposite side of the room now, almost like he’s purposely keeping distance between us, before taking a seat on the stool behind his drum set. “Didn’t bug me. I could probably use the break.”
“Writing some of the new stuff?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’s just a song.”
“I like it.” I wave at the doorway. “I mean from what I heard, anyway.”
“It’s shit.”
“I have a feeling you’d say that about any song regardless of how good it is. You’re hard on yourself.”
“Someone has to be.”
“Can we talk about before? Earlier?” I ask.
“It’s over. I don’t hold grudges over petty shit,” he says and then hangs his head for a beat before looking back up at me. “I know. I get it. It wasn’t petty to you. But grudges aren’t my style.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t apologize about my freak-out earlier. I know you’re used to your privacy being invaded, but clearly I’m not. It was hard finding out that you’re the one who orchestrated it. You’re right with what you said though—that I signed up for this—but I was too blindsided to see it. It’s apparent that I need to get thicker skin or stop—”
“Worrying about what everyone thinks and own everything you are?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Pretty much.”
“Easier said than done.” I roll my eyes as I come back near him and his drum set. “I’m far from perfect and I look at this whole thing as a growing experience for me. I’m going to make mistakes and am adult enough to admit it, so can you just accept my apology so we can move on?”
“No.”
“No?” I cough out a laugh.
“I won’t accept it. I should be the one apologizing. I should have told you what was going on, and I didn’t because I selfishly wanted it to look authentic and real and like you actually like me.”
“Actually like you?” Is he for real?
“That’s what I said.”
We stare at each other across the space. It’s obvious we’re both trying to make this unexpected, awkward situation work.
“Fine. We’ll call it even. You apologized. I apologized...”
“But?” He lifts his eyebrows and fights the smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“But don’t mistake me trying to find my footing in this new setting as a chance for you to be a dick.” He barks out a surprised laugh and then reins it back in. “I didn’t like the man who showed up in the hall earlier. The one who sought out ways out to be rude and hurtful. It was almost as if you were putting me in my place for reasons that validated you, but that I sure as shit didn’t understand. He was a prick and nothing like the man I’ve gotten to know and like.”
His grin returns. “You’re sexy when you’re angry.”
“I’m sexy all the time,” I joke, completely uncertain where that came from.
His laugh roars through the studio. “There’s that confidence I need to see more of from you.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes as my cheeks heat.
“I’m serious. Let the world see this woman, the one I get, and not the crazy one who you were earlier.”
I nod. “Touché. Point made.”
“Fair is fair,” he says as he approaches me and holds his arms wide. “Now we need to hug it out.”
“Hug it out?”
“Yes. What two self-respecting adults do when they own their mistakes.”
And before I can refute him, he engulfs me in his arms. I’m met with the scent of his cologne and soap, with the warm feel of his bare skin against my cheek, and the firmness of his arms as he tightens his grip on me.
“You need to loosen up, Cookie. Wasn’t that part of you agreeing to do this?” He leans back so his face is within inches of mine and reminds me solidly of how damn handsome he is. “To live a little? To not be normal ?”
“Wanting to be photographed in a bikini is not living a little, Jase. It’s terrifying.”
“No, but not giving a fuck is.” He winks and then throws his head back and laughs. “So let’s go. Lesson number one in Operation Live-A-Little—”
“Operation Live-A-Little?”
“Yeah.” Those boyish dimples deepen. “My way to make you live up to the rashness that made you accept my very romantic proposal.”
“We’re not doing this.” I roll my eyes.
“We so are,” he says, imitating me by rolling his eyes and then winking at me. “C’mon.” He tugs on my hand and brings me with him over to the drum set.
“I think you’re crazy,” I say but a smile is on my lips.
“Perfect. That’s better than being a dick or a prick or whatever you called me.” He takes a seat on the stool behind his drum set and holds out his hand to me. “You know you want me to show you how to play.”
Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. All I know is that I don’t want to go back to my room or the emptiness of the gorgeous house beyond.
“I don’t have a musical bone in my body.”
“Everybody does. It just takes the right person to bring it out of them.”
“And you think that would be you?”
He purses his lips as he studies me. “Your husband is a man of many talents, Hendrix.”
And the way he says those words, the double entendre, has my body heating.
This time when he tugs my hand, he does it so I stumble and am forced to sit on his lap. “Oh,” I yelp as he helps to position me, my legs straddling one of his thighs.
First the hug.
Now me on his lap.
Someone is playing with fire.
I’m not doing a particularly good job of remembering to separate church and state right now. I mean, what red-blooded, normal woman would when they’re sitting on Jase’s lap with his body framing hers?
His chin brushes over my shoulder and his breath ghosts against my ear, making me forget every reason I should get up and move. “It’s simple, really. Playing the drums. Just a bunch of motions with your body to create a desired outcome, both of which are guaranteed to make you feel.” He reaches to the table behind where we’re sitting and holds out two drumsticks. “Here.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter and hold the sticks awkwardly.
His chuckle vibrates against my spine even though I’m desperately trying to keep space between us. “It’s only ridiculous because you’re making it that way.”
His hands slide over mine and adjust my grip. They’re warm. Strong. A little rough from years of playing.
“Loosen up, Cookie,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “They’re not weapons.”
I scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Ah, yes. The serial killer notion returns.” He chuckles, and the sound wraps around me like a song. “You’re going to have to let me lead you. Help you. Control your movements. Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to speak. I’m so very aware of his every breath and my every nerve.
“The snare. The hi-hat. Kick drum...” he continues with his quick lesson of the various parts to the set, using our connected hands to point to each one as he goes.
“You think I’m going to actually remember this?”
“You’re a drummer’s wife, knowing them is a requirement.”
I start to say something, to make a quip much like he does, but then, without warning, he lifts my hands and brings them down in a steady rhythm.
My words fail as I try to follow what he’s doing.
It’s useless and yet we’re creating a rhythm. One that I actually like. I’m under no pretenses that my skill has anything to do with the sound—he’s the one moving my hands with the tempo and location to hit—and yet I have an odd sense of satisfaction.
The sharp crack of the snare drum jolts through me as we hit it and then he drops our hands to the tops of my thighs.
“See?” he says, his lips brushing just behind my ear. “Not so hard.”
Easy for him to say. My body is hyperaware of him—his chest pressed against my back, the solid weight of his thighs beneath mine, the slow inhale and exhale that keeps time better than any metronome could.
“All right, let’s try it again. Another something simple.” He guides my left hand to the hi-hat, my right to the snare—at least I think that’s what they’re called. My lesson was quick and his presence is distracting. “One, two, three, four—” He taps his foot against the pedal, the steady thud of it matches the beat he whispers against my skin.
I try to follow along, but I’m awkward and my arms move like I’m fighting off an invisible attacker with zero grace.
Jase groans playfully and chuckles. “Jesus, woman, you’re as stiff as a board.”
“Says the musical prodigy who can probably just hear something and play it,” I say.
“No. That’s Rocket,” he says, referring to his bandmate. He shifts slightly, and I jolt when his fingers graze my waist. “See? There’s your problem.” His voice dips lower, teasing. “You’re too tense, Cookie. Drumming’s all about letting go. Feeling it.”
I huff. This is clearly not my forte. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
He tightens his grip around my waist and pulls me flush against his chest—the exact position I was avoiding.
Heat blooms across my skin as chills tighten my scalp.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stop thinking.”
His hand skims up my arm, causing my breath to hitch. He adjusts my grip again, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
“Close your eyes,” he says quietly.
I hesitate.
Jase presses a lazy, barely-there kiss to my shoulder, but it’s enough to make me question if he did or didn’t. “Trust me,” he murmurs.
That’s the problem. I do .
But last time I trusted someone I was blindsided.
I let out a shaky breath and surrender as my world shrinks to the warmth of him behind me and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back.
“Now,” he whispers, “this time just feel it.”
I strike the snare, then the hi-hat, my body falling into the pattern he set. Jase’s voice guides me through each motion, each calamity of notes that sounds nothing like his did.
Or maybe it does. I can’t tell because Jase is the master of distraction with how his lips brush against my temple as he continues to count out the beat.
For a short span of time, I finally hit the components, the pieces, the whatever the sequence is called, in the right order and it sounds kind of decent.
“Attagirl,” he says. A smile tugs at my lips as his arms tighten around me ever so slightly. “Told you I could teach you.”
I turn my head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes flicker with something dangerous. Something enticing.
Something I’ve told myself is simple flirtation from a playful man and nothing more.
But this doesn’t feel innocent. Not the way his body frames mine, not the fact that I’m sitting on his lap, and most definitely not that weird, panicky feeling in my chest.
My heartbeat stutters and my fingers go slack on the sticks.
“You’re losing your rhythm.”
“You’re distracting,” I mutter and turn my attention fully back to the sticks in my hands and the set in front of me, but my mind is racing with all the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. That I can’t be having... and yet they’re there anyway.
“Good. That’s just what I like to be.”
“I, uh... I should probably let you get back to what you were doing. I shouldn’t have interrupted your creativity.”
“Hmm,” he says but rests his chin on my shoulder instead of leaning back to let me escape.
Because it would be an escape. From the tumultuous tornado he’s just sent every nerve ending in my body into. I’ve kissed the man, I know how that wreaked havoc on my system, but this quiet, in-control, ridiculously skilled persona gives him an undeniable sex appeal.
Just when I tell myself that I know there’s nothing between us, that his flirting is innocent and simply who he is, he goes and does this and muddies the waters for me.
“Jase.” I shift so we’re almost face-to-face. I don’t know why I said his name, don’t have a reasonable explanation other than maybe it’s my way of reminding myself of the situation. Of what can’t—what shouldn’t be. But when my eyes flutter up to meet his, there’s no mistaking the darkening of his pupils and the bob of his Adam’s apple.
He’s... gorgeous . Like this. In his element. It calls to me on levels I can’t comprehend.
“Hendrix.” His voice is soft. Deep. Hesitant yet heavy like he wants to ask what he knows he shouldn’t.
The moment stretches as my body burns bright with ache and need and confusion.
“Jase? You back there?” Halle’s voice calls out from somewhere in the house and shocks me off his lap.
“I’ve gotta—I need to... yeah.” I give up trying to pretend I have my cool about me. “I’ve got to get some work done.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder like a dork as if he didn’t know where I’d be going.
“Work?”
“Yeah. Baking. I bake.” Brilliant, Hendrix .
The smile playing at the corners of his mouth says he thinks as much. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?” he asks, his head angling to the side and his tongue licking out to wet his bottom lip.
“What is?” I ask.
“Jase?” Halle calls again.
“Back here,” he says loudly, but his eyes never leave mine. “Wanting you and not being able to have you.”
“Oh.” Oh . OH.
I stand there in the doorway, shocked by his words with my pulse pounding in my ears. I need to say something more—something literate—but I don’t think I can.
Every part of me wants to say he’s joking, flirting, but the expression on his face says otherwise.
Halle’s footsteps are coming closer.
“I’ll let you get used to the idea, Cookie. Pretty sure you’re a look before you leap type of girl whereas I just leap. There’s a reason I’m the one in trouble.” He lifts his eyebrows as Halle steps in and halts momentarily, clearly sensing there’s something going on here.
“Hi. Sorry. Am I interrupting something? I can go out to the kitchen,” she says as she moves across the studio and sets her bag down in a subtle attempt to let us finish whatever our moment was.
“No need to,” Jase says as a smile crawls over his lips and I step out of the room, desperate for a moment to think clearly.
I move down the hall toward the kitchen as Jase’s voice floats after me. “We were just mapping out what we’ve coined to be Operation Live-A-Little. I think Hendrix might need time to get used to the idea.”
“Oh? What’s that?” she asks in her chatty way.
But I stop listening to their conversation because I’m too wrapped up in my own head. Too fixated on one sentence Jase just said.
Wanting you and not being able to have you.
Fuck .