Chapter 12 #2
I set the guitar down carefully against the arm of the couch. “Do you want a glass of water? I never offered,” I say, making a desperate dash for the kitchen before he can even answer, needing space and air and approximately seventeen ice cubes down my shirt.
My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to silence it. An email notification stares back at me. The sender name makes my heart stop completely.
Maya Stone, Tidal Records.
Oh my god.
My hands start shaking as I tap it open, my eyes skimming so fast I have to go back and reread to make sure I’m not having some kind of stress-induced hallucination brought on by wine and sexual frustration.
Lark,
I wanted to reach out following up on our call last week. We’ve been extremely impressed with your growing online presence. You really have created substantial buzz in exactly the demographics we’re targeting. The team here is very excited about the potential of working together.
We’re hosting a label party this Friday evening in Seattle at The Vine—mostly industry people, some press, very casual atmosphere.
We’d love for you to attend if you’re available, and please feel free to bring Jack if you’re comfortable.
It would be a great opportunity for you to meet some of our team in a relaxed setting.
Best, Maya
“OH MY GOD!” The scream bursts out of me before I can stop it.
This is happening. The fake boyfriend plan is actually working.
I’m going to a label party. A LABEL PARTY.
With industry people and press and everything I’ve been dreaming about since I was twelve years old writing terrible songs in my bedroom about boys who didn’t know I existed.
Suddenly Jack bursts into my tiny kitchen, eyes wild and scanning for immediate threats. “What?! Are you okay? What happened?”
“Tidal Records!” I’m waving my phone around like a flag of victory. “They emailed! They said they’re impressed with my social media and they want me at their label party Friday in Seattle with industry people and press and this is actually happening!”
Without thinking—because thinking has clearly abandoned me entirely—I launch myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck with enough force that he stumbles back a step.
His arms come around me immediately, catching me easily and lifting me straight off the ground. Which should probably be alarming but mostly just makes me acutely aware of how strong he is. How solid. How good he smells.
“This is real!” I’m practically squealing into his shoulder, clutching him tight enough that I’m probably cutting off his air supply.
“That’s incredible!” He’s laughing, and I can feel the vibration of it through his chest where I’m currently plastered against him like plastic wrap.
His firm chest. His very broad, very solid, very warm chest that smells like leather and wood and citrus.
And I’m pressed against all of him, my feet dangling off the ground, his hands warm and strong where they’re holding me up.
One hand spread across my back, the other gripping my waist, and I can feel every finger through my thin shirt.
It’s at this spectacularly inconvenient moment that my brain decides to supply me with an extremely detailed image of him walking me backwards until we slam against the counter, his mouth on my neck, those hands sliding up under my shirt, grazing my nipples before dropping down past my belly button, hooking beneath the edge of my panties—
ABORT. ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY.
I drop back down to the ground so fast I nearly twist my ankle, practically leaping away from him like he’s suddenly radioactive. My face is on fire. Like I-just-had-an-extremely-pornographic-thought-about-my-fake-boyfriend fire.
“Sorry!” The word comes out too loud, too frantic. “Got excited. About the email. The news.” I’m gesturing wildly at nothing. “You know how it is.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, grinning. “It’s exciting. What exactly did they say?”
I shove my phone into his hand, desperate for literally any distraction from the fact that I just had a very detailed fantasy about him in the middle of celebrating my career breakthrough. “Here. Read it yourself. I’m too scattered to explain properly.”
He reads it, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Lark, this is huge. Getting invited to a label party this early? That’s a really good sign.”
“I know!” The excitement is bubbling up again, temporarily overriding my mortification at my complete loss of self-control. “And it’s Friday, so that’s soon, which means they’re serious about this, right?”
“Definitely,” he says, handing my phone back. “You should go. We both should.”
“You can make it?” I ask, surprised by how much I want him there.
“Of course,” he says easily. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”
We spend the next couple hours talking about everything.
The label party, what I should expect, how to navigate industry conversations.
Jack tells me stories about racing events, about dealing with press and sponsors, giving me advice that’s actually helpful.
I talk about my music, about the songs I’ve been writing, about what I hope happens with Tidal.
We finish the wine, order pizza, and laugh until my sides hurt.
It’s comfortable in a way that scares me.
Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
“Well, sorry to keep you so long,” he says eventually, standing up and stretching. “I should go. I have an early gym session with Theo and Alex tomorrow.”
“You haven’t been keeping me,” I say. “It was nice having someone to talk to about all this.”
I walk him to the door, that strange tension from the gazebo returning as we navigate the small space of my entryway.
“Congratulations again,” he says at the door, his hand on the knob. “You deserve this, Lark. All of it.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “For everything.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, his mouth opening slightly, but then he just smiles. “I’ll text you tomorrow about Friday.”
“Sounds good,” I manage.
Then he’s gone.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a long breath.
The fake relationship was supposed to be simple, but there’s nothing simple about the way my heart races when Jack looks at me.
Nothing easy about how right he feels in my space, how much I wanted him to stay, how hard it’s getting to remember that none of this is real.
This is dangerous territory. I need to remember what I’m actually after here—my career. My music. Not a relationship that’ll inevitably crash and burn when reality sets in and he remembers he dates models and actresses, not bartenders from small towns who write sad songs.
Even if that bartender really, really wants to climb him like a tree.
The next morning I wake up gasping, my thighs clenched together and my heart racing. The dream is still vivid. Jack and I were on stage at some venue, and we were lying on some fancy velvet couch, with him fucking me while I sang to the crowd.
Where the hell did that come from?
I press my palms against my face, feeling the heat radiating off my cheeks. I’ve had maybe three sex dreams in my entire adult life, and none of them involved public performance venues or anyone I actually know. Definitely none that felt that mortifyingly good.
I drag myself out of bed, gulping down water like it might somehow wash away the lingering heat between my legs.
This has to stop. I cannot be having dreams like that about him.
That’s a recipe for disaster, for blurred lines, for getting my heart broken.
I mean, he doesn’t even live on this continent, for crying out loud.
My workout clothes are already laid out on the dresser from the night before, a habit I developed years ago to make early mornings easier. I need to burn off this energy, and Dominic’s 8 AM boxing class is exactly what I need right now.
But Midnight Gym means the possibility of Jack, and I’m not sure I can handle seeing him right now. Not when my body is still thrumming with desire. The idea of running into him while I’m already this wound up seems like asking for trouble.
I pull into the parking lot, scanning for Jack’s motorcycle. No sleek black bike in sight. I feel an odd mix of relief and disappointment as I grab my gym bag and head inside, annoyed at myself for both reactions.
Midnight Gym is already busy with the morning crowd, the air filled with the familiar sounds of weights clanking and treadmills whirring.
I wave to the girl at the front desk, then make my way across the main floor, a massive open space with weight racks along one wall and cardio equipment on the other.
Dominic’s already in the boxing area at the far end, wrapping fresh tape around one of the heavy bags. He’s always here early, probably arrives before dawn for his own training. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually lived in some hidden room in the gym.
I start warming up, stretching out my shoulders, loosening my wrists, wrapping my hands carefully. The ritual soothes me, focusing my scattered thoughts. Other regulars filter in, greeting each other with nods or brief conversations.
Ted with his perpetually untied shoelaces that Dominic always calls him out for. Karen who could probably knock out a heavyweight with her right hook and never stops talking about her grandkids.
And then there’s Pink Gloves. I knew her name once, two years ago, but now we’re firmly in that awkward “too late to ask without looking like a jerk” territory. I secretly suspect Dominic’s forgotten her name too, since he never says it during class.
“Morning, everyone,” Dominic calls out at exactly 8 AM, his voice cutting through the chatter. He never starts late, never ends early. “Partner up for warm-up drills.”
Pink Gloves immediately makes her way over to me with a smile.
“Hey, Lark!” she says brightly as we tap gloves in greeting. “It’s been forever! How have you been?”