Chapter 7
Anna
The soft glow of my monitor lights up my office, casting faint shadows across the cluttered desk. Lines of code stare back at me, a blinking cursor mocking my lack of progress. Normally, this is where I thrive—solving puzzles, creating order out of chaos.
But today?
My brain is a tangled mess, and it has nothing to do with the program I’m supposed to debug.
No. It’s Joel freaking Price.
I lean back in my chair, letting out a frustrated groan.
Of all the houseguests in the world, why did it have to be him? Joel, with his infuriating smirks and annoyingly quick comebacks. Joel, who somehow managed to crack through my defenses this morning with just a few stupid, heartfelt words about music.
Music.
The very thing I’ve spent years trying to lock away in a mental vault and throw into the deepest part of the ocean.
The thing I promised myself I would never think about or long to return to.
And yet, here he is, dredging it back up with nothing more than a coffee mug in hand and that damn lopsided grin.
I twist the pen in my fingers, staring at the monitor but not really seeing it. His words keep replaying in my head, weaving through my thoughts like a melody I can’t shake.
Why does he have to be so—ugh. No. Stop. I’m not doing this.
I roll my chair back, shoving to my feet and pacing the small space. The floor creaks under my socks as I mutter to myself. “Get a grip, Anna. He’s just a guy. A frustrating, smug, overly emotional guy with zero empathy for others.”
But a part of me—the part I’d rather pretend doesn’t exist—whispers that maybe he’s more than that. Maybe the Joel sitting in my kitchen this morning isn’t the same Joel I shoved into the “irrelevant” folder years ago.
No. I refuse to go down that road. It’s too dangerous. Too vulnerable. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that vulnerability gets you nowhere but trampled on. Especially by him.
Shaking my head, I force myself to focus. “Code, Anna. Fix the damn code.” I sit back down and try again, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I reread the lines.
But everything blurs together, and my thoughts slip back to Joel. How he leaned against the counter, looking so damn sure of himself yet... not. How his voice softened when he talked about music, like he wasn’t just saying words but showing me something real.
Why does he have to be like that?
My fingers clench around the edge of my desk, and my eyes flick to the drawer on my left. That drawer. The one holding the envelope. It’s ridiculous, sitting there like a Pandora’s box of bad decisions, daring me to open it and ruin my day.
I almost reach for it, fingers twitching as if the pull of it is magnetic. What would it even change if I read it? It’s just words—words from the same guy who turned everything into a joke when it mattered most.
I chew on my bottom lip, my hand hovering over the drawer handle. Curiosity burns in the back of my mind, but so does something else. A heavier, deeper weight that warns me not to look.
No. Not now. Not ever.
I yank my hand back and shove it into my lap like I’ve been burned.
Joel doesn’t get to take up any more of my time—not then and certainly not now.
Enough.
I’m done letting him linger in my head like some unsolvable equation.
I scowl at my monitor, glaring at the blinking cursor. “Code, Anna. Fix the damn code,” I mutter again, louder this time, as if saying it might make it true.
But it all still blurs together and it becomes painfully clear I’m not gonna get any work done.
I push back from the desk, standing so fast my chair wobbles.
“I need to get out of the house,” I mutter to no one but myself.
Maybe some fresh air and distance will do the trick—anything to shut down the chaos in my mind.
* * *
The lights of Nocté are warm and dim, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the space. The Dirty B’s have claimed a large semi-circular booth, and I slide in next to Tasia, feeling the bass of the music reverberate through the plush seat cushions.
“Look who decided to show up,” Lily teases, pouring me a glass of what looks like Long Island Iced Tea. “I was starting to think you’d ghost us.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I reply dryly, taking a sip. The flavor settles on my tongue, but I already know it won’t be enough to make me forget Joel Price is somewhere out there being… Joel.
Quinn sits across from me, dressed to the nines in a sparkly silver blazer and matching tie. He’s flipping through the karaoke book with a look of intense concentration. “Darling, I’m torn between Celine Dion and Elton John. Thoughts?”
“Neither,” Tasia quips. “Spare us all and do Cher.”
“Rude,” Quinn replies with mock offense. “But not a terrible suggestion.”
“Thought you were going to do ‘Like a Prayer?’” Lily says, trying to eye the book over his shoulder.
“Oooh, that’s right. Maybe two songs, then?” he responds, tapping his chin with his index finger as he flips the page.
Vivian suddenly drops into the booth, huffing dramatically as she plants her elbows on the table. “I swear to God, if Myles glares at me one more time tonight, I’m going to lose it.”
Tasia snorts. “What did you do now?”
“Nothing—” Vivian protests, her eyes wide with innocence. “I was just trying to get a refill of my Old Fashioned, and she looked at me like I was personally ruining her night.”
“Maybe you were,” I mutter, earning a glare from Vivian.
“I’m a delight, thank you very much,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Myles just needs to get over herself.”
“Wonder what the deal is? She’s always been pretty cool with me,” Lily says, glancing over to the bar.
“Jealousy,” Vivian declares, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “It’s the only explanation.”
The night rolls on, with the Dirty B’s taking turns embarrassing themselves on stage.
Vivian belts out a surprisingly decent rendition of Oops!
... I Did It Again, complete with dramatic hip sways that have Quinn in stitches.
Tasia tries Smells Like Teen Spirit but forgets half the lyrics, laughing her way through the rest.
Lily goes up with Carlie to do Dancing Queen, the two of them harmonizing terribly but clearly having the time of their lives.
And me? I stay in the booth, sipping on my third Long Island and pretending to be entertained.
It’s fine. Fun, even.
Until it’s not.
Lily leans in, voice low as she nudges me with her shoulder. “You should go up next.”
I snort. “Hard pass.”
But she doesn’t laugh like I expect her to. Instead, she gives me this look—one I don’t like.
Like she sees something in me I don’t want her to see.
Quinn perks up, flipping through the songbook. “Ohhh, yes. Do it. I bet you secretly have an incredible voice. You’re giving me ‘hidden talent’ energy.”
Tasia smirks. “She gives ‘hidden everything’ energy.”
I roll my eyes, but my fingers tighten around my glass.
It’s easy to dismiss their teasing. Easy to shake my head and act like it’s ridiculous.
But Lily’s still watching me. Still waiting.
I look away, take a long sip of my drink, but it doesn’t do anything to steady me.
Why does she have to bring this up?
I used to love singing. I used to love the way music made me feel—like I was something more than just a girl with a sharp mouth and a brain full of code.
But that was before. Before it all went to hell.
I don’t do music anymore.
And yet—
My fingers almost brush the edge of the songbook. Just to flip through it. Just to see.
“Come on, Anna,” Quinn coaxes. “What’s the worst that could happen? You suck and we laugh at you? That’s, like, ninety percent of karaoke anyway.”
Vivian smirks. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she’ll suck.”
“Of course I wouldn’t suck,” I huff. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Lily asks, and the softness in her voice unsettles me more than all the teasing.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because I don’t actually know.
My pulse picks up as I grab the book from Quinn and scan it. Just one song. Just to prove it means nothing to me anymore.
Something easy. Something light. Something so ridiculous that it won’t mean a damn thing when I sing it.
Maybe Call Me Maybe. Or Party in the USA. Something fun. Stupid.
My fingers tighten on the corner of the page.
Maybe I could—
The mic crackles.
The emcee’s voice cuts through the speakers. “While all you karaoke lovers out there pick your next victim—er, I mean your next song, we’ve got a special treat. Johnny Rivers is up next with an original track.”
I glance toward the stage, expecting another butchered country ballad from someone in a cowboy hat. But then the spotlight hits him.
And of course, it’s fucking not.
It’s Joel.
He strides onto the stage like he belongs there, a microphone in one hand and his guitar slung over his shoulder. The room buzzes with scattered applause and murmurs of approval. My stomach plummets and I snap the book shut.
“What the hell is he doing here?” I hiss, leaning toward Lily, who has conveniently chosen this moment to sip her drink.
Her serene expression doesn’t waver. “It’s karaoke night. He’s allowed to sing.”
“He’s not allowed to exist,” I mutter, sinking back into the booth and gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ache.
Quinn perks up beside me, his eyes lighting with recognition as he glances between me and the stage. “Wait, isn’t that—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, my glare sharp enough to silence even him.
Vivian, forever oblivious, leans in with a completely idiotic expression of confusion. “Who’s Johnny Rivers? Is he, like, one of those indie guys?”
“Not exactly,” I bite out, my voice tight.
Joel settles onto a stool at center stage, adjusting the mic stand with an ease that’s both infuriating and magnetic.
He doesn’t look nervous. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying.
He just… exists, completely at home in the spotlight.
I remember when singing and being on stage was the single most terrifying thing he could think of doing.
The first chords of his guitar cut through the air, clean and deliberate, and the room seems to hold its breath.
And then he starts to sing.
Of course he can’t just choose a damn karaoke song. It’s gotta be something original and that thought makes me want to throw up.
The song is a raw, stripped-down melody—nothing like the flashy rockstar image I’ve spent years building up in my head from rage stalking his IG account.
His voice is lower, softer, but it fills the space effortlessly.
It’s vulnerable in a way that feels too intimate, like he’s peeling back a layer of himself and offering it to the room.
“Holy shit,” Quinn whispers, his eyes wide. “He’s good.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, my chest tightening with every note.
It’s not flashy. It’s not performative. It’s just… real.
And I hate it.
I hate that I can’t look away. I hate the way his voice tugs at something buried deep inside me, something I thought I’d locked up for good. I hate that he looks so at ease, like this is the most natural thing in the world for him.
My chest feels like it’s caving in, the weight of it pressing down harder with every word he sings. I grab my glass and down the rest of my drink in one long gulp, the sharp burn of the alcohol doing nothing to dull the ache in my chest.
“You okay?” Lily asks, her voice gentle as she leans closer.
“Nope,” I reply, shoving out of the booth with more force than necessary. People around us glance over at me like I’m making a scene. Hell, I could show them a scene.
“Anna—” Lily starts, but I don’t let her finish.
I storm toward the exit, feeling like the ghost of Valentine’s Day past has come back to haunt me. With more force than necessary, I push open the door and step into the cool night air, the chill biting at my skin as I let out an exasperated cry.
My breath comes too fast, too sharp. I press my hands against my thighs, trying to steady myself.
What the hell was I thinking?
I almost did it—I almost went up there.
My hands are still shaking.
The thought makes me sick.
Because what if I had?
For a moment, I just stand there, trying to catch my breath, trying to block out the memory of his voice. The way his face looked and his body moved.
But it doesn’t work. It lingers, haunting and infuriating, like an echo I can’t escape.
I run my hands through my hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. “What the hell are you doing, Anna?” I mutter to myself. “Get it together.”
But I can’t shake it—not with him in there, baring his soul for everyone like the world is begging to hear it. Especially after our talk this morning. It feels like a sucker punch, a reminder that his words have already taken up too much space in my head.
The door swings open behind me, the muffled music spilling out for a brief moment before it closes again. I turn, half expecting it to be Joel.
It’s not.
It’s Lily.
“Hey,” she says softly, her expression full of empathy. “You okay?”
I force a tight smile, crossing my arms over my chest. “Just needed some air.”
She doesn’t buy it. Lily never buys it. But she doesn’t push. “Take your time,” she says, her voice calm and steady. “But… don’t let him get to you.”
Too late.
I nod, watching as she heads back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The door clicks shut, and the night settles around me, too quiet, too heavy. Joel’s voice lingers in my mind, raw and uninvited, like it’s found a crack in the walls I’ve built and refuses to leave.
I glance toward the glowing sign for Nocté, the bass from inside thumping faintly under my feet. Maybe I should’ve stayed. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all.
My phone feels cool in my hand as I pull it out, the screen lighting up my face in the dark.
Screw this.
I tap the screen, ordering my Uber.
Joel Price might think he’s rewritten himself, but no song is going to rewrite me. Not again.