Chapter 17
Anna
I have no idea how this happened.
One minute, I was drinking my coffee, minding my own damn business.
The next, I’m sitting on the couch with Joel’s guitar in my hands.
Why?
Why am I like this?
You know, scratch that. I know exactly what happened.
I know exactly what he was doing.
He played like absolute garbage until I cracked.
And like a complete idiot, I fell for it. It’s like I was possessed and a demon took over my body. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I stare down at the guitar like it personally betrayed me, my fingers already positioned over the right progression. My hands move like they remember this.
Because they do.
Damn it.
Damn him.
Joel doesn’t say anything.
He just sits there, all relaxed and smug, like he didn’t just manipulate me into fixing his stupid song.
Like he wasn’t sitting here, ruining music until I had no choice but to intervene.
I grit my teeth, determined to fix this disaster as quickly as possible.
Because that’s the only reason I’m doing this.
For the music.
Not for him.
I shift on the couch, fingers plucking out the melody, smoothing it into something natural. Something right.
Joel hums along, nodding slightly. “Better.”
I shoot him a glare. “Obviously.”
His lips twitch.
Damn it.
I walked right into that.
I curse under my breath and strum again, deliberately focusing only on the frets, the strings—not on the way he’s watching me. Or the fact that his knee just barely brushes against mine.
Nope.
Not noticing that at all.
I shift slightly, just to see if he moves away.
He doesn’t.
Great.
Now I have to commit to sitting exactly like this, or he’ll know he’s getting to me.
Joel taps his fingers against his knees, following my rhythm like it’s second nature.
Like we’ve done this a thousand times before. I mean, I guess we have.
Before.
A memory tries to slip in—
I slam the door shut.
Nope.
No nostalgia.
No warm fuzzies.
Just fixing this damn song.
And yet, as I shift my grip and adjust the chord, something familiar slides into place.
Like a missing piece.
Like it belongs.
Joel exhales, almost softly.
The sound settles into the space between us.
I hate it.
I hate how easy this is.
How natural.
How good it feels.
I grit my teeth and ignore the flicker of warmth in my chest.
I clear my throat, shifting my grip on the guitar, my fingers pressing into the strings, adjusting the chord progression again.
“Try it like this,” I mutter, playing through the new transition, smoothing it out where it had been a little clunky before.
Joel watches my hands carefully, his expression serious for once. Focused.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That works much better.” He reaches out, tapping a spot on the fretboard. “But if you move this finger here, I wonder if it’ll give it a little more tension before the resolve.”
My pulse does something stupid, but I ignore it, shifting my fingers the way he suggests.
I play the sequence again, and—
Damn it.
It’s better.
It’s so much better.
I shoot him a begrudging look, but he just smirks, his fingers twitching like he wants the guitar back.
I roll my eyes and shove it toward him.
“Fine. Your turn.”
Joel takes the guitar, and without hesitation, he picks up where I left off, his fingers finding the notes like he already knew them. Like we were always going to end up here.
He plays through the whole section, adjusting where necessary, and I hate—hate—how easy this feels.
How natural.
How we fall into the same rhythm we used to have, like no time has passed at all.
I cross my arms over my chest, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself steady.
Joel glances at me. “Well?”
I exhale sharply, refusing to look at him.
“I guess it doesn’t suck,” I grumble. “But you need to work on the lyrics at some point.”
“Yeah, I know.” He chuckles, fiddling with the strings like he’s perfectly at ease. No sign of the terrible player from earlier. Go figure.
Instead, he’s acting like he isn’t pushing all my buttons just by existing.
I glare at the guitar, trying to focus only on the song.
But why does it feel like something more?
Joel shifts beside me, his fingers still resting on the body of the guitar, but his focus is somewhere else.
On me.
I feel it before I see it. The quiet weight of his attention.
And then—his voice, lower than before. Softer.
“Can I use it?”
I blink at him, not sure I heard him right. “What?”
He nods toward the guitar. “The changes. The way we fixed it.”
Eh-hem, he must mean the way I fixed it.
However, something flickers in my chest, sharp and fast.
I shove it down. Bury it.
It’s a simple question.
A normal one.
Not a big deal.
And yet—
Joel doesn’t ask permission for anything.
Not for the song he stole.
Not for the years he let pass without a word while he played it all over the eastern seaboard.
Not for the way he walked back into my life, acting like it didn’t matter.
But now—now—he’s asking.
Something about that doesn’t compute.
Something about it makes my throat tight.
I lift my chin, grasping for the safest response. “Do whatever you want.”
The words are sharp. Distant. An automatic response to keep me safe because nothing about this feels safe.
Joel’s gaze flickers, his lips parting like he wants to say something.
Then, he hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough that I see something shift behind his eyes, something quieter, more reserved. It’s not the usual cocky self-assurance, not the easy confidence that usually drives me up the wall. This is different. Measured.
He sets the guitar aside, his fingers still resting lightly on the wood, and then—before I can prepare for it—his hand covers mine.
Not cocky. Not teasing.
Steady.
“Anna.”
Just my name. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just him trying to get me to listen.
I should pull away.
I should snatch my hand back, roll my eyes, remind him that he lost the right to say my name like that a long time ago.
But I don’t.
Because my body doesn’t seem to be listening to my brain lately. Instead, it replays the way he said it last night in the shower, the traitorous bitch.
I swallow hard, forcing my gaze to stay locked on our hands instead of his face.
Joel’s thumb moves, the lightest brush against my knuckles. My stomach clenches, my skin burning beneath his touch.
“I need to explain,” he says, voice lower now. “The envelope—”
Panic lurches up my throat.
No.
I’m not doing this. Not now.
I wrench my hand away and shove to my feet so fast, I bump the coffee table and my coffee nearly spills.
Joel follows, reaching for me again, but I step back.
“Forget it,” I say quickly, my pulse thundering against my ribs. “Seriously. Go have fun doing… whatever it is you do with the song tonight. I have work to do.”
His brows pull together, like he’s debating whether or not to let me go.
I don’t give him the choice. I turn on my heel and walk away.
Unfortunately, I don’t make it two steps before Joel is following.
“Anna, wait.”
Not a chance.
I pick up the pace, but he’s faster. He catches up just as I reach my office, his hand grazing my arm—just barely, just enough to send a jolt down my spine.
“Hey.” His voice is quieter now, lower, more careful. “Can we just—can you let me—”
I yank away before he can finish. “I have work to do.”
Joel exhales sharply. “Come on, you’re really gonna lock yourself in there under the bullshit pretense of work?”
“Yup.”
He shoots me a look. “That’s mature.”
“Says the guy who butchered his own song just to get my attention.”
At least he has the good sense to look chagrined.
I turn the doorknob, but he moves closer, not touching me this time, just… there. Too close. Too much.
“Anna,” he murmurs.
It’s careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
I hate that it almost makes me stop. That for a fraction of a second, I feel it—something small, something sharp, catching against my ribs.
His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Please, just let me—”
I don’t let him finish.
I push into the office and shut the door behind me so fast, the frame rattles.
A beat of silence.
Then, on the other side—
Joel sighs.
Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just… tired.
A pause.
And then, his voice, quiet through the wood. “I guess I’ll see you later, Ace.”
I close my eyes, back pressed against the door.
I wait. Listening.
His footsteps don’t retreat right away.
For a second I think maybe he’s going to knock again.
But then, finally, his steps fade down the hall and back toward the great room. I hear him shuffling around and then the front door clicks shut.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my heartbeat throbbing in my ears.
And then I sit at my desk and stare at my screen, doing everything in my power not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said my name. Any of the damn times.
I shake my head, hard, and roll my shoulders back, forcing myself to focus.
This is better.
Him leaving is better.
I don’t have to deal with his presence, his stupid smirks, or the way his voice keeps doing that low, careful thing like he’s trying to reach me.
Nope. None of that. He’s off to play rockstar.
And now, I can work.
I adjust my desk chair and pull my laptop closer, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I scan the lines of code I was working on last. My inbox is manageable, my task list is light. I could get a solid head start on the week if I really buckle down.
I crack my knuckles, then start typing, sinking into the logic, the numbers, the structure.
This is good.
This makes sense.
Unlike Joel freaking Price.
Unlike his stupid song.
Unlike the way his fingers brushed against mine, slow and unhurried, like he was testing me.
My typing falters.
I grit my teeth, delete the last string of nonsense I just wrote, and refocus.
This is no big deal.
Everything is under control.
I pull in a deep breath and keep coding, my eyes scanning for errors, my brain shifting back into work mode.
One line at a time. One function at a time.
I settle into the rhythm of it, into the comfort of something logical, structured, safe.
And then—
I realize I’m humming.
I freeze.
My fingers hover motionless over the keyboard as my own voice hums the very melody I swore I wasn’t going to think about.
My stomach plummets.
No.
No, no, no, no.
I clamp my mouth shut so fast, my teeth nearly click together.
I did not just do that.
I did not just hum his song.
The same song he’s playing live right now.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck, frustration twisting through my ribs.
I lean back in my chair, glaring at the ceiling.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just a song. A song I improved, by the way. A song I fixed because I had to.
That’s all this is.
I drop my hands into my lap, exhaling hard.
I refuse to let this get to me.
I refuse to let him get to me.
I click back into my code, eyes narrowed, fingers poised—
And then, like some cruel joke from the universe, I hear it again.
The melody.
Playing in my head.
Clear as day.
My jaw clenches so tight, my temples throb.
This is not happening. It’s been years since I heard the music like this.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palms into my forehead, trying to erase it, trying to push it out, trying to get my damn brain back from this hostile takeover.
But the melody lingers.
Soft. Persistent. Unshakable.
Like him.
I dig my nails into my palms, exhaling sharply.
No.
I refuse to give in. Joel is an asshole and that’s the hill I’m willing to die on.
And yet…
Somewhere, beneath all my frustration, all my denial—
I’m not sure I believe it.