Dirty Duet

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Anastasia Ashcroft

I stare at the blank sheet of music in front of me as the empty, pristine lines mock me. There’s a melody playing at the fringes of my mind, but when I try to put it on paper, it never seems right.

Three whole days I’ve been in this quaint rental cottage, surrounded by the serene whispers of the forest, and what do I have to show for it? Absolutely nothing.

The antique regulator clock on the wall ticks away, each second a reminder of my failure. I should have composed the foundation of my symphony by now. At the very least, I should have a theme, a motif, anything to build upon. But the page remains stubbornly empty, much like my inspiration.

I know, deep down, that this frantic need for immediate results is precisely why I’m here. My agent practically begged me to take this time off, to escape the pressure of New York’s classical music scene and find my creative spark again.

“You’re burning out, Anastasia,” she’d said, her voice laced with concern. “Take some time. Breathe fresh air. Let the music come to you naturally.”

Naturally. As if anything about my approach to music has ever been natural. I’ve worked tirelessly since I was old enough to hold a flute, perfecting my craft, pushing myself to be the best. It’s what’s expected of an Ashcroft, after all. Excellence is in our blood, as blue as it may be.

I sigh, slamming my composition book with more force than necessary. The sound whispers through the empty cottage, a stark reminder of my solitude. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help. I’ll wake up refreshed, and the symphony will simply flow from my fingertips. It has to.

As I brush my teeth, I give myself a hard look in the antique mirror over the sink.

My usually impeccable blonde bun is coming undone, wisps of hair framing my face in a way that would horrify my mother.

I look tired. Defeated, even. This isn’t me.

I’m Anastasia Ashcroft, for heaven’s sake. I don’t do defeat.

The unmistakable sound of an engine, far too close to be on the main road, catches my attention as I’m about to slip into bed. Headlights sweep across the windows, briefly illuminating the room before plunging it back into relative darkness.

“Impossible,” I whisper. This cottage is supposed to be isolated—my private sanctuary. Terror jolts through me. No one should be out here at this hour.

I grab my phone, heart pounding, and edge into the shadow beside the dresser. The engine cuts off. Silence. Then—footsteps crunching on gravel.

Before I can decide whether to call for help, the front door bursts open with a bang so sharp it makes me jump.

“Fuck!” a man’s voice bellows, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor. “Could this place be any darker?”

I freeze, breath caught in my throat. Burglars don’t usually announce themselves—or complain about the lighting.

My fear eases a fraction, confusion edging in to take its place. Straightening slowly, I call out, “Hello? You don’t belong here.”

Whoever he is, and whatever his motive, I snatch a heavy agate bookend from the shelf, pulse pounding. The cold weight of it steadies me—solid, practical, something I can do.

The footsteps pause, then shuffle again, slower this time. I strain to listen. No stealth, no hurry, just heavy boots and a muttered string of complaints. Drunk? Lost? Some delivery gone insanely wrong?

My terror doesn’t vanish, but it shifts—less icy panic, more wary determination. If he meant harm, he wouldn’t be making this much noise. Still, I keep the bookend raised, just in case.

After more cursing under his breath whoever it is has finally found the light switch.

The floorboards creak closer. A back-lit shadow fills the doorway. And then I’m face-to-face with… chaos incarnate.

“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with an ease that sets my nerves jangling. “Looks like my exile just got a lot more interesting. My manager made this sound like a punishment, but maybe you’re the consolation prize. I’ll have to thank him… in the morning.”

He winks, closing the brown eye before popping it open again and ogling me so dramatically you’d think he was auditioning for a silent film.

I tighten my grip on the bookend but force my voice to stay even. “I beg your pardon, but who are you, and what are you doing in my cottage?”

He has the audacity to laugh. “Your cottage? Hate to break it to you, princess, but this is my home for the next month. Manager’s orders.”

My fear spikes again—is he serious?—but indignation quickly follows. “That’s impossible. I’ve rented this place for my personal use. There must be some mistake.”

He shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that speaks volumes about his disregard for my distress. “No mistake. Unless you count my entire career as one big mistake, which… fair enough.”

I blink, really looking at him now. There’s something familiar about that maddeningly handsome face, beyond the mismatched eyes and the ridiculous confidence. The wild hair. The smirk. The way he’s holding that flute case like it’s a weapon or a trophy.

Realization slams into me. “Wait a minute. You’re… you’re that ridiculous rock flutist. The one who plays on one foot like some deranged flamingo.”

His grin widens, showing off perfect teeth. Of course they’re perfect; they go with the masculine symmetry of his face—strong jaw, high cheekbones. Even his tousled hair looks too good to be an accident.

“Nyxx Night, at your service. I’ll have you know critics call it the ‘Nyxx Night Flamingo Flair.’ It’s iconic.”

“Well, Mr. Night,” I inject as much disdain into the name as possible, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find alternative accommodations. I’m here to work on an extremely important composition, and I require complete solitude and silence.”

Nyxx pushes off from the doorframe and takes a step into the room. The motion feels deliberate—lazy, confident, the kind of swagger that makes you want to either punch someone or write a sonata about them. I instinctively back up, my calves hitting the edge of the bed.

“No can do, princess. My manager dumped me here to ‘get my act together’ or some such bullshit.” He doesn’t seem to register my shocked intake of breath, because he just keeps talking as though I want to hear one more word out of his perfect lips.

“Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else, but here I am. ”

“Stop calling me princess,” I snap. “My name is Anastasia Ashcroft, and I–”

“Wait, wait,” he interrupts, his mismatched eyes lighting up with recognition. “Anastasia Ashcroft? The stuck-up classical flutist who thinks she’s God’s gift to music?”

My cheeks flush with indignation. “I beg your pardon! I am a highly respected concert flutist, and–”

“And I’m the guy who’s about to rock your world,” he cuts in, winking again. The gall of this man! “Looks like we’re roomies, Ana.”

“Don’t call me Ana. And we most certainly are not ‘roomies.’ This is clearly a mistake, and I’ll be contacting the rental agency first thing in the morning to sort it out.”

Nyxx flops down onto my bed—my bed!—and stretches out like a cat. “Good luck with that. It’s Friday night, sweetheart. No one’s going to be answering any calls until Monday.”

I stare at him, aghast. “You can’t be serious. You expect me to share this cottage with you for two whole days?”

He looks up with a lazy, unbothered smile. “Two days, two weeks. What’s the difference? I promise I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. I might consider it, if it’s a special request.” His mouth quirks in a debauched smile.

“You’re insufferable,” I hiss, grabbing a pillow and whacking him with it. The moment the pillow connects, I realize I’ve crossed some invisible line between self-control and chaos—but God help me, it feels good.

Nyxx laughs, the sound rich and infuriatingly melodious. “Ooh, feisty. I like it. Come on, Ana, live a little. This could be fun.”

“It’s Anastasia,” I correct him automatically. “And there’s nothing fun about having my peaceful retreat invaded by a… a…”

“A devilishly handsome and talented musician?” he supplies helpfully, his head cocked at an angle that makes him even more good-looking. I would bet good money he’s practiced it for taking selfies.

I snort. “More like arrogant, inconsiderate lout.”

“Lout? I’ve been called a lot of names, but never that. By the end of the weekend, maybe you’ll have used up all the archaic words I’ve never been called before. How about rake, cad, boor? Oh, maybe bounder, brute, barbarian?”

My jaw works soundlessly. I’ve known him less than ten minutes and already he’s managing to be the most irritating—and disarmingly magnetic—person I’ve ever met.

He sits up, fixing me with a surprisingly intense gaze.

“Look, I get it. You’re here to work on your fancy symphony or whatever.

I’m here because I screwed up, and my manager thinks I need a time-out.

Neither of us wants to share this space.

But unless you’ve got a magic wand hidden in that prim little nightgown of yours, we’re stuck with each other for now. ”

“I’m sure there’s a Motel 6 somewhere you could stay at. You look big enough that the roaches won’t be able to carry you away. I hear they’ll leave the light on for you.”

She crosses her arms, chin lifted. “Besides, unlike you, I’m here to work.

Not only am I writing a symphony and preparing for an important audition next month for the International Philharmonic Exchange Committee—one chance to tour Europe with some of the best musicians alive. I can’t afford distractions.”

“I’m a rock star with a reputation. No motel is going to rent to me without pre-approval and a generous damage deposit. You’re stuck with me, princess.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point. It’s late, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and there’s little I can do to change the situation tonight.

“Fine,” I say finally, my voice tight. “You can sleep on the couch. We’ll sort this out properly in the morning.”

Nyxx raises an eyebrow. “The couch? Come on, this bed is huge. We could share and never even know the other person is here.”

The look I give him could freeze hell itself. “Touch this bed again and you’ll be sleeping outside with the woodland creatures. Possibly minus what is, no doubt, your favorite appendage.”

My threat clearly doesn’t intimidate him—his answering laugh is low, genuine, and maddeningly warm, the kind of sound that burrows under your skin and makes you forget you were furious.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Couch it is. But don’t come crawling to me when you get lonely in the night. ”

“The day I seek your company willingly is the day pigs fly,” I retort.

Nyxx grins as he heads for the door. “Challenge accepted, princess. Sweet dreams.”

As the door closes behind him, I sink onto the bed, my head spinning. How has my peaceful retreat turned into this nightmare? I can hear Nyxx moving around in the living room, humming some atrocious rock tune.

I set the bookend within easy reach and drop onto the mattress with a groan. So much for peace and quiet. Instead of inspiration, I’ve got a swaggering rock god in my living room and a headache the size of Carnegie Hall.

Through the wall, his humming drifts on—a careless, haunting thread of melody that refuses to fade. I roll onto my side, tug the blanket over my head, and tell myself I’m not listening.

And just like that, the night has a soundtrack.