Chapter Six
Nyxx
The morning sun laser-beams straight through my eyelids. I groan and drag a hand over my face, but it’s no use—she’s already in my head. Ana. Last night’s conversation keeps replaying, her guard dropping, her voice soft.
Not exactly how I originally pictured her—the uptight flutist who practically hissed when I breathed too loud. But the woman who looked at me last night? That was someone else entirely. Vulnerable. Real. And damn if that image hasn’t lodged itself somewhere I can’t shake.
After rolling out of bed, I head to the kitchen. Moments later, coffee gurgles, rich and bitter—exactly how she looked at me that first morning. It’s obvious she’s in a creative freefall, trapped under the weight of all that pedigree and perfection.
By the time Ana comes out of the bathroom, every strand of her hair is behaving, and her outfit looks straight out of a magazine. She probably calls this casual. After another moment of thought, I come to a decision. She needs a shake-up—a “makeunder,” if you will.
“Morning, princess,” I greet her, sliding a mug of coffee with milk across the counter. “Sleep well?” Her hair catches the light like spun gold, and for a second, I forget my own name. Not helpful.
After a quelling look, no doubt at the princess comment, she relents and accepts the coffee with a small smile. “Better than expected, actually. Thank you.” She says it like she’s at a gala receiving line, not standing barefoot in a kitchen, but there’s warmth under the polish. Progress.
I lean against the counter, studying her. “So, I’ve been thinking about your symphony situation.”
Ana’s posture stiffens slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And I think I know what you need.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
I read up on her that first night—Upper East Side, private schools, silver spoons. Explains the bite in her voice. Still doesn’t make me want to stop poking the bear. Maybe that’s what gets under my skin—the way she wears control like armor. Makes me want to see what she’s like without it.
I grin and reach out, brushing my fingers near her bun before I can stop myself. “You need to let your hair down. Literally and figuratively.”
Her scent—clean, expensive, maddening—hits me first. Her quick step back hits me second.
Ana’s hand flies protectively to her hair. “I most certainly do not.”
“Come on, Ana,” I press, keeping my tone light. “When’s the last time you did something spontaneous? Something that wasn’t meticulously planned and executed?”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. I can almost see the gears turning in her head.
“Look.” I soften my approach. “What you’ve been doing clearly isn’t working. Sometimes, you need to make a change—any change—to get where you want to go.”
Ana’s brow furrows. “But my methods have always—”
“Always what?” I interrupt gently. “Always worked? Because from where I’m standing, they’ve got you stuck in one hell of a rut.”
She bristles at this, her brown eyes flashing. “You don’t know anything about my process.”
“You’re right,” I concede. “So why don’t you show me? Let me see this symphony you’ve been working on.”
Ana pales slightly, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “I… It’s not ready.”
I push harder, sensing we’re on the verge of a breakthrough. “Come on, Ana. Just a peek. Artist to artist.”
For a long moment, I think she might refuse. Then, with a defeated sigh, she retreats to the bedroom and returns with a leather-bound portfolio. She hesitates, then reluctantly hands it to me, eyes downcast.
I open it, already suspecting what I’ll find.
Empty pages stare back at me, pristine and accusing.
The sight of those blank pages hits harder than I expected.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror before a gig when nothing sounds right.
The empty, accusing silence before the music comes back.
“Ana,” I say softly, closing the portfolio. “It must hurt to stare at this all day.”
She won’t meet my eyes. “I told you it wasn’t ready.” Her voice wavers, the tone of someone bravely holding back a tidal wave of emotion.
“Hey.” I reach out, tilting her chin up gently. “This doesn’t mean you’re not talented. It just means you need a new approach.”
A glimmer of hope flashes in her eyes. “And you think you know what that approach is?”
I grin. “As a matter of fact, I do. Let me be your coach. You don’t have to be like me.” I give her my most charming smile.
“No one could be like you—or would want to,” she chides.
“Exactly. Just let me nudge you in a different direction and you can see if it suits you, if it gets your creative juices flowing.” I hold up the empty pages. “What have you got to lose?”
Ana considers for a long moment. Then, a mischievous smile spreads across her face—one I’ve never seen before, and instantly want to see more of.
“Alright,” she says. “On one condition.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Name it.”
“If you’re going to give me a makeover, I get to give you one, too.”
My jaw drops as I realize I’ve walked right into her trap. Touché, Ana. Touché.
“Deal,” I say finally, extending my hand. As we shake on it, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve just gotten myself into.
Ana’s smile widens. “Excellent. Now, where shall we begin?”
Her eyes sparkle, and it hits me that this makeunder might change more than her. Maybe helping Ana loosen up will knock a few dents out of my own armor, too. My manager would kill to see me domesticated.