7. Willow #2
I tuck the signed slip into my board. “You know, it’s very weird how comfortable you all are making decisions for other people.”
Julian points a fry at me. “Counterpoint: if we didn’t, you’d never stay anywhere long enough for anything interesting to happen.”
I level a look at him. “Interesting for who?”
“Yes.”
I hate him a little.
I shift my bag up higher on my shoulder. “Anyway, now that I’ve delivered your food, been verbally harassed in a kitchen the size of a church and watched one of you commit theft in broad daylight, I’m going to leave.”
Julian brightens. “No.”
I blink. “That’s not how leaving works.”
“It can be,” he says. “You haven’t seen the studio yet.”
I go still.
His smile turns smug in a way that makes me want to preemptively object to whatever he says next.
“I totally see it,” he says lightly.
I frown. “See what?”
“Curiosity.”
“I’m not curious.”
Julian just stares at me.
From somewhere deeper in the house, faint but unmistakable, a guitar riff curls through the place. Not loud. Just enough to catch. Enough to remind me that there are rooms beyond this one full of people and sound and whatever exactly it is they’ve built here.
My eyes flick that direction.
Julian sees it and lights up like Christmas. “Oh, you’re definitely curious.”
“I’m definitely not.”
“You looked.”
“I have eyes.”
Gabe leans one hip against the island, watching this unfold with interest. “Julian.”
“What? She wants to see it.”
“I don’t.”
“She does,” Julian says to Gabe. “She’s got the same expression people get right before they say no and mean maybe.”
I point at him. “That sentence alone should get you fined.”
Instead of being offended, he rounds the island and stops directly in front of me, all easy energy and terrible ideas.
“Come on,” he says. “Two minutes. You gave me a tour. Now it’s my turn. I’ll show you the good parts.”
“There are bad parts?”
“Yeah, but mostly emotionally.”
Before I can step back, he reaches for my wrist with enough confidence that my body reacts before my brain catches up.
I go very still as his fingers close around my arm.
“You can say no,” he says. “I’ll still be offended, but you can say it.”
I should.
Really, I should.
But now the music is louder, and beyond the doorway I can see the edge of a corridor lined with framed records and black and white photos and movement farther down. Somebody carrying cables. Somebody laughing. The whole place thrumming with energy under the expensive polish.
I’m intrigued, and I can’t help it.
So I sigh, mostly because I’d like the universe to understand I’m going against my better judgment in a way that should count for something.
“Two minutes,” I say.
Julian beams. “I knew you were sensible.”
“That’s not what this is.”
He lets go of my wrist and starts moving.
I follow because I’ve lost a war with myself.
Gabe falls into step on my other side, not close enough to crowd me but close enough to make me aware of him anyway. Which is the problem with men like this. They don’t actually have to do much. They just exist very intensely in space and make it everyone else’s issue.
The corridor beyond the kitchen opens into the heart of the house.
And that’s when I realize this place is even bigger than I thought.
Rooms branch off in every direction. Some old, some clearly renovated.
Through one set of windows I can see a recording booth, all glass and soft lights and suspended microphones.
Down another hall, there’s a lounge with instruments sitting around like people might have just set them down and wandered off.
A stack of road cases lines one wall. Someone carrying a laptop darts past us with a distracted “hey” to Julian.
He salutes with two fingers and keeps walking.
“You have staff?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Julian glances back. “Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes. “In the house?”
“In the compound,” Gabe corrects.
I stop walking. “Excuse me?”
Julian turns around, nearly walking into me. “What?”
I gesture around wildly. “He just called this a compound.”
He looks around too, like maybe he’s forgotten where he lives. “I mean, yeah.”
“This isn’t normal.”
“No,” he agrees easily. “It’s better. Our music label compound.”
Gabe’s voice comes from beside me, calm as ever. “It used to be just the estate. We expanded the working parts.”
“Working parts,” I repeat. “Like a secret lab?”
Julian grins. “That would be so cool.”
“I need everyone in this house to stop saying things.”
But I’m looking again now.
The architecture of it.
The old house at the center, yes, but joined to something larger. Discreet additions in wood and glass tucked around the back and side, connected in a way that somehow doesn’t ruin the original structure.
Thoughtfully done. Expensively done.
Through a long interior window, I can see two rooms beyond with soundproofing on the walls and more equipment than I even know the names for.
And people.
Actual working people.
An assistant with a clipboard walks briskly out of one room.
A guy in headphones and a band tee is sitting on a stool with a guitar across his lap, murmuring something to a woman bent over a console.
The whole place feels alive in a way that has nothing to do with chandeliers and money and everything to do with motion. Intention. Creation.
Julian catches me staring through the glass.
“There it is again,” he says.
I cross my arms. “I’m just looking.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I am.”
“You look like you want to ask about the Neve console.”
I blink. “The what?”
He laughs. “Exactly.”