Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
RHEA
I'm wiping down the espresso machine at Mountain Mornings, the warm, nutty aroma of freshly ground coffee beans enveloping me.
As steam hisses softly from the machine, I hum one of Gray's new melodies under my breath.
The café is filled with the gentle clinking of coffee cups and the rustling of newspaper pages.
The entire band troops through the door, interrupting the rhythmic sounds with their collective burst of barely contained excitement.
It's three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and they should be working on their album at the cabin, not appearing in my coffee shop looking like five-year-olds with a secret.
"We need to borrow Rhea," Gray announces to Emma, who's restocking the pastry display behind me.
"For what?" I ask, untying my apron with growing curiosity.
"Can't tell you. It's a surprise," Parker says, practically bouncing on his toes.
"I don't like surprises," I lie, because the truth is I've grown to love the way these men have made surprise and spontaneity feel safe instead of chaotic.
"You'll like this one," Andrew promises, and there's something in his tone that suggests this is bigger than their usual impromptu adventures.
"Go," Emma waves me away with flour-dusted hands. "I've got things covered here, and you know I can't stand it when they all hover like this. They're making my customers nervous."
Five minutes later, I'm squeezed into the middle seat of Andrew's SUV. We drive away from the now-bustling café and through the village toward a part of town I rarely visit. Soon, we turn off Main Street onto Belvedere, a quiet side street lined with older buildings that have seen better days.
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask as Andrew pulls into a small parking area behind a large brick building.
"Here," Gray says simply, but his smile tells me this moment means more to him than he's letting on.
The building they led me to is substantial and imposing, clearly dating back to the early 1900s when this part of Georgia was booming with textile mills and mountain commerce. The brick exterior is weathered but solid, and tall windows promise plenty of natural light inside.
"What is this place?" I ask as Zep produces a set of keys with the flourish of a magician revealing his final trick.
"Our new studio," Wyatt says quietly. "If you think it'll work."
My breath catches. "Your studio?"
"We've been looking for months," Andrew explains as we approach the back entrance. "Somewhere private enough that we can work without worrying about fans or paparazzi, but close enough that we don't have to leave the mountain."
Gray takes my hand as Zep unlocks the door. "We wanted you to see it first. Before we make any final decisions."
The door opens to reveal a cavernous space that takes my breath away. Exposed brick walls stretch upward, catching the afternoon sunlight that streams through tall windows. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, like tiny fairies dancing in the air. The space feels alive with potential.
"Oh my God," I whisper, stepping inside and turning slowly to take it all in. "This is incredible."
"It used to be a furniture manufacturing space," Cody explains, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. "Then it was an antique warehouse for a while. It's been empty for about two years."
I walk deeper into the space, my footsteps echoing off the high ceilings.
The exposed ductwork gives it an industrial feel, but the warm brick and natural wood keep it from feeling cold.
Windows line two walls, and I can already envision how beautiful this space will be when it's filled with music and life.
"The acoustics are supposed to be amazing," Parker adds. "Something about the height of the ceilings and the brick walls."
"And look at this," Gray says, leading me toward the back of the building. "The best part."
He opens a door I hadn't noticed to reveal a private courtyard, completely enclosed by the building on three sides and a tall fence on the fourth. There's a gate with a heavy lock, ensuring complete privacy from the street.
"Your own private outdoor space," I breathe. "For breaks between sessions, or acoustic sets, or just... peace."
"That's exactly what we were thinking," Andrew says, and I can hear the relief in his voice that I understand the vision.
"So what do you think?" Gray asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question that makes me look at him more closely.
"I think it's perfect. But why did you want my opinion first?"
The guys exchange glances, and I sense there's more to this story than they've told me.
It's almost as if they're holding onto a shared secret, something that links back to their past or maybe even a new endeavor that's been quietly brewing.
The curiosity nags at me, urging me to probe deeper.
Could it be that there's an old connection to this building or a past dream that they haven't quite let go of?
Or perhaps it involves a plan they have yet to fully unveil, and I'm about to become a part of that vision?
"Because," Zep says slowly, "we were hoping you might want to help us design it. Make it feel like home instead of just another studio."
"You want me to decorate your recording studio?"
"We want you to make it ours," Gray corrects softly. "All of ours. This isn't just going to be a place where we work, it's also a place where we live. It's going to be our creative home base, and we can't imagine doing that without you."
The weight of his words sinks in. This isn’t just about picking out furniture or colors.
It’s about being part of their future, building something that matters.
My heart pounds, and for a second, I wonder if I’m really up for this.
I take a slow breath and remember how far I’ve come—the risks I’ve taken, the courage it took to leave a job that didn’t make me happy, and the leap I made to follow my passion.
I learned that bravery means moving forward even when you’re scared. That’s what brought me here.
"I would love that," I tell them, and the collective sigh of relief from all five of them makes me laugh. "But I should probably warn you that I have very strong opinions about lighting and comfortable seating."
"We're counting on it," Andrew grins, picking up a manila folder and placing it in my hands. “Can we use you as a reference on the rental agreement we picked up earlier today?”
I giggle and circle my arms around Grays’.
The decision made, the next two weeks become a whirlwind of planning, shopping, and coordinating contractors.
Emma immediately volunteers her services, claiming she's been dying for a project that doesn't involve coffee beans and pastry displays.
Mrs. Chen contributes her expertise in finding vintage furniture and unique decorative pieces.
Even Mrs. Patterson gets involved, showing up one afternoon with fabric samples and strong opinions about window treatments.
"You can't have a proper creative space without proper curtains," she declares, spreading swatches across the floor of what will become the main recording room. "Musicians need to control their environment, and that includes managing natural light."
I watch these women who've become my chosen family rally around this project with the same enthusiasm they bring to everything else, and I'm overwhelmed by the sense of community we've found here.
Amidst our planning, Gray throws himself into physical work with an intensity that would worry me if I didn't recognize it as his way of channeling nervous energy into something productive.
He and Andrew spend hours measuring and planning the optimal placement for sound baffles and equipment.
Zep and Wyatt tackle the electrical work needed for proper studio lighting.
Parker and Cody handle endless trips to hardware stores and supply warehouses.
But it's the evenings I treasure most when we all gather in the space to assess the day's progress and plan tomorrow's tasks.
We order pizza and sit on sawhorses or overturned buckets, and I watch Gray in his element - creative, focused, and completely present in a way that still takes my breath away.
Though this newfound harmony is often challenged by minor hiccups, tonight, a stubborn screw refuses to hold one of the acoustic panels, leading to a playful argument between Andrew and Zep about who forgot to buy the right length screws.
The moment is light, but the undercurrent of tension reminds us of all the stakes involved in bringing this dream to life.
"The isolation booth should go here," he says one evening, gesturing toward a corner where the natural light is softest. "And we can run the wiring for the control room along this wall."
"What about backup power?" Andrew asks, ever the practical one.
"Already handled," Wyatt assures him. "The electrician will install the generator connection next week."
I'm only half-listening to the technical details; I'm more focused on watching Gray navigate this project with the confidence of someone who's finally found their footing.
Recovery has given him back his ability to plan for the future, to invest in something long-term without the constant anxiety that he'll somehow sabotage it.
It all came into focus just last week we were installing some of the final panels when Gray suddenly stopped, looked at the progress we'd made, and said, 'I can't believe we're doing this.
For so long, I doubted I'd ever be able to commit to something like this again.
' In that instant, he grasped the full extent of his transformation, recognizing that what once felt insurmountable now felt manageable.
It was a milestone, not just in the physical realm of our studio, but also in the intangible journey of his own growth.