his apartment unannounced.
My stepmom takes a long sip of decaf, staring thoughtfully at her empty plate. “You need a change of scenery.”
I lift my brows in surprise. “Here?”
“It’s a huge house. There’s plenty of room without stepping on anyone’s toes. Plus, you always loved the patio in the summer.”
Dad and I might kill each other.
But my gaze drops to the hand she rubs over her stomach. “This guy or girl has been keeping me up. They’re not due for another six weeks, but I don’t think we’re going to last that long. Sophie’s started waking in the middle of the night, and your dad’s been busy with unexpected administration issues for the label.”
Compassion washes over me.
“Let me help,” I hear myself say. “I can’t stay for six weeks, but maybe two? I can flex my work around watching Sophie and whatever you need.”
Her face relaxes. “I’d love that. And your dad would, too.”
“Let’s not go crazy,” I say dryly, and she laughs again.
I take our plates to the dishwasher and look out the kitchen windows over the patio. There are a couple of cars I can make out through the hedges separating us from the small tree-lined parking lot. “Who’s at the label this early?”
“Probably Shay. Maybe someone’s booked in to record.”
“Okay. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I head outside and go to the label, letting myself through the side door and into the lobby.
The girl behind the desk is the same one from yesterday. She’s facing away, humming a catchy song. She turns around and spots me, startled, and pulls off her headphones. “Annie! Can I help with something? I’m supposed to make sure everyone signs in. I know it’s weird to ask you to, but… I got a new book and everything,” she says proudly.
I write on the fresh sheet of paper. “Sure. No one else has signed in yet?”
“Studio One is booked all week starting at noon. Your dad is holding studio two for his own artists. Today you’re our first guest.”
I head down the hall, bracing myself as I glance into Studio Two.
I know I won’t see the same thing I saw yesterday—that woman and Tyler—but my stomach tightens anyway.
The studio is empty.
I continue to the offices. The door of the one with Dad’s name on it is closed, but the second’s is open.
It’s sparse but stylish. There’s a desk, a potted palm in one corner, and a beautiful piano.
Unable to resist, I cross to the piano, skimming a finger over the ivory keys and playing a few bars of the song I’ve been working on all month.
“Don’t stop now, it was just getting good.”
I jump at the sound of Tyler’s voice, spinning to see him emerge from under the desk wearing jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a crooked grin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Trying to plug in. I need to hardwire the internet for a virtual meeting later. I’m babysitting your dad’s new shining star, who is coming by”—from under the edge, I see him check his watch—“twenty minutes ago, supposedly.”
Some musicians make their fans feel welcome, invite them into their lives and homes on social media.
Tyler’s always held them at a distance.
The paparazzi love him. The cleverer he gets at evading, the more they stalk. I empathize with both sides—him wanting privacy and fans dying to know more about this man who lights up a stage with his earnest talent.
They want to know who Tyler Adams is.
Can’t say I blame them.
Seeing him at the party affected me. Not in a jealousy kind of way, but because catching up with him after reminded me of the deliberate, thoughtful guy I grew up with. Except there was a new dimension to him, too. An ease, with himself and the world, that he didn’t have when we were together.
Just because we’ve barely spoken in two years doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized adults now. There’s no rule that say you need to hate your ex.
“Let me try.” I brush past him and tug the phone from the pocket of my jean shorts and set it down.
It’s a tight fit under the desk as I crouch, but there’s a hole to thread the cord through, and I work away at it.
“Thanks. Didn’t know this office came with tech support,” Tyler says, his voice muffled from above the desk.
I flip him off and he chuckles.
My phone rings on the desk.
“Ian,” he reads off the display, and I stiffen.
“Do not get that.”
“You playing hooky from work?”
I stick my head