The woman’s eyes glimmer with excitement and she hurriedly retreats toward the bedroom. Nolan knows how to pick ‘em. I’d better disappear quickly; he’s going to kick my ass after getting woken up by a warm stream of yellow on his face that isn’t sunshine.

I stop by Becca’s and hang with Laney for a few hours before grabbing a quick shower. I trade my usual coffee in for hot tea in an attempt to soothe my raw throat. It’s on fire from the smoky after-party that made the label’s Easy Ryder album release party seem like a party full of priests.

Unlike most nights lately, I went home alone at the end of the party. Although it definitely wasn’t for lack of opportunity. The Easy Ryder guys may have ten years on us, their groupies are older, but it doesn’t mean things have slowed for them by any means. Just the opposite, in fact. The smokin’ hot thirty-somethings are more aggressive than the barely legal women who tend to follow In Like Flynn around.

I walk into Pulse Records right at three. Afternoon appointments for musicians tend to be a given. Today Nolan and I are being introduced to our practice manager—the person assigned to keep our asses in line as we get ready to join the Wylde Ryde tour. She won’t have any problem with In Like Flynn showing up for the practice schedule she sets, but I hope she’s got thick skin with Nolan and the rest of the guys.

Nolan strides in looking like what he is—severely hung over, maybe even still drunk. Tabby, the practice manager, takes one look at him and tells him she’s going to get him a protein shake.

“How was your morning?” Lounging back in my chair, I link my fingers together behind my head and settle in to enjoy the entertainment.

Nolan groans. “I’m not sure if night ended and morning actually began yet.”

“Usually, I call morning anything after I take a shower. I feel like my morning shower is a rebirth of sorts. Almost like a christening.”

Nolan shoots me a look that tells me he knows I’m up to something, yet he’s still in the dark about what the hell it is. “What the fuck is up with you today?”

“Nothing.” My face gives away that I’m full of shit.

A few minutes, later Tabby comes back in with Nolan’s shake. “Ready to get started?”

“I’m sorry. I need to hit the restroom before we get started. Can you just give me a minute, Tabby?”

“Sure, of course. No problem. Nolan and I will get to know each other.”

“You sure you don’t have to go, Nolan?” I ask as I unfold from my chair.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t take a piss on your own now?” Hung over and suspicious equates to a short fuse for my longtime friend and bass player.

I pat him on the back as I pass by the seat he’s slumped in and lean down so only he can hear. “Thought maybe you’d want to stand in front of the urinal. Heard you like golden showers these days.”

Sick, hung over, drunk or not, Nolan tears ass and chases me around the entire floor. I’m going to guess Tabby got a fair sample of what she’s in for over the next few months.

I told myself I was going to the meeting and leaving. I wasn’t going to hang around like a puppy looking for scraps of something he has no business sniffing around. Yet here I am, for the fourth time, passing by the studio where I know she works. I grumble at myself and set off to grab the coffee I avoided earlier before traveling back downtown.

Deciding some fresh air will do me good, help clear my head, I stroll to the main entrance. In the reflection on the glass lobby doors, a set of legs catches my attention. I’ve never seen them before, yet I know who they belong to before I raise my eyes to take in her beautiful face.

I hold the door open and wait for Lucky to pass. She’s busy messing with her phone and doesn’t look up until she’s about to cross the threshold. “Thank you,” she says, and then her eyes focus on my face and surprise registers on hers.

“Flynn?”

“At your service.” I bow my head and pull the door wider, sweeping my hand for her to walk through.

She smiles, but squints to assess me. “Are you following me, Mr. Beckham?”

The way my last name falls from her lips has me momentarily glad she knows I’m Mr. Beckham, because I could definitely get lost in this woman and forget my own name. “Wouldn’t I be behind you if I was following you?”

“I suppose…” she trails off suspiciously.

“You’re following me, aren’t you?” I deadpan.

“What? No! I am not. I was just leaving. I didn’t—”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“Oh.”

Without thinking, I rest my hand on the small of her back and guide her the rest of the way out of the building. It feels natural—right—so I don’t let go even when we’re outside.

“Your voice sounds hoarse, is it bothering you?”

It’s not. “Maybe a little.”

With concern in her eyes, Lucky stops and lifts her hands to my throat. “Is it sensitive to my touch?”

No. Although some other parts of my body feel your touch. “A little.”

“You need to retrain your voice or you’re going to wind up without one. Come by the studio. At least let me teach you some new techniques to help keep the strain off your cords.”

If she were any other woman, with the way my body reacts around her, I’d be detailing the techniques I’d like to show her in return. But I don’t. She’s not just any woman…she’s Dylan freaking Ryder’s woman. I should walk away, not even go near the temptation. But living life without temptation is like having a heart that doesn’t beat. And I’m a musician. I need a good strong beat.

Chapter Eight

Lucky

I peer at the clock through sleepy eyes and want nothing more than to turn over and pretend today isn’t today. But it is. Cheery sunlight flitters into the room through the open blinds and lands straight on my face. Dark clouds and rain would be more appropriate to match my temperament for the day I’m facing.

The life we want does not often come easy. It was one of my dad’s favorite dadisms. I used to ignore most of them, sometimes even roll my eyes when I heard them spoken. I listened to the words a hundred times, yet I never really heard him. Not until I woke up one day and realized I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m frozen in place. And it isn’t just the singing.

Settled into a comfortable life, I resist most change. My career, my friends—even my relationship with Dylan. He’s older, and moves at a faster pace than me. I don’t want to leave another one of my dreams behind. So I started seeing Dr. Curtis again. We worked together on my stage fright for almost four years, before I finally gave up. Six months ago, I decided it was time to try again. I realized I was more afraid of regret than I was of making changes.

When Dr. Curtis and I came up with the twelve-step-like program to combat my fear of singing on stage, it seemed so easy. The plans were all in the future, not the here and now. Now the day of reckoning is staring me in my face.

Step one: Admit you have a problem. That was a piece of cake.

Step two: Let go of the past. And so I sold half of Lucky’s to Avery. Became a silent partner only. Check.

Step three: Get a job that involves music. Pulse Records voice coach. Check. I’m making progress. On a roll now.

Step four: Sing for a small crowd of friends on a small stage.

The needle of progress makes a loud screeching sound as it halts. Herein lies the reason for my racing pulse this morning. I’ve already spent hours debating the definition of “a small crowd.” My definition was Avery and Jase. Somehow, I let Avery talk me into three more. Five is most definitely a small crowd. The idea of singing in front of one person makes my palms sweat. Two makes me lightheaded. I can’t even imagine what five will bring.