“So the producer asked me to sing something older, something I like. I belt out ‘If I Could Turn Back Time.’ I mean, it’s Cher. How could I go wrong with Cher, right?”

“You and Cher.”

“Shut up. The woman’s a goddess.” I fight back a grin and keep talking. “I can tell he’s impressed. There are three of them in the room, and he asks the other two guys to give us a minute.”

“Oh, hell.” Santos’s eyes narrow, and I know his protective instincts are already kicking in. “I see where this is going.”

“Exactly. He goes on to tell me that he loved my singing. Thinks I have real potential, but he just wants to make sure I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

“Oh, God,” Santos groans and buries his head in his hands before peeking at me from under a lock of dark hair. “What happened?”

“First, he recommended augmentation.”

“Augmen—of what?”

“Breast implants.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. At least two cup sizes up, he said.”

“What’d you do?”

“I just kind of stared at him with my small, offended breasts. I didn’t know what to say, so he just kept on going.”

“He had more?”

I snatch a bruschetta from the tray. Screw it. I’m teaching a dance class tomorrow. I’ll twerk these calories away. It feels good to want food, so I’m going for it.

“Oh, boy, did he have more.” I pop the carby dream into my mouth and groan. “Best thing I had all day.”

“Come on, Kai. What’d he say?”

“He had very little to say. He just unzipped his pants and looked at the spot in front of him where I guess I was supposed to drop to my knees and suck him off.”

“Tell me you punched him in his face.” Santos balls his fists at his sides. “Or I’m going back there and doing it myself.”

“I said, ‘Let me get this straight, you want me to suck your dick?’”

Santos’s eyes catch something right over my shoulder and stretch wide. His mouth drops open. And then that voice—the one I used to fall asleep listening to with track number nine on repeat—speaks into my horrified ears.

“Are you taking requests?”

I practically choke on my bruschetta. Santos’s mouth crooks into a weird shape, very close to a smile, much like a smirk. Even though he doesn’t actually say “busted,” the wicked mischief in his eyes does. If he laughs at my predicament, he’ll be picking tomato bits out of his hair for the rest of the night.

With dread, trepidation, and a sick feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with what I have or haven’t eaten, I finally look over my shoulder, and there he is. Rhyson Gray, standing with Grady, who gives him a look that is probably supposed to chastise him. I get the impression it would take a lot to chastise this man grinning at me unrepentantly.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry even a little bit, grey eyes laughing at me. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You could have tried.” Grady shakes his head. At least he looks apologetic. “I’m sorry about that, Kai. Rhys has a wicked sense of humor.”

As long as he keeps it away from me.

“No problem.” I spare Rhyson a quick glance before looking back at Grady, and I wish I hadn’t. Rhyson is even more mesmerizing up close. His hair is a mess of dark and burnished colors with lighter streaks. It’s just long enough to hang over his forehead and brush his neck, and he runs his hands through it every few seconds like it’s driving him crazy. Which must drive the girls crazy, if my reaction is anything to go by.

“Rhys, this is Santos, one of my vocal students, and this,” Grady says, pulling me into a side hug, “is Kai, the assistant I was telling you about. She keeps me straight.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I hate how husky my voice sounds all of a sudden.

“You’re Southern?” Rhyson tilts his head, considering me like a zoo animal who’s been captured and domesticated for his inspection.

“What? How’d you know?”

“You’re kidding, right?” His brows go into hiding under the hair hanging low over his forehead. “With that accent?”

Okay, maybe he’s not so irresistible. Maybe he’s a bit of an asshole. I’m self-conscious about my Georgia accent, especially here in Los Angeles. It’s a sore thumb for the ears.

“Guess there’s no hiding it.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude.” Rhyson’s eyes try to tease me out of being offended.

“But you were,” Grady says. “I think Kai’s accent is lovely.”

Which is the West Coast equivalent of “Bless your heart” and a pat on the head.

“Why, thank ya, Mistah Grady, I do declare.” I lay it on thick and bat my lashes before rolling my eyes.

“I really am sorry.” Rhyson manages to look slightly more penitent. “Grady’s been telling me about how you’ve organized everything. How he would be lost without you. I’d like to shake the hand of the woman who finally brought some order to all his chaos.”

Rhyson grabs my hand, sending little sparks up my arm. And we’re back in that moment. That little pocket of time where the rest of the room disappears and it’s just us, unable or unwilling to look away from each other. The longer our eyes hold, the darker his grey eyes go. I could drown in those eyes. Maybe I am drowning. Maybe that accounts for the burn in my chest and the shortness of breath. I can’t afford these sensations. I can’t afford this man. I won’t be distracted. I give his hand a quick shake and jerk mine back.

“I think Emmy gets that honor.” I turn to Grady, who looks close to blushing. “She gets the credit for Grady’s new lease on life.”

“Oh, yeah. The girlfriend. Another new woman in your life I need to meet.” Rhyson laughs and pounds Grady on the back. “Hopefully I’ll manage not to offend that one.”

“It’s fine,” I reassure him. “You aren’t the first person to mock my accent.”

“I wasn’t mocking. I just . . . it’s cute.”

I risk another look up at him, and it confirms what I suspected. I didn’t imagine that he felt it before too. He’s feeling it again. I’m feeling it again. It’s like the lurch of the elevator, how your stomach tips a little and you feel slightly sick, but you find yourself grinning. After a few moments of . . . whatever this is . . . we let each other’s eyes go at the same time. I drop mine to the floor, studying the Toms on my feet to keep my eyes off his face, which I’m still not sure is classically handsome, but for darn sure fascinates me.

Silence settles around us, thickening the air until the quiet becomes awkward enough for everyone to feel it. I glance at my watch, glad to have a lifeline out of here.

“I really do need to go.” I lean into Grady another inch, looking up at his distinguished face with the salt-and-pepper goatee. “I have to start my shift at the restaurant, but I’ll swing through tomorrow to handle those invoices.”

“Okay. Don’t work too hard.” His dark eyes twinkle a bit, but I know he means it. He and San take turns worrying about me.

“I can’t make any promises.” I loop my elbow through San’s. “Does my chariot await?”

“Oh. That’s right. I’m taxi tonight.” He grabs one more celery stick and a cheese-laden cracker before turning to Rhyson Gray. “It was really an honor to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”

Rhyson nods and smiles a bit, but I bet he doesn’t even hear praise anymore, he’s so used to it. San could have said, “Man, you sucked balls on that piece you played.” Rhyson still would have just nodded and smiled. He turns his eyes back to me, and something on his face shifts. I hold the entirety of his attention, and I have no idea what to do with it. So I take a cue from him. I smile and I nod.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Gray.”

“Oh, so formal. Mistah Gray.” He leans into the vowels my Georgia roots always draw out. “Call me Rhys.”

I hold his stare an extra moment, smile, and turn to San.

“You ready?”

“Um.” He drags his eyes between Rhyson and me, raising one dark eyebrow. “Sure. Let’s go.”