“See you tomorrow, Grady.” I allow myself one more glance at the rock star. “Nice to meet you, Rhys.”

And nicer to be walking away, even though I feel his eyes hot on the back of me as I go.

“SO HOW DO I FIX THIS?” Grady points to the section of the song he’s composing that isn’t working.

I could have told him fifteen minutes ago how to fix it, but I was waiting for this question. My opportunity.

“I’ll tell you how to fix it if you tell me more about your assistant.”

Grady’s face clouds over. Actually it’s more like a brick wall that takes over.

“No way.” Grady shakes his head. “Leave her alone, Rhys. She’s a good girl.”

“What do you think I’m going to do to her?”

Though several ideas have been percolating in my head since I met Kai last night. Grady looks at me over the eyeglasses he only wears when he’s composing. A look that says he knows exactly what I usually do with girls who look like his assistant.

“Okay, so maybe I have a bit of a track record.”

“A bit? It’s not so much a track record as the Trail of Tears, and I don’t want Kai to be one of your stops.”

“I can tell she’s . . . different, or I wouldn’t be asking you about her.”

“Oh? What’s so different about her, Rhys?”

The way she was off on the other side of the room while all the other girls smothered me. The way she blushed when we busted her talking about some guy asking her to suck his dick. The way her Southern accent was thick and sweet like molasses. That look on her face when she heard me play. I’d sound like a real pussy if I said any of that, so I just shrug and doodle on Grady’s composition pad.

“Well, the things you’ve told me, and she just seemed nice.”

“She is, and I want her to stay that way, so hands off.”

“I doubt we’ll be running into each other anytime soon anyway, right?” I look up, half hoping he’ll contradict me, but he gives me a satisfied grin.

“That’s right.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and circles the problematic set of measures in the middle of the piece. “Now, if I could—”

His ring tone interrupts, and he glances at the screen, his face softening with a smile.

“Is it your girlfriend, Grady?” I’ve been teasing him mercilessly only because in the time I’ve known him, which is my whole life, Grady has never been this way about a woman.

He rolls his eyes and grunts before heading for the door.

“I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder. “Just give me a minute.”

His “Hey, Em” reaches me from the narrow hall he’s stepped into just beyond the music room. I can’t help the goofy grin on my face. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Grady. He’s sacrificed a lot for me. When I emancipated from my parents at sixteen, he was the one wading through a messy, the-whole-world-watching court battle with me. He was the one who took me in. The least I can do is help him with this piece that I could write in my sleep.

And keep my hands off his assistant.

From my experience, there are several categories of pussy. There’s groupie pussy. Those girls who just want to be able to say they slept with someone famous. Love that. We both get exactly what we expect, and we’re done. Then there’s the L.A. girls. My best friend Marlon calls it “thirsty pussy.” Tit-for-tat pussy, emphasis on the tit. These ambitious girls who want to be a star and see me as their fast track. It’s a transaction, and after we’re done, they think I owe them something. A spot on the next album. An introduction to the hottest producer. A cameo in a video. Strings attached. I don’t do strings.

Grady’s assistant, Kai, made it very apparent last night she is neither of those. After that connection we had in the music room, basically a jolt of electricity that temporarily disabled my synapses, she barely looked at me. She pretended it hadn’t happened. Brushed me off. Girls don’t brush me off. No one brushes me off. I know that sounds arrogant, but it is what it is. I get the sense that she’s not so much playing hard to get as much as she actually is hard to get.

Going back over the piece, I realize a page is missing. I bend down to retrieve it from the floor.

“Grady?”

That hot, sweet molasses voice calls from the door. I hesitate about sitting all the way up because I suspect she’ll dart off as soon as she sees me. She was not just prickly last night. She was full-blown cactus. I’m not used to that with girls. Especially not girls who want to be singers. Hello? I’m a walking, talking, fucking opportunity to most of them. Does she not know I could be her big break? It’s like she doesn’t care.

I think that’s what I like most about her so far.

I sit up before she can leave the room. Her eyes go wide before she narrows them, and I can’t tell if she’s giving me the no way signal or if she’s trying to convince herself.

“I’m sorry.” Her rich voice smothers the words like gravy, weighing them down in the way I teased her about last night. “I thought Grady was—”

“Grady is.” I push the hair out of my face before slumping a little on the piano bench. “He’s talking to Emmy.”

“Oh, that’s right. They have a date today.” She smiles and glances down at the handwritten invoice in her hand. “I needed to ask him something, but it can wait. His penmanship . . . geez Louise.”

Is she for real? Geez Louise? I haven’t heard that since repeats of The Andy Griffith Show. I want to hear what else she’ll say if she sticks around a little longer.

“I’m fluent in Grady.” I motion for her to give me the paper. “I bet I can interpret.”

“Really?” Doubt crinkles her eyebrows, but she hands it over. “Worth a try.”

The first thing I notice at the top of the stationery pad is Grady’s full name. Bentley Gray. Yeah, I’d go by Grady too. I glance at the slashes and marks bleeding all over the paper in my hands.

“Yeah, it says double-check the payment schedule on this student.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head, the dark, silky braid swishing over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed that. Thanks.”

She turns back toward the door. She’s leaving. I’m not the kind of guy who typically encourages girls to linger, but . . .

“So you sing?”

Wow, Gray. Brilliant.

She looks back over her shoulder and around the room like there might be someone else I’m addressing.

“Yeah, you.” Just in case she thinks I’m talking to my imaginary friend. “You sing?”

Everything about her screams reluctance at the top of its lungs. The glance she gives the door, like it’s her salvation. The way she taps the invoice against her leg a few times before turning to face me. The gate she locks over her eyes before she looks back at me.

“Yeah. I sing. I mean, I’ve been dancing more than singing lately, but I sing.”

“What kind of dancing?”

“Well, I do ballet, tap, modern dance, hip hop. You name it, I did it growing up. Right now, I teach a hip-hop class to fourteen-year-olds.” She snorts, twisting her wide, full lips into a half grin, half grimace. “And, yes, it’s as much fun as it sounds. I’ve been doing some small stuff in a few music videos. Nothing major.”

“But you really want to sing?”

“I want to perform, to do it all. Dance, sing, act.”

“Ah, one of those, huh? A multi-hyphenate.”

“Are you mocking me again?”

“Mocking you? No, of course not.”

She narrows those tilted eyes at me and puts a hand on one slim hip.

“Okay. Maybe a little.” The stern line I usually keep my mouth in with strangers contorts into a grin. “Come on. You spout some Jenny-from-the-Block shit and expect me not to mock you just a little?”

“We aren’t all born piano prodigies who get to do exactly what we want from the time we’re children. Some of us have to do it all and see what sticks.”