“Oh, is that what you’d call it?” Her audacity, her ignorance of my actual life, and her nerve sends heat crawling up my neck and loosens my lips. “Having no friends your age? Working around the clock? Being on the road more than two hundred days a year? Does that sound like the easy way up to you?”

I’ve shocked myself with that tirade. I rarely talk about my life before I emancipated from my parents. Certainly not to strangers. Even a hot, adorable stranger who stands only as high as my collarbone and has a voice that sounds like it’s been sitting out melting in the sun.

She bites her bottom lip, and as much as her assumptions irritate the hell out of me, that gesture manages to distract me. I’m struggling to remember what she did to annoy me in the first place.

“Look, I’m sorry.” She lays the invoice on the piano and slides her hand into the pockets of her cargo shorts. “I don’t know you. All I have is what I see from the outside and read in tabloids. I wouldn’t want anyone to judge me by that.”

“You wanna make it up to me?”

At least my parents taught me to exploit every opportunity. Sadly, I was the opportunity. Still, lesson learned.

“Depends.” Kai gives me a cautious, considering look. “What did you have in mind?”

“Sing for me.”

“Sing?” Uncertainty takes over her face, and for a moment, I think she’s going to turn and run. “Just sing? Like right here? Right now?”

“Unless you’re scared, of course.” I deliberately keep my eyes glued to my fingers picking out a scale on the piano.

“Did you learn that in Reverse Psychology for Dummies?”

My mouth pulls into an involuntary grin even though I don’t look up from the keys.

“I’m just thinking anyone who wants to do it all,” I finally glance back at her, my fingers still playing the scale, “Should be able to sing in front of one guy.”

She rolls her eyes, but her mouth starts tugging up at the edges just a little. She takes a step closer, leaning her hip against the piano.

“What should I sing?”

Her smell surrounds me. Something fruity and sweet, but not one of those scents girls wear that scratches your throat and burns your nose.

My fingers traverse the keys in a basic scale before I look up at her, prepared to be underwhelmed by the pipes hiding in that lovely throat.

“Sing this scale and hold the last note for me as long as you can.” I pick out a basic scale I’ve heard Grady do with dozens of students over the years.

She closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, and duplicates the notes I just played with her husky voice. She holds the final note for a few seconds, and then her breath wanes, causing the note to fade away.

“Your tone is great.”

Sliding her hands into her pockets, she rocks back on her heels, faking nonchalance.

“I bet you say that to all the singers.”

“Then you really don’t know me.” I hold up a finger. “And you didn’t let me finish.”

She offers a quick nod, her posture deliberately casual. But I can tell she’s nervous about my opinion. Believe me—I’ve lived enough of my life looking for affirmation, so I recognize the need right away.

“Your breathing is off. Not by much. I can tell you know how to breathe, but you aren’t executing. Your notes aren’t supported well enough.”

Even though she’s standing and I’m seated on the piano bench, she’s only a few inches above me. I reach up, my fingers hovering over her throat, but not quite touching.

“Too much energy here.”

I envy the slim fingers she rubs against the smooth skin of her neck. My fingers float over her abdomen, and I lock my eyes with hers.

“May I?”

She lowers her lashes, eyes on my hand suspended and waiting for her permission.

“May you what?”

“Touch you here?”

She clears her throat, but if I’m not mistaken, her voice still comes out a little breathier than moments before when she speaks.

“Um, sure. Of course.”

I press my hand to her stomach, and my pinky finger strokes across something resting in her bellybutton. I look at her, brows lifted to ask the silent question.

“Belly ring.” A blush rises over the slant of her cheekbones.

Everything about this girl turns me inside out. The muscles beneath my fingers tense at my touch. The thin cotton of her shirt is a semi-conductor, passing electric current from her skin to mine. I look up to see if she feels the same shock of sensation that I do. Even though she looks away, she can’t hide that she does.

“So, your breathing.” Even to my ears my voice sounds deeper and heavier. I force a little cough and continue. “I always say singing is the two M’s, mental and muscular. Think about what you’re doing every time, and about using the right muscles and breathing properly. Do that until you don’t have to think about it anymore and doing it right is second nature.”

I press gently into the muscles of her stomach and lift my eyes to her face.

“More energy and effort and breath here.”

I reach up and rest one finger against her throat. Her skin is like warm velvet, her pulse strong under my fingers.

“You’re singing too much from your throat. Pull from your diaphragm. Better support, and you’ll be able to sustain your notes longer.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I’ve been out of consistent vocal lessons for the last six months. I do some with Grady, but I mostly work for him, and my breathing has deteriorated some.”

“Let me hear something else.” I pick out another, slightly more demanding scale. She matches the notes easily, her eyes flicking to my face for the verdict as soon as she’s done.

“Okay, you have a great voice. Really.” I meet her eyes frankly. “But if you don’t want to be just a dancer who sings, you need to work on adding some tone and texture. You do vocal compressions?”

“I haven’t been as consistent with them lately.”

“Get back to it. You dance every day?”

“Of course.” She shrugs. “It’s my job, so yeah. I dance every day.”

“If you want singing to be your job, make sure you’re doing vocal compressions every day too. Add some flavor. Something that’ll set you apart from every other girl after the mic. Give me one more scale. Focus on the breathing.”

She closes her eyes, and the muscles in her stomach tighten under my hand. Her tone, which really is beautiful, sounds stronger. The final note, she holds longer. She hears the difference like I do, and a smile lights her face up.

“It worked!”

“You sound surprised.” My laugh blends with the notes I pick out on the piano. “I do sing for a living. Maybe you hadn’t heard?”

She rolls her eyes and nibbles at her bottom lip.

“I think I may have heard something about you being God’s gift to the stage.”

“Wow.” I have to laugh at that. “Once you get started, there’s snark under that hood, huh?”

Her sweet smile chips away some of the sarcasm.

“I’m just saying. I’m from Georgia, not another planet. Even in my little backwoods town we know you’re one of the biggest names out there.”

“Yeah, that just kind of happened.”

“Things like that don’t just kind of happen for most people, you know?”

“I’m not saying I didn’t work hard at it. I did. I just didn’t know if I’d ever perform professionally again. When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I knew it had something to do with music, of course, but not exactly what. So I taught voice here with Grady for a while before going to Full Sail for production.”

“Are you kidding?” She grins at me. “I had no idea. So that’s why you two are close.”

“Yeah. That and the fact that he’s my uncle.”

“No way.”

“He and my father are twins.” I link my hands behind my head. Talking about my father usually makes me want to play less, which is why it took me close to seven years to play again professionally after I left his house.