Best Friends Forever

“It’s ice-cold. I’ll be right back. There’s a little kitchen down the hall.”

“Mind if I join you? I could use some caffeine.”

She looks like she wants to refuse, but there’s no real reason for it, so she shrugs and stands. “I can’t stop you.”

While that’s technically true, if Chelsea asked me not to do something, I don’t think anything in the world would make me want to defy her.

I follow her down the hall to the kitchen where they’ve got probably ten grand in fancy coffee equipment just sitting out. I wonder how much of it is hers or if other artists also have studio space up here. I make myself a quick cup of espresso and watch as she basically does fucking alchemy to make some sugary concoction that seems like it should barely qualify as coffee anymore. But I pay attention anyway, enjoying this strange feeling of comfort at observing her do something so normal and routine.

We’re all alone up here right now, and I can almost imagine—with her in those sweats she looked like she tumbled out of bed in—that this would be our routine if we spent the night together. Getting up, making coffee in comfortable silence as the sun dissolves the fog outside and paints the morning golden. It’s a nice thought, but a damn weird one. I’ve never wanted a routine with any woman. Hell, normally the thought of waking up with one is enough to send me running in the other direction. And routine? Forget it.

This has got to be some forbidden fruit thing mixed with three long years of celibacy. That’s it. It has to be.

“So, I think we should try to write a completely new song together,” I say as we head back down the hall. She just nods.

“Any idea for subject matter?”

“Well, good girl, bad boy duet, seems obvious, doesn’t it?”

She rais

es her brows at me, letting me know that whatever I think is obvious probably isn’t. Or she’s being coy. I don’t know her well enough yet to be sure.

“Forbidden romance,” I say. “That whole ‘I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself’ thing,” I add, pushing for a reaction.

She doesn’t disappoint, nearly choking on her coffee, sputtering as she wipes frantically at her shirt before it stains. “That’s obvious, huh?” she asks, her eyes practically glittering with laughter.

I shrug. I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what I’m talking about, but I can play it off. I can plant that seed and then turn it around to work like it was unintentional. She wants to be a tease? Well, she’s not the only one that knows how to do that.

“It’s the angle the execs will want, and I’m sure it’ll play with whatever PR our managers have cooked up for the tour.”

She sighs and sets her coffee down. “Okay, you’re probably right. All right. Let’s do it then.”

This girl just keeps surprising me. Every time I think I’ve stepped too close, she’s there, challenging me to step closer. I can’t get enough of it.

For another hour, we sit there working through lines, reworking weird phrasing, trying to find a melody to go with the words we’d already come up with. Songwriting is always tricky, but with Chelsea, it’s actually fun. When I suggest a line that I think has some poetic merit, she just laughs and shakes her head, saying it’s way too cheesy. But then I realize what a real, honest-to-goodness laugh from Chelsea Garten sounds like, and I’m hooked. I make it my mission to make her laugh from here on out.

“We need a line after ‘I know I should walk away,’” she says, tapping her pen on the notebook.

“‘But your eyes hit me like an x-ray,’” I offer, earning a snort from her.

“Are you even trying?”

“Of course I am! How about… ‘but I can’t resist your swordplay’?”

“Oh God,” she groans, giggles shaking her shoulders as she buries her head in her hands. “You’re not trying!” She tries to sound angry, but she’s laughing too much to do a good job of it.

“Okay, okay, you’re right, I’ll be serious.”

She takes a deep breath and composes herself, her face still flushed with laugher. “Away… away…”

“‘You heat my blood up like a flambé’?”

Her face splits into a grin and she throws her pen at me, hitting me square in the chest. “We’re not getting anywhere like this,” she sighs, letting her laughter die down as she sinks back into the couch. Maybe I should feel bad about not getting much accomplished, but I can tell that Chelsea’s having a good time, and I know I’m having a good time. That kind of rapport and chemistry is as important to the success of this venture as the actual music.

That’s the excuse I’m going with anyway.

We’re both just sitting there in the quiet, staring at this notebook, Chelsea occasionally chuckling at something and shaking her head, when the door suddenly swings open. We both instinctively move apart like we were caught doing something wrong.