The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

The mix room had a cool vibe to it. The walls were red, the furniture black, and mounted over the desk full of mixing equipment was a huge TV monitor displaying Warbler’s logo. Even though the room was carpeted, there was a red patterned rug in front of the leather couch. It looked comfortable but was currently occupied by a guitar case.

This room was a place of business, but it felt cozy and inviting. The small fireplace on the back wall had probably been functional when this old house was built, but now it was purely decorative. A framed black and white photograph of Stella hung over the mantle. She had on headphones and a microphone in front of her, and she looked much younger than she was now. This must have been taken when she was first starting out.

The wall opposite the fireplace had a door and a window, allowing me to see into the recording studio. It was also painted red, and black sound dampening panels bowed away from the walls. The floor was hardwood, but a microphone stood on top of a square rug in the center of the space. Otherwise, the room was empty and . . . waiting.

My cold sweat got worse. This was, like, legit.

I motioned toward the desk and the mixing console with all its knobs and sliders. “You know how to use that?”

She gave a half smile. “I know enough to be dangerous. But don’t worry, we’ll trust this session to a professional. Once you’re ready to go, I’ll call Ardy in and he’ll handle it.” She walked to the couch and reached for the handle of the hard-sided guitar case that was worn and scuffed. “Sorry, I’ll get this out of your way. You can put your stuff here.”

There’d been a black book on top the guitar, and when she moved the case to make room for me, the book tumbled to the floor, landing open and bending its pages. Trying to be a gentleman, I picked it up and smoothed my hand over the paper to flatten the bent pages—

“What’s this?” My name was scrawled in handwriting at the top, followed by lines in stanzas.

Poetry?

No. Lyrics.

The thin red ribbon to mark the page hadn’t lost its place because it was still tucked against the spine.

Erika let out a nervous laugh and reached for the journal. “It’s nothing. Something I was playing around with last night.” She added it like an afterthought in a quiet voice. “And maybe a little this morning while I was waiting for you.”

My pulse skidded to a stop. “A new song?”

Her gaze darted away. “It might be, yeah.”

Holy shit. My heart clanged awkwardly in my chest. “And it’s about me?”

Erika clasped her hands around the journal and hugged it to her chest like she wanted to seal the book closed forever. “No, not about you. But . . .”

It was hard to breathe. “But what?”

She lifted her gaze to connect with mine, and the rest of the world faded. I’d watched her enough to understand how emotions played through her, but this one was new. It looked like she was both terrified, and yet excited. “This song might be for you.”

I’d been disappointed when she’d said it wasn’t about me. This was way better. It was almost too good to be true, and my enthusiasm made it come out like a demand. “Sing it for me.”

Her laugh was embarrassed. “Oh, Lord, no. It’s not ready. I just started working on it last night.”

“You’re writing again.” I grinned. “After two years.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I had music in my head last night.”

Fucking hell. Even though I’d saved and scraped every dollar I’d had in college to afford my guitar, I tossed it carelessly down on the couch now, freeing my hands so I could grab her waist.

I made my voice sound as sexy as possible. “I wonder what’s changed?” The question was rhetorical, but I didn’t give her a chance to answer anyway. “It’s okay if you want to say my dick is magic.”

“Oh, my God!” She spun out of my hold and her expression was shock, but I wasn’t fooled. She was trying hard not to laugh at the truth I’d just laid down. But then her eyebrows pulled together in thought, and her lips turned down in a scowl. “This is business, Troy. You can’t talk like that here.”

My amusement faded as I realized I’d blown right by the boundary she’d asked for last night. And the boundary was there for a good reason too. This was her job, and I shouldn’t be fucking around with it.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I jammed my hands in the back pockets of my jeans to keep them to myself. “I got excited and wasn’t thinking.” The space she’d put between us helped cool me off and refocus. “I’m glad you’re hearing music again, and I can’t wait to hear what you’ve written—when it’s ready.”