Fish looks touched . . . but, also, distraught. And, suddenly, I realize I’ve asked too much of him. For God’s sake, Alessandra, he’s Fish from 22 Goats! Not simply Matthew, your sweet and adoring boyfriend! He’s taken a week off from his crazy schedule to hang out, like he’s got nothing else to do. But the truth is he’s one-third of one of the world’s most successful bands. He’s got hundreds of people counting on him to stick to the schedule! Fish has told me how much pressure he feels about the army of people depending on his band. The crew who’ve become like family to him, after four long world tours in a short space of time. Plus, Reed said my album will be fast-tracked to capitalize on the single. And Fish simply can’t do both things at once. Given Fish’s schedule, it was flat-out selfish of me to even think of asking Fish to produce my album.

“I shouldn’t have asked that,” I declare, cutting through the awkward silence between us. “I said all of that without thinking of the realities of your life and schedule.”

Fish looks positively heartbroken. “You know I’d love nothing more than to produce your debut. In a perfect world, I’d spend every waking minute with you, from this day forward. All day and night, every day. But right now I’ve got some intense obligations already lined up and I can’t just—”

“Of course you can’t. For a minute there, I forgot about the real world outside our bubble. I got swept up in the magic of this week, when it’s just been you and me. A tribe of two.” I smile sheepishly. “Please, pretend I never said a word about you producing me. Zeke will be great. I just need to be more assertive, that’s all. I can’t expect him to know me, the way you do. With you, I don’t even have to explain. You just know. So, with him, I’ll learn to speak up and push back when my gut tells me we’re going in the wrong direction.”

“He won Producer of the Year at the Grammys last year for Laila’s album.”

“I know. He’s amazing! I’m lucky to get to work with him.”

Fish looks decimated. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Don’t apologize. You’ve been my prince on a white horse! I’m the one who should be apologizing to you for my total selfishness. I’m a narcissistic sociopath for even bringing it up.” I force a smile. “Honestly, I think I’m just freaking out that we have to say goodbye tomorrow. The thought of not being with you every single day is making me think and say crazy shit.”

“Oh, honey.” He pulls me to him and hugs me close. “I love you so much. And I love your music.”

“I know you do. Please, let’s forget I said it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

“For what? You’re in a world-famous band! You can’t drop everything on a whim to produce your girlfriend’s debut album! I was a jerk for asking.” I snuggle into him. “Let’s not think about it anymore. It’s our last night together for a long while—the last time we’ll be able to sleep together for three or four weeks.” I squeeze him and nuzzle into his chest. “All I want to do for the rest of the night is snuggle you and kiss you and memorize exactly what it feels like to fall asleep in your arms.”

Thirty-Three

Fish

“Cheers, boys,” Dax says, raising his tequila to the group. After three long weeks of nonstop recording on our fifth album, Dax, Colin, and I are having a much-needed boys’ night “in” with Keane and Zander at the beautiful home Zander shares with his pop star wife.

Z’s lovely bride isn’t home this fine evening. Aloha is off with Maddy and Violet and a few others for a girls’ weekend before Maddy hits her third trimester. And even though I’m sitting in a perfectly decorated room with an expansive view of the canyon and my four best friends—not to mention enjoying some fine weed and tequila—and even though we three Goats have finally finished recording the main “bones” of our album, and will now get to focus on adding layers and riffs and harmonies to our songs—all of which is cause for celebration—I’m nonetheless feeling like shit tonight. Fucking miserable. A wreck. Which is the same way I’ve felt for the past three weeks.

Oh, God, how I miss Alessandra! Her touch. Kiss. Skin. That flowery scent. The twinkle in her bright blue eyes that doesn’t fully translate on a computer screen. We’ve talked quite a bit these past three weeks, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Especially when I feel so guilty about saying no to her when she asked me to produce her album. At the music video shoot, I said to her, “Baby, I’d do anything for you. Just name it, and it’s yours. Always.” And I meant it! I really did. So it pains me beyond words to discover my words were fucking hollow.

Tags: Lauren Rowe Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net