As Dust Dances (Play On 2)

I didn’t know how to reply. It was almost kind. No. It was kind to reassure me I wasn’t as big of a coward as I was starting to feel these days.

“And it makes for great music.”

And there he was!

I made a face at him and thankfully it broke the intensity between us.

“The next verse . . .” I tapped my pen against my notebook.

“Hey, baby, I’m gone ,

I’m trying to right all our wrongs,

So don’t come looking for me tonight.”

I sang the words directly into O’Dea’s eyes and when I was finished, I couldn’t help feel curious about the intensity of his gaze as he watched me. What the hell went on in his head? It was a mystery. Finally, he said, “Pen.”

After I threw it over to him, he scribbled on the piece of paper I’d given him, filling in the music for the new verse.

“Your wicked games are out of my head,

I uncovered all the lies you ever said,

And now I’m free for life.”

O’Dea raised an eyebrow. “You write fast.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it comes to you. You know exactly what you want to say. When I first started writing this one, I’d just left for Europe. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Now I do.”

He threw the pen back to me. “Better write it down.”

As I scribbled down the words, he asked, “And is that how you really feel? Or is it how you wished you felt?”

And for some reason—maybe it was the magic of songwriting—I answered honestly as I stared at the words. “It’s how I feel with three thousand miles between us.”

How I would feel if I ever had to face Micah again was a totally different story.

“And then into the chorus,” I said before O’Dea could respond.

“Repeat of the first?”

“Yeah.”

All too soon, I forgot why we were writing together. I forgot about the album that loomed over my head like a giant, hungry eagle.

Instead I enjoyed the process. I enjoyed writing music with someone smart, someone who seemed to get my music, and everything else drifted away. We even laughed together and worse . . . we agreed all the time.

The sound of my stomach rumbling broke the spell.

“Shit, what time is it?” O’Dea’s eyes widened at the sight of the sun dipping below the buildings across the Clyde.

“We’ve been at this for hours.”

“You need to eat.” He put down his guitar and strode into the kitchen. “What have we got?”

“I have a meal plan, remember.”

“Where is it?”

“In the drawer to your left.” I watched him, bewildered. Was he going to cook my dinner?

It became clear as he studied the meal plan and then pulled out the ingredients from the fridge and cupboards that he was. Watching him do this quickened my heart rate.

His phone buzzed as he chopped up vegetables for a stir fry. “One second.” He pulled it out of his pocket and then cursed when he saw the caller ID. “Hey,” he answered, sounding a little breathless. “Aye, I know, I just remembered. I . . . no, I’ll be there . . . Don’t . . . I know . . . Look, we’ll talk about it later. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up and actually looked regretful. “I forgot I have a dinner tonight that I can’t miss.”

Oh.

Okay.

Shit. That was not disappointment I was feeling. It was not!

This was O’Dea, for God’s sake. He was not the man to incite my disappointment. Ever. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. I wouldn’t allow it. Reality check, please!

Just because we did the whole songwriting thing well together did not a friendship make. “Go. I can make my own dinner.”

“But your cast . . .”

“I’ll manage.” I got up to take over. “Seriously. Go.”

His expression turned remote again. “I’ll leave my guitar. I’ll be back tomorrow after the manager interviews. Remember to read that folder.” He pointed to it on the counter. “I’d tell you who I recommend but I’m afraid you’ll deliberately not choose the person to spite me.”

I made a face.

“Okay.” He grabbed his keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I mused over all this time he was dedicating to me. Where were his other artists in all this?

“I’ll be here,” I muttered.

He’d disappeared down the hall and I waited to hear the bang of the front door closing behind him. I didn’t. Instead I heard his footsteps coming back and looked up from the vegetables. O’Dea stood in the doorway, studying me intensely.

It made me squirm. “What?”

“The hair looks good.”

He was gone before I could reply. I stared warily at the spot he’d been standing in moments before, hating that I cared that he liked my hair.

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU aren’t choosing any of them?”

I was unmoved by O’Dea’s frustration. “Just as it sounds. I’m not choosing any of those people to be my manager.”

As promised, he had given me the entire weekend to mull it over, but I’d known from the moment the last guy walked out of my apartment that I wouldn’t be choosing a new manager. It required too much trust. Plus, this person would be in my life a lot and I was already overwhelmed by O’Dea, Autumn, and Brenna after eighteen months of being alone.

O’Dea glowered at me as I finished my breakfast. “Does this mean you’re not signing the contract?”

I nodded over my shoulder to the couch. “It’s there. Signed.”

He looked even more pissed off. “Please tell me you did not sign a major record deal without the advice and guidance of a manager.”

“Yes. I’m a moron.” I rolled my eyes at his melodrama. “O’Dea, this is the fifth one of these I’ve signed and I actually read them before I sign them. I know what a legit contract should look like. Okay? Or are you trying to tell me that you’re planning to screw me over?”

“Of course not.” He looked peeved. “I just want to know why you don’t want a manager.”

“I can manage myself.”

He seemed to contemplate this as I finished my omelet and hopped off the stool. I was about to attempt to rinse the plate one-handed before putting it in the dishwasher when he took it out of my hand and nudged me out of the way.

I refused to acknowledge the way my skin prickled at his nearness.

“Thanks,” I muttered, finding a safe distance on the other side of the island.

“So . . . What did you get up to yesterday?”

I smirked at his back. The question was asked far too casually.

Yesterday was the first day he and I hadn’t seen each other since I moved into the apartment. Autumn had stopped by for some lunch but the rest of the day I got to spend reading. The Friday after my interviews with the managers, O’Dea had taken me to my health check. I’d also explained how important dental health was to me and he’d gotten me an appointment after the health check with his dentist. The nurse at the first appointment had taken much the same tests they’d taken at the hospital, but she also threw in an STD test. I wanted to tell her it was pointless, but the truth was the last person I had sex with was Micah and there was more than a possibility the manwhore might have passed something on to me.

As for my dental appointment, it wasn’t too bad. I’d been vigilant about my teeth while I was homeless.

After the dental appointment, O’Dea had asked me if there was anything else I needed before he returned to the office, and I said that I was out of books to read. We stopped at a bookstore and he disappeared while I mused over what to buy.

As I was deciding between two fantasy books, he returned holding a bag with the bookstore logo on it and handed it to me. “An e-reader. We’ll set you up an account and you can download what you like.”

“You need a credit card for that,” I’d argued as I followed him out of the store.

“I’ll give you mine.”

I’d scowled. “No, you’ve already spent too much.”