He threw back the rest of his coffee, putting the mug down on the counter. Without meeting my eyes, he turned away to walk down the hall. “You can’t play,” he called out, “but I can. And we have an album to write.”

When he returned, he had a guitar case in hand. He put it up on the island and opened it. I stood to get a better look, my fingers itching to play it, but instead of taking out the guitar, O’Dea pulled out papers.

“The contract.” He handed it over to me. “I canceled the makeup artist since Autumn took care of that.” He indicated my face. “I’ve set up interviews with a few managers in the morning.” He held out a small folder for me to take. “All three are in there. Their credentials, everything. Talk to them. Get a feel for them. Make a decision. Once that’s done, you hand the chosen one that.” He tapped the top of the contract. “He or she will make sure you’re taken care of before you sign it.”

“I know how it works.” I dropped the papers on the counter by the guitar. “So, I’m just supposed to pick a manager in one day?”

“No, I’ll give you the weekend to think about it.”

How was I supposed to do this? Gayle had been my manager since I was sixteen years old. I trusted her. “Magnanimous of you.”

“I’d prefer it if we could get through the day without the sarcasm.”

I stared incredulously as he pulled a Taylor Dreadnought out of its case. Okay, he had great taste in guitars. So what? “Since when do label execs write albums?” The answer was never. “Don’t you have a producer who could work with me?”

“I used to be a music producer at the label.” He strolled over to the sofa with the guitar.

A producer before he was an exec? He didn’t seem old enough to have accumulated all that experience. “How old are you?” I sat down on the chair across from him.

“Thirty.”

Six years older than me. He’d packed in a lot in a short time. “If you’ve been an A&R executive for five years, then you were a pretty young producer.”

“I haven’t been an A&R executive for five years.”

I frowned. “But Autumn said you’ve brought in a lot of successful new artists in the last five years.”

“I have. As a producer. I worked for Skyscraper and several other labels, depending on who the artist was. But my goal has always been A&R at Skyscraper. I got that job eighteen months ago.” There was a bitter note to his tone and it reminded me of what Autumn said about their uncle making Killian jump through hoops.

“Your uncle’s a bit of a hardass, huh?”

Surprise flared in his eyes for a second but was immediately flattened by understanding. “Autumn.”

“She told me about your uncle. That he’s the label head.”

“Aye.”

“And that he’s hard on you.”

O’Dea’s features grew taut with the subject. “He expects the best, that’s all. And so do I. Let’s get to work.”

Okay. Got it. Subject off-limits. “I’ll get my notebook.”

When I returned, he held his hand out for it.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Well, I’m assuming you’ve written the sheet music in there?”

“I have.” I’d also written really personal shit in there. “Point?”

“I’ll need it.” O’Dea gave me his intense, focused stare. “To play because you can’t.”

I flipped through the notebook until I found the sheet music to one of my unfinished songs. I ripped it out and handed it to him. “I’ve been working on this one.”

He nodded but looked less than pleased as I sat down with the notebook open, ready to write. “You ever going to trust me?”

“Doing this,” I gestured between us, “is trust.”

He didn’t respond but I guessed he was satisfied because he glanced at the paper, put it down, and strummed the guitar to tune it. My gaze followed the way his long, masculine fingers plucked at the strings and I felt a little flutter low in my belly.

It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Flushing, I looked away.

I’d always had a thing about a guy’s hands, especially watching them play guitar. When Micah found out, he teased me about it.

“Does that get you hot?” He’d grinned, tickling the guitar strings. “Does it make you feel good?”

“Kicking you in the nuts will make me feel better.” I’d laughed, throwing my notebook at him. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“How about this?” Micah had stood up, doing a complicated riff as he walked over to me. His green eyes danced with amusement and longing. He got down on his knees in front of me and made me laugh harder as he played a Spanish serenade. “A serenade for my señorita,” he’d cracked.

God, I love you, I’d thought, impulsively leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

When I’d pulled back, he’d seemed stunned. And then he grinned. “It does get you hot.”

“Skylar? Skylar?”

I blinked, coming back to the apartment, to Killian. “Yeah, what?”

His eyebrows drew together. “Where did you go?”

“To a place that’s gone.”

After a moment of study, he smirked. “You are a writer.”

“Then let’s write.”

Without looking at the paper I’d given him again, O’Dea played my half-written tune. I was so impressed I almost missed my cue.

“Hey, baby, go home,

Stop holding me down

’Cause you’ll keep holding me down for life.

“Your toxic love seeped into my blood,

Twisted kiss drowning me in its mud,

But I need to breathe tonight.

“You know it’s true, I loved you.

You know it’s true, I needed you.

“And what is worse I let you love, love, love

Me till you’d fucked the love right out of me.”

O’Dea stopped playing and stared, scrutinizing me. I shifted, uncomfortable with that gaze that seemed to see too much. “That’s all I’ve got so far. What do you think?”

“It works. I like that a lot of your lyrics are a little dark juxtaposed with upbeat tunes.”

“You know I was thinking this one could have a kind of electro-pop, synth-pop sound to it. Like Sia, Halsey. That kind of feel.”

“Is that how you envision the album?”

“O’Dea, let’s be serious. I don’t know how to envision an album I don’t want. I can, however, envision songs. That’s how I envision this song.”

His lips pinched together at the reminder I was doing something I didn’t want to do. As usual he didn’t acknowledge it. He settled into his guitar. “Again. This time cut the first ‘Me’ from the second-to-last line of the chorus. It doesn’t fit.”

We did it again. And the bastard was right.

“It works,” I agreed. Begrudgingly.

“Is it about Micah Murphy? The song?”

My breath caught, even though it wasn’t really a surprise that he’d guessed correctly. “Is that going to be part of this? You want to know what’s behind the lyrics?”

“You can tell me as much as you’d like. But if you want me playing go-between with you and your band when the news breaks of your return, maybe I should know exactly what I’m getting in between.”

“Nothing as far as I’m concerned.”

“And as far as he’s concerned?”

“I wouldn’t know anymore.”

“But there was something? The tabloids were right?”

“We weren’t good for each other,” I offered. “We brought out the worst in each other. I let him . . . I let him manipulate me too long. And I retaliated too much.” I flinched, shocked I’d said that all out loud. And to him of all people.

“Writing helps.” O’Dea shocked me even more with his response. “I know you think you’re running away from what happened. I know you won’t go to therapy. But maybe this is your therapy.” He nodded to the notebook in my hand. “You’re doing something about it, even if you don’t think you are.”