Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
She replies instantly. It's a habit for her too. "The best songwriter I know, who can't keep a partner."
Fair. But true for her too. "Remind me. How are you in this position?"
She bites her lip. For a second, it's playful, like she likes teasing back. Then she shakes it off. "My ex—it doesn't matter. I want this deal, Damon. That's why I'm here. Not because I like you. Because I need the opportunity." She looks me square in the eyes, all fire and passion. "Do you want me to stroke your ego?" she asks. "I will. I'll get on my knees and beg."
That sounds way too sexy on her lips. "Don't get on your knees. I'll get ideas." I already have ideas. The image in my head is far too appealing—Cassie, pushing me onto the cream couch, dropping to her knees between my legs, wrapping her fingers around my thighs.
The flag is flying in five, four—
Shit. I try to find an unsexy thought. Say, Daphne's expression if she found out I fucked her best friend. It's enough to keep the denim in place.
Cassie's blush spreads to her chest, but she doesn't mention the sexual nature of my comment. "What about money? We'll probably make six-figures in royalties. Daphne says your parents are looking to sell this place."
And I won't have a place to live without money. It's not the most tactful point, but it's honest. I have to give her that. "That's it? You need me to write a few songs?" Something doesn't add up. One, she must be desperate if she's asking me instead of some other available songwriter. Two, why is she doing it in my living room? "You could ask over email."
"Well… there is one other thing." Hesitation drips into her voice, but she continues. "Frederick didn't relinquish the rights. We agreed. We'll both talk to the artist. Pitch our ideas. Pitch our team."
That's a little unusual, but it's not a huge deal. "So you need me to show up and look pretty?" I ask.
"Yes, but I don't need you to impress the artist. I need you to make goo-goo eyes at me."
What?
"The artist liked that Frederick and I were a couple."
Sure, it sounds cute, love songs by two people in love.
"And he still wants to work with a couple. So I…"
Oh. She's not here to work with me as a musician. She's here because she thinks I'll play this game with her. "You told your ex-boyfriend we're together?"
"A little."
"I'm your go-to fake-boyfriend?"
"You know me. I always love to make a deal with the devil."
That's almost clever. She can do better. But then she is desperate. Really desperate.
Would she actually get on her knees?
No. Cassie would never use sex as a trading card.
The porno-insanity fantasy is fucking with my head. Not that I'd accept. Even if Cass wasn't Daphne's friend or my long-time rival, that shit is fucked up.
There's nothing hot about transactional sex, about women who only want to fuck you because you show up with the good stuff. It's empty and sad and fake as fuck.
Like this idea. "You really think we can pretend we're in love?"
"It's only a few pitch meetings," she says. "And then, if we do win the contract, we'll have a songwriting weekend. At his place. Three days of back-to-back music and lyrics."
That's not a yes.
She doesn't believe it either.
"All you have to do is pretend you want to kiss me for a few days," she says.
Not a few days. A few weeks. Months, probably. These things always take longer than the management team expects.
And I don't have to pretend. That's the problem. I want to kiss Cassie.
The fact that she wants to slap me makes me want to kiss her more.
For the first time in forever, I feel something besides that empty sense of numb.
I feel possibility.
I feel the most dangerous thing in the world—
Hope.
I need that, but I need to be smart too. To make sure Daphne and I are on the same page about this. To make sure this is going to fuck up anything worse. "Let me sleep on it."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's late," I say. "If you want to crash here, we can pick this up in the morning."
"Sure, but do me one favor," she says.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Close the door next time."
Chapter Four
Cassie
After I take a shower in the bathroom in the hall, I set up in the spare room, the one I used to call mine.
From the time I was eight to the time I was eighteen, I spent the summer at Daphne and Damon's house. The Webb family is friends with my family. Our parents worked together a long time ago. They stayed close. They're still close. Our parents still vacation together every year, just after Christmas.
Damon's dad is a songwriter. So he has the flexibility to babysit kids all summer. He was always here, all day, all night.