Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Oh, brilliant!” Rhys’s eyes go wide. “Alyssa Smith! You’re the girl that Geesha absolutely lost her shit over, right? The little indie girl who makes music in her bedroom?”
“That’s me.”
“Huh.” Rhys nods, his gaze traveling up and down my frame. “She showed me some of your YouTube videos, and I have to say, you’re a peach in person, Alyssa Smith.”
“Oh. I don’t…” I feel myself blushing at the casual compliment, Rhys’s gaze still resting on the lower half of my T-shirt. “I don’t really know what to say to something like that.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replies as he moves closer to me, close enough that I’m able to smell him. “You’ll learn how to take a compliment, soon enough, Alyssa Smith.”
Fuck.
He smells like the perfect blend of sweat and woodsy nature, like he’s just coming back from a midday hike. I’m so enraptured by his scent that it’s hard for me to focus on the conversation, my mind drifting to things that I should in no way be thinking about a guy who’s about to be my full-time co-worker—
Wait.
“Geesha Riley showed you videos of me?” I ask, coming back down to Earth. “Are you and her…are you guys, uh…is she your girlfriend or something?”
“Or something.” He chuckles, his laugh the kind I recognize as utterly contagious. “I’m not really the girlfriend type, if you know what I mean. And even if I were, I wouldn’t make that kind of leap with Geesha. Don’t get me wrong. She’s gorgeous and she’s great in bed, but God, all she ever wants to talk about is work, work, work.”
Rhys grins as he moves even closer to me, so close that he could kiss me if he leaned down just a few more inches. I haven’t been this close to a man in a long time. The smell of him is intoxicating, and I am feeling a bit lightheaded. His head tilts as he whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t you think that’s so boring? Only talking about work? Don’t you think there’s so much more to life?”
“Um…Like what?” My question too comes out as a whisper, as I stare into Rhys’s eyes.
“I have a feeling you already know exactly what I’m talking about, Alyssa Smith,” Rhys whispers back. “Don’t forget. I’ve already listened to all of your songs by now. I know how…unsatisfied you must be with things in your daily life.” His crooked finger rises and lifts my chin a little.
“Rhys,” Mr. Hanson interrupts the conversation. “Back away from Ms. Smith. And for the love of God, don’t make me add a No-Touch clause to your goddamn contract—”
“Oh, I would never touch a woman if she didn’t want me to,” Rhys says, holding his hands up in the air. He’s already backing away from me, a grin taking over his expression. “But that hasn’t really been much of a problem for me in the past.”
“Are you bragging about your dick again?” Another guy, this one American, walks into the recording studio, rolling his eyes at Rhys. “How many times are you going to make us listen to stories of your conquest, Oh Great Fucker of Women—”
The stranger then realizes I’m there, turns to look over at me, his shocked green eyes meeting my gaze. He blushes for a moment, his mouth snapping shut as he runs an anxious hand through his cropped dirty-blond hair.
“Jeez, I’m sorry,” he starts. “If I knew that we had company, I never would’ve started with—”
“I’m Alyssa,” I interrupt with a small smile.
He returns my smile, offering me a small nod, too. “You can call me Cameron, or just Cam for short.”
And I have to force myself to break eye contact with his perfect, perfect face, those green eyes reminding me of my favorite moments during hikes in the woods, the way the light hits the grass and plants, making it seem like I’m so much closer to the natural world. Cameron’s energy is different from Rhys’s. On the surface anyway, he’s already a lot less chaotic. He seems thoughtful. Considering the way he’d stopped himself from cursing up a storm when he’d noticed that I was in the room, especially. His clothes aren’t typical rock star either. He’s wearing a white tee and a blue hoodie that sets off his eyes perfectly, but it seems like an accident.
He seems gentler, too. He feels safe. For a moment, I yearn to reach out and hold his hand, eager to have some of that safety for myself, my nervousness about being in L.A. seeping away the longer I gaze at him.
I have to stop staring—it’s getting weird.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Another stranger suddenly walks into the room, twirling a pair of drumsticks between his fingers, the sticks swirling in the air as he moves. His dark hair is styled in a pompadour, over heavy brows and blue eyes. Only his full lips show any kind of vulnerability. His low voice is full of disdain. “Gregory, please don’t tell me that you’re trying to make literal superstars out of people who’ve never been in a studio in their life.”