Nina
Itrudge up the studio stairs feeling awful. My back is sore—presumably from the crash, and my head pounds. Vinny stopped on the way here to get me water and paracetamol, and Mase made me promise to call if I felt off in the day.
As I reach the top step, I spot Erin in the office looking nothing less than perfect. Rolling my eyes, I walk into the room, feeling like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards. “How do you look so fresh after your flight and then a late night?” I ask, falling into the seat opposite the desk.
“Nina, your head, what happened?” she worries, eyeing the bruise on my brow.
“Don’t ask,” I say, shaking my head. She doesn’t need to worry about me, and I don’t need to relive the guilt of crashing Mason’s car.
“I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s looking incredible. You never told me how big the gym was. I expected a couple of treadmills.”
“Yeah, it’s getting there. I love it here really. Sorry, I must seem like a right grumpy cow. I got my period last night, and it’s hit me hard.”
“Ugh, cue the car crash.” She laughs. “I’m a raving bitch on my period.”
I laugh at the irony in her comment. “Oh, you have no idea.”
My morning only gets worse. Both my one-on-ones were late, which now only gives me twenty minutes until my next class. I call Scarlet and tell her I can’t meet, but that the girls will be free if she still wants to do lunch.
I’m wiping down the mirrors when Erin pops her head around the door. “Oh, thank god you’ve stopped. You’re one busy lady!”
“Don’t, I’m starved.”
“I have half a sandwich left if you want it? Cheese and pickle.”
“Yes! Can I? I don’t know how I will make it to five o’clock.”
“Sure, hold up.”
She disappears, returning seconds later with the sandwich.
“Thank you, Erin.” I take it from her, biting into it immediately.
She smiles, but a frown creases her brow.
“What?” I wipe at my mouth, thinking I must have pickle there, and my cheeks heat.
“Nothing,” she says. “Your mum called. I wrote down the number, it’s in the office. She said she’s been trying to reach you, and the phone had like fifty-something messages on it.”
“Oh, thanks, sorry about that.”
How did she get the studio number? I haven’t answered a call from my mum in weeks, yet she rings every other day like clockwork. I promised myself I’d wait until after the showcase to deal with both my mum and my potential dad situation.
“Don’t apologise,” she says, waving me off.
Her eyes roam the studio, falling on the piano. She walks over to it, gliding her petite, pale hand over the top of it. An aching primal urge wracks through me, and I want to tell her not to touch it, which is odd, considering it’s hers.
She turns to me and smiles tight. “I better get back to it.”
“Of course. Shout if you need me.”
She leaves the studio, closing the door behind her, and I turn back to the piano and stare at it, wondering why she has it here. Leaning in, I run my pointer over the initials I’ve traced a hundred times before. EML.
Mase
I need to stop allowing my friends in my office for lunch.
And my receptionist.
