He reached out a hand and brushed his pinky against mine. “Thanks for coming.”
I twisted my head and smiled. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And you know what? It was true.
Chapter 11
Joz
Okay, I admit it. I’m obsessed.
Whenever I wasdeep in the writing zone, I blocked out everything and everyone, going completely dark. No phone calls, no texts, no visitors. I didn’t watch TV or listen to music, the latter being both a blessing and a curse. A curse because music fed my soul, but when penning my own songs, listening to other artists interfered with my voice.
A little over five weeks had passed since Aspen turned up at my place, and the summer heat had finally given way to a cool, autumnal breeze. Thank fuck. UK heat hit differently to other countries, and although I had air conditioning, it wasn’t found everywhere. Despite the crappy summer heat, I wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else. My inspiration came from these streets, from these people, from the vibrant and gritty music scene this country was famous for.
But this time it’d hit differently. I’d followed the same routines, cutting off the world around me to ensure I bled onto the page. Except thoughts of Aspen had haunted me throughoutthe entire process. More than one of these songs were about her. My obsession with the one woman who’d made it clear she was off limits grew like a weed. I’d given it the perfect conditions in which to thrive.
I missed her.
Her vibrant personality and sassy mouth. The way she twisted her hair around her finger when deep in thought. Her care for those she saw herself responsible for, even though they were grown adults who should be able to care for themselves. And her arse. Man, that arse should be illegal.
The album was written. Four weeks from today, I’d be in New York recording it, but I couldn’t wait that long to see Aspen. Now that I’d done the work, the urge to connect with her, even with an entire ocean between us, enveloped me. I checked the time. Twelve-fifteen, so seven-fifteen in the morning on the East Coast of the US.
Not too early, right?
Fuck it.
I turned on the phone I used for business for the first time since Aspen was last here. I had a personal phone, too, but very few people had that number. Only my mother and sister, Mike, who knew only to use it in case of extreme emergency, plus Kate. That was it. As the phone booted up, reams of texts and missed calls poured in. Journalists wanting an exclusive on why I’d chosen to sign with a small label when I’d had the bigger ones clamoring for my signature the second my last contract ended. A local restaurant who wondered if I’d consider endorsing their new business. A local music venue reaching out to see if I’d swing by one night. Know who hadn’t called or left a message?
Aspen.
Yes, I’d told her I didn’t engage when I was writing, and she’d obviously respected my wishes, but I kind of thought she might have checked in anyway.
Calling up our last text conversation, I typed out a message, deleted it, then rewrote it another five times before settling on the lamest text message ever sent.
Me: Hey.
See what I mean?
After tossing my phone on the desk where I did all my writing, I traipsed into the kitchen to make a sandwich. I wasn’t hungry, but anything felt better than staring at a screen and waiting for the girl I couldn’t get out of my mind to reply to my shitty text.
I’d taken a single bite out of my ham and cheese when curiosity and, yes, hope made me return to my office. The lock screen displayed a message. She’d replied. I opened that thing so damn fast. Was this what pussy whipped looked like?
Aspen: Hey yourself. Am I to take it that you’ve finished writing? Or have you broken your own rule because you missed my wit and humor too much?
I clamped a hand to my chest. This woman owned me.
Me: Yes to both.
Aspen: That’s amazing! Well done. Roll on next month.
I couldn’t wait until next month. This would need careful handling given Aspen’s all-business-no-pleasure line in the sand. A line I’d scrub out, or at least smudge, if I had my way.
Aspen: Now you’re no longer “dark,” how would you like to come to New York on Saturday to lend your support to Presley? He’s playing his first gig over here. It’s only a small venue, around 500 seats, but I’m sure he would appreciate your support.
My in. I wasn’t sure I believed in a higher power, but I looked up to the ceiling anyway. “Good work, bro.”
Me: Love to. Why don’t I fly in on Friday and take you to dinner?
