“Oh, Nate?—”
I’m about to thank Trish when the studio door swings open.
I don’t turn right away, I’m still watching Trish shake her head in awe.
Then I hear it—a sharp inhale.
A sound I recognize instantly.
Adrianna.
I swivel in my chair, and there she is in the doorway.
Her hair is piled high on her head in a ponytail that swings when she stops moving.
Her sweet face is flushed from marching across the house.
And those velvet eyes I adore are locked on me with a storm brewing behind them.
She must’ve heard me reading the spoken-word placeholder lyrics I was testing.Because the first thing out of her mouth, low and tight and slicing straight through me, is:
“If she’s all that, then what the hell am I, Nathan?”
My blood runs cold.
“What?”I step forward.“Ad, no—no, it’s not?—”
Her gaze snaps to the computer screen where Trish and her wife stare like they’ve wandered into a live episode of a very emotional soap opera.
Adrianna’s voice drops, a threat wrapped in confusion.
“Two women?Wait?Who.Are.You?”
Trish lifts both hands like she’s facing down an armed suspect.
“Oh!Um—hi.I’m Trish.His manager.Married manager.Very married.Gay married.Over-a-decade married.Literally at my wife’s parents’ house for dinner in twenty minutes married?—”
I groan and slap a hand over my face.
This is a nightmare.
“Ad, stop,” I say gently.“Please.Come here.”
“No.”Her chin lifts sharply, defense mode slamming into place.“I just heard you—and her—and I—” She shakes her head, eyes bright with a pain she doesn’t want me to see.“I don’t know what I walked in on.”
Fuck.
FUCK.
I curse myself for not closing the damn door.For not knowing she was coming.For not preparing her.For not telling her I was writing a song—HER song.
Trish leans into the screen.“That’s Adrianna?From Adrianna’s Melody?Wow!He was literally singing about you.”
I shoot her a glare.“Trish?—”
“What?She needs to know!I swear he’s been insufferably in love since the second he got back to Jersey.I have receipts, lady.”
“Trish, I will fire you,” I mutter.
