I wrote a filler piece last night—something to stoke the fire and keep fans speculating about why Axel split from his band. I sent it off to Harmony around nine p.m. Apparently, she wasted no time publishing it. I don’t know if I should be flattered or mortified that Axel’s talking about me.
“I’d love to get ahold of Jovie Chord and give her a piece of my mind.”
A startled laugh bubbles up my throat, but I swallow it down. This is getting … complicated. I focus on wrapping the lights, pretending to be utterly absorbed. If Axel knew who I was, he’d throw me out this instant.
He ends the call, goes to the sink, rinses out his bowl, and leaves the kitchen. I expect him to keep walking past me, but he stops.
“Are you seriously wrapping each branch?”
“Yep.”
He makes a face. “That’s gonna take forever.”
“Tell me about it.” My pulse jumps up a few notches. Now’s my chance to form a connection. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Everything okay?”
He grunts. “Some idiotic reporter’s writing a bunch of garbage without having a clue what’s really going on.”
“Oh?” It’s all I can do to keep my expression neutral. “What was the article about?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” His jaw tightens. “Just trash.”
I nod, forcing a sympathetic smile. “People love to stir the pot.” I’m such a hypocrite!
“Exactly.” He takes in a breath. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” He heads down the hall. A few minutes later, the mellow sound of a trumpet drifts through the house.
The soulful notes take me straight back to the past—when I was smitten by the cool guy with a trumpet and cocky grin.
“Finally, another tree done.” I plug in the lights, but the top half of the tree stays dark. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
I’ve spent two hours working on this stupid tree, and half the lights don’t work. I want to rip them off and hurl them across the room. Instead, I take a deep breath and force myself to walk away.
A trip to the restroom helps—slightly. When I come out, Axel’s trumpet is still echoing through the hall. A wicked thought circles through my brain. Do I dare?
I go down the hall and stop in the doorway of the music room. He’s lost in the music, eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of him—lean and handsome, mouth pressed to the instrument—sends a strange flutter through me.
When he opens his eyes and sees me, surprise flickers across his rugged face.
“Don’t stop on my account.” A grin curls my lips.
He laughs. “What do you think?”
“It was … okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow.
I cross my arms. “Maybe a little laggy. If you sped it up on the chorus, it’ll flow better.”
“Oh, really? And you’re such an expert on music?”
“You asked,” I smirk.
He chuckles. “Fair enough.” His eyes glint with challenge. “Maybe you could show me what kind of tempo you have in mind.”
“Is that an invitation?” I arch a brow. “Because I should really get back to?—”
“The all-important task of wrapping lights?” he cuts in, grinning.
“Yeah. Ones that don’t work.”
