“Not gonna happen. Axel doesn’t want a slew of people in and out of his home. The only reason why you’re there is because he knows how carefully I vet my employees.”
“You must owe Harmony one heck of a favor.”
“Once this ordeal is over, Harmony and I will be even. Answer your phone the next time I call.” She clicks off.
“Goodbye to you too,” I mumble.
This whole thing is a waste of time. How am I supposed to question Axel when he’s not even here?
Two hours and countless skin pricks later, I finally finish the third tree. Needing a break, I stretch my back and go to the restroom. When I come out, I glance around the hall. Not spotting a camera, I pad over to the music room and linger in the doorway, letting my gaze wander. No cameras that I can see. There are several guitars hanging on the wall—two of which are Gibsons. A trumpet case sits on a shelf of a built-in bookcase. Of course, Axel has a trumpet. It’s probably the same one he playedwhen we were in band. There are framed pictures of Axel and his band, South Bound, around the room. In many of them, Axel is acting like a goofball, just like he did in band. A CMA trophy sits in the center section of the bookshelf, the slender prism glimmering silver. I pull my phone out and snap several photos that I’ll never be able to use in an article without giving myself away. However, the photos will help me get in the right frame of mind when writing the piece.
In the pictures on the walls, Axel looks chummy with his band. What happened to make him split from them?
The drum set catches my attention. It’s a high-end DW brand that probably cost almost as much as my 2021 used Toyota Corolla. My fingers are itching to try it out. I still play regularly … but only during daylight hours so my neighbors won’t complain.
I should turn around this instant and get back to work. And yet … when will I ever again get the chance to play on a drum set in Axel Cox’s music room? Before my brain can register what’s happening, I stride over and sit down on the drum throne. I pick up the sticks and wince when they stick slightly to the leftover sap on my fingers—the parts I couldn’t get off even though I scrubbed like crazy at the bathroom sink.
Tentatively, I tap out a beat against the snare drum. I go easy at first, not wanting to make too much noise. The acoustics are good in the room. Before long, the rush takes over, and I’m playing for all its worth, losing myself in the rhythm. Then I look up and freeze.
Axel’s leaning in the doorway. An easy grin tugs at his mouth. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Heat whooshes through my body. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the song.”
“Moonlight Mile.”
“Yes.” How embarrassing. It’s one of South Bound’s songs. I didn’t consciously realize what I was playing. It’s hard not tonotice Axel’s terrific looks and how his presence charges the room. He has always had that star quality about him. Seth—err, Axel—used to be gangly with an occasional breakout of acne. Now he’s lean with smooth, olive-toned skin and prominent cheekbones. I can’t decide if his eyes are blue or green, but they’re flecked in gold. His wavy hair is longer on top.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Good grief. Even his speaking voice has a musical lilt. I’m both disappointed and relieved that he doesn’t recognize me. Will my unusual name jog something in his memory? I hope not. “I’m London. I work for Bianca Jackson. I’m supposed to be decorating trees, but as you can see, I got a little distracted.” I offer a sheepish grin. It’s crazy to think the guy I crushed on all throughout junior high and high school is here. Or rather, I’m in his home. I’ve hated him for so long that I’m not sure how to act.
“Don’t let me stop you. Carry on.”
My eyes go round. “With you here?”
“Of course.” He strides over to the wall of guitars. “I’ll join you.”
“Okay.” How am I supposed to play in Axel Cox’s presence?
He reaches for a guitar, slides it over his shoulder, and goes over to perch on a barstool. “Count us off.”
“One … two … three …” I launch in with the intro. He comes in right on cue. We sound surprisingly good together, and I manage to hold my own. Axel even sings the lyrics. Once the song is over, he throws me a grin. “You’re not half bad.”
I smirk. “Neither are you.”
He laughs. “How about we try another one?Just Gone.Do you know it?”
Rather than answering, I start drumming. He comes in at the right time, and away we go.
At the end of the song, he calls out another one, and we play it. Exhilaration pulses through me. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.
“You’re pretty good at this.” He gives me an appraising look. “Exactly why’re you decorating trees?”
The compliment warms me from head to toe. To think what I would’ve given for a kind word from him back in the day. I have to remind myself that he broke my young, tender heart, and I’ve been gunning for him ever since. “Music is something I do for me.”
“I heard that.” A shadow crosses his face.
The journalist in me sniffs a story, but I have to tread cautiously—develop a rapport before he’ll open up.
