His grin widens, showing off perfect teeth. Of course they’re perfect; they go with the masculine symmetry of his face—strong jaw, high cheekbones. Even his tousled hair looks too good to be an accident.
“Nyxx Night, at your service. I’ll have you know critics call it the ‘Nyxx Night Flamingo Flair.’ It’s iconic.”
“Well, Mr. Night,” I inject as much disdain into the name as possible, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find alternative accommodations. I’m here to work on an extremely important composition, and I require complete solitude and silence.”
Nyxx pushes off from the doorframe and takes a step into the room. The motion feels deliberate—lazy, confident, the kind of swagger that makes you want to either punch someone or write a sonata about them. I instinctively back up, my calves hitting the edge of the bed.
“No can do, princess. My manager dumped me here to ‘get my act together’ or some such bullshit.” He doesn’t seem to register my shocked intake of breath, because he just keeps talking as though I want to hear one more word out of his perfect lips. “Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else, but here I am.”
“Stop calling me princess,” I snap. “My name is Anastasia Ashcroft, and I–”
“Wait, wait,” he interrupts, his mismatched eyes lighting up with recognition. “Anastasia Ashcroft? The stuck-up classical flutist who thinks she’s God’s gift to music?”
My cheeks flush with indignation. “I beg your pardon! I am a highly respected concert flutist, and–”
“And I’m the guy who’s about to rock your world,” he cuts in, winking again. The gall of this man! “Looks like we’re roomies, Ana.”
“Don’t call me Ana. And we most certainly are not ‘roomies.’ This is clearly a mistake, and I’ll be contacting the rental agency first thing in the morning to sort it out.”
Nyxx flops down onto my bed—my bed!—and stretches out like a cat. “Good luck with that. It’s Friday night, sweetheart. No one’s going to be answering any calls until Monday.”
I stare at him, aghast. “You can’t be serious. You expect me to share this cottage with you for two whole days?”
He looks up with a lazy, unbothered smile. “Two days, two weeks. What’s the difference? I promise I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. I might consider it, if it’s a special request.” His mouth quirks in a debauched smile.
“You’re insufferable,” I hiss, grabbing a pillow and whacking him with it. The moment the pillow connects, I realize I’ve crossed some invisible line between self-control and chaos—but God help me, it feels good.
Nyxx laughs, the sound rich and infuriatingly melodious. “Ooh, feisty. I like it. Come on, Ana, live a little. This could be fun.”
“It’s Anastasia,” I correct him automatically. “And there’s nothing fun about having my peaceful retreat invaded by a… a…”
“A devilishly handsome and talented musician?” he supplies helpfully, his head cocked at an angle that makes him even more good-looking. I would bet good money he’s practiced it for taking selfies.
I snort. “More like arrogant, inconsiderate lout.”
“Lout? I’ve been called a lot of names, but never that. By the end of the weekend, maybe you’ll have used up all the archaic words I’ve never been called before. How about rake, cad, boor? Oh, maybe bounder, brute, barbarian?”
My jaw works soundlessly. I’ve known him less than ten minutes and already he’s managing to be the most irritating—and disarmingly magnetic—person I’ve ever met.
He sits up, fixing me with a surprisingly intense gaze. “Look, I get it. You’re here to work on your fancy symphony or whatever. I’m here because I screwed up, and my manager thinks I need a time-out. Neither of us wants to share this space. But unless you’ve got a magic wand hidden in that prim little nightgown of yours, we’re stuck with each other for now.”
“I’m sure there’s a Motel 6 somewhere you could stay at. You look big enough that the roaches won’t be able to carry you away. I hear they’ll leave the light on for you.”
She crosses her arms, chin lifted. “Besides, unlike you, I’m here to work. Not only am I writing a symphonyandpreparing for an important audition next month for the International Philharmonic Exchange Committee—one chance to tour Europe with some of the best musicians alive. I can’t afford distractions.”
“I’m a rock star with a reputation. No motel is going to rent to me without pre-approval and a generous damage deposit. You’re stuck with me, princess.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point. It’s late, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and there’s little I can do to change the situation tonight.
“Fine,” I say finally, my voice tight. “You can sleep on the couch. We’ll sort this out properly in the morning.”
Nyxx raises an eyebrow. “The couch? Come on, this bed is huge. We could share and never even know the other person is here.”
The look I give him could freeze hell itself. “Touch this bed again and you’ll be sleeping outside with the woodland creatures. Possibly minus what is, no doubt, your favorite appendage.”
My threat clearly doesn’t intimidate him—his answering laugh is low, genuine, and maddeningly warm, the kind of sound that burrows under your skin and makes you forget you were furious. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Couch it is. But don’t come crawling to me when you get lonely in the night.”
“The day I seek your company willingly is the day pigs fly,” I retort.
