Page 56 of Sweet Surrender

No more running, no more doubt

Take my heart, don’t let me go

Hmm-Hmm-Hmm”

Eating crow is never fun and yet this is what I need to do.

I came into this situation knowing exactly what it was—a deal, an agreement, a way to better his image and my bank account. It’s not Jase’s fault that I liked the man I thought he was and misinterpreted the kiss. Again.

I’ve been corrected and while I still think he was in the wrong for not telling me about the photographer, my footing has been reaffirmed and I know squarely where I stand.

Jase Gizmodo is a flirt. While it’s probably innocent in nature, it’s just how he is, he doesn’t understand that casual kisses and crooked smirks aren’t the norm . . . for me.

Or that a man who looks like he does and can sing like he can is a hard one not to like.

With a deep breath, I step into the doorway to try to right the wrongs from earlier. It’s the least I can do since we’re stuck with each other for the next few months.

Jase is sitting so I’m met with his profile. He’s shirtless with his hair falling on his brow as he hunches over an acoustic guitar. He holds a pencil between his lips as he nods at whatever he’s been writing on the scribbled sheet of paper in front of him. A keyboard is to his right and a computer that looks like it has some kind of program open is to his left and angled in my direction.

That reminder that I can’t crush on him just hit hard and heavy as I stare at him in his element.

“Hey,” he says when he catches sight of me. “Give me one second. I don’t want to forget what’s in my head.”

“Of course.” I stay where I am, conscious that this is his inner sanctum and he may not want me here.

He hums through a few more notes as his fingers hit the keys on the keyboard before setting the guitar in its stand and looking over to me. His expression is stoic. “Did you need me?”

“You play all these instruments?” I ask and move into the studio, completely impressed.

He nods as I reach out and run a finger over the cymbal so that it moves. “I do. Well enough to get by but drums is my main instrument.”

“That’s admirable. I can’t even play one let alone three. I mean, what are those things that kids take home in grade school that parents despise?”

“A recorder?”

“Yeah. That.” My smile is automatic at the thought of how hard I tried to play that damn thing. “I think my mom may have ‘accidentally’ thrown it away.” I glance his way. He’s standing on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching me as I move around the space.

“No doubt you drove her up a wall playing it.”

“Definitely. Did you drive your parents crazy practicing the drums?”

His smile is quick but strained. “Something like that.”

It’s a non-answer but I don’t push. He’s uncomfortable talking about his family—that’s obvious—and if he wants to tell me, he’ll tell me.

“Your dad?” he asks.

I shrug. “Never knew him. From what I’ve heard about him, don’t think I want to.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You can’t miss what you never had, right?” I say the words, the ones I tell everyone, but it doesn’t lessen that small pang I get. It doesn’t ease that curiosity over why he didn’t want me.

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” he says softly.

“Perhaps.” I run my finger across several keys of the keyboard, the sound harsh despite the beauty of the individual notes. “I don’t mean to bug you.”

He moves to the opposite side of the room now, almost like he’s purposely keeping distance between us, before taking a seat on the stool behind his drum set. “Didn’t bug me. I could probably use the break.”