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My eyes return to hers. “You like the slower stuff? Why?”

She runs one finger along the edge of my worksheet.

“That song is just…really nice. I lose track of time when it’s on.”

I swallow hard. I can’t tell her that’s basically the biggest compliment she could have ever given me. For a second, I’ve got nothing.

Bea named the one song I wrote without thinking about radio play, streaming numbers, or whether a crowd could sing it back.

“I wrote that one mostly myself. Harrison helped with the melody, but it was a bit of a passion project for me.” I want her to know it was mine.

Her eyes crinkle. “I think you should do more passion projects. It’s really original.”

I don’t know whether I want to take the song back or make her listen to everything I’ve ever written.

So naturally, I grin.

“Careful, Doc. Keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re into me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh my god! I said I like the song.”

“Gateway drug.” I shrug.

We continue the session until she closes the textbook at five exactly.

“Same time Tuesday,” she says.

“Same time Tuesday.”

She loads her bag. I’m about to say something. I don’t know what.

Sorry about the call. Or thanks for not treating me differently. Or what are the calluses from?

Tell me all your secrets, Beatrix Walker.

Chapter Eleven

Bea

By five o’clock, the living room looks nearly party-ready.

“Move that one left,” Gianna says, pointing at the string lights I’m holding.

“It is left,” I insist

“More left.”

“Gia, it’s a fairy light; it doesn’t need to be that precise.”

“I have a vision. Do not question me!”

“You’re getting power hungry.”

She ignores me, tilting her head, examining the archway we’ve spent the last forty minutes constructing out of gold and pink balloons, now with the addition of string lights. “Actually, right. Go right.”

I go right.

“Perfect. Don’t move.”