In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(27)

“I’m good. It…it makes me less nervous to carry it. Makes me look legit, like I have a reason to be here…that’s all,” I say, my cheeks burning a little.

“All right,” he chuckles, a slight shake of his head.

The door shuts behind us and he slides by me in the narrow hallway, his body brushing against mine one more time. I need to quit noticing that. But then again, Casey Coffield was always good looking. He’s built like a bouncer, and I don’t think he owns a single shirt that doesn’t cut perfectly against his chest and abs. He always has a hat or a beanie hanging out of his back pocket, too—when it’s not on his head. That hair is in a constant state of tousled, and well hell, that’s appealing too.

But this is a business relationship. He made that perfectly clear. I suppose…so did I. Which is perfect, since the very thought of Casey—and his personality and most of his circle of friends, Houston excluded—has always annoyed the shit out of me. I need to remember all of those things. The grating character traits. The way he uses his brash humor and forced charm to get his way. That’s right—he needs me. I’m in charge here. I call the shots!

“So, let’s get started,” I say, my voice loud and confident as I step into the soundproof door of a small studio room at the end of the hallway. My guitar case scratches against the nearby console. As I turn, it knocks over a rack of headphones. I reach to catch them, snagging my purse on the arm of a rolling chair, which both opens my purse wide, spilling my things all over the floor, and has the equal effect of slingshotting the chair into the glass wall of the sound booth. It all ends with a thunderous crack—that somehow doesn’t leave behind any permanent damage.

That’s right. I’m in charge.

My eyes are wide and frozen on Casey, waiting for him to react. His are just as wide as he runs both hands along his stubble-covered cheeks and looks around the room that I’ve now knocked to bits and pieces.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out quickly, dropping my last hold on my purse strap and moving to my knees to gather back my lipstick, hair pins, roll of Tums and…motherf*ck there’s a tampon.

“It’s okay,” he says, bending down and picking up a few stray pens and my notebook. I can’t find my keys, and I start to panic, pacing around the very small space, my eyes on the floor and my hands at my forehead.

Casey chuckles.

“Murphy, really. It’s fine. Stuff in here is meant to withstand rock stars and metal bands. Look, it’s all cleaned up,” he says.

“Yeah, but my keys. Shit…I don’t know where my keys went,” I say, walking in fast circles and looking in nooks and crannies as if my keys somehow took flight, grew legs and walked into a crevice somewhere.

“Uh…Murph?”

Casey tugs at my thumb, which is pressed against my forehead, along with my…keys.

“Oh my god,” I roll my eyes, flickering them shut momentarily.

I am not in charge.

“Relax,” he says, his hand resting on my shoulder. His hand is still warm. He’s made of heat. That’s his superpower. Fire. He makes fire.

Breathe, Murphy.

I let a gradual pass of air drag out through my lips and nose, then inhale again slowly. I’m using the laws of biology, and my heart finally slows enough that I can hear my own thoughts again.

“Look, I’m allowed to be here. People know you’re here. I reserved time to work on a personal project. I haven’t even mentioned your song to John yet. I wanted the recording to be ready first. So, this afternoon…it’s just me and you hanging out. It’s no big deal,” he says, punctuating it with a crooked smile. I swear his tooth just gleamed out a flare.

Just me and him hanging out. No big deal.

“Okay,” I say, nodding with a tight smile. It still feels like a big deal.

“How about we set you up and get something on digital?” he asks, eyebrow ticked upward. I nod again and pick up my guitar case, resting it on the arms of the chair I just made into a weapon. I pull my guitar out and step through the glass door he’s holding open, then sit on the small stool in front of a mic, and the visual of exactly where I am makes my body flush.

“I don’t know, Casey…” I slouch and let the strap weigh on my shoulder again.

“There’s nobody watching. Look…I won’t even watch you while you sing. I’ll be too busy moving those dials up and down. I’m like a man possessed when I start working,” he says, his head cocked to one side and his eyes promising. This might all be charm, but I’m buying it. He crosses his heart with one finger, making a crease in the tight black shirt, and my eyes take in every line.

Man possessed. That’s what I hear out of all of that.

I gulp, but nod again—the kind of nod where my head never quite stops moving. Casey breathes out a small laugh and puts my headphones in place against my ears as I keep twisting my head like I’m psyching myself up to enter an MMA ring. I might as well be. Intimate performances like this actually make me more nervous.

When he’s done adjusting the fit on my headset, he looks up at me and holds up a thumb. I mimic him, even though I’m nowhere near ready.

The door closes gently, and the second I hear it click secure, I exhale. The room smells like whatever it is Casey wears. This is going to be the single hardest thing I’ve ever done. My lips feel tingly, and I’m worried they won’t work. My hands—I can usually trust them. I look down and strum a few chords, tuning as I go, playing small bits and pieces. For a spilt second, I lose myself and forget that I’m here, in a glass booth on display for a really hot guy…a guy who’s not my type.