The Unsinkable Greta James(62)

“I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” she says, but before she hurries out, she turns around one more time, looking at the girl on the stage—all elbows and grim determination—and she smiles. “Burn it all down, okay?”





Chapter Twenty-Four


“So I figured something out,” Greta says the moment Ben opens the door, and if he’s got any follow-up questions, he doesn’t ask them. He just stares at her for a second, the air charged between them, and then he takes a step forward, and so does she, and suddenly they’re kissing—softly at first, then more urgently—as they stumble into the room and onto the bed, letting the door fall shut behind them.

A minute later, he pulls away. “Wait, what did you figure out?”

She smiles. “How to play again.”

“You’d stopped?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

She ignores this, tracing a circle around one of the buttons on his shirt. “Hey,” she says. “You know I’m not really engaged, right?”

He nods. “And you know I’m not really married.”

“Well, yeah…but I’m more not-engaged than you are not-married.”

“That’s fair,” he says; then, after a pause: “But I don’t feel married.”

Greta laughs. “I’m sure nobody does when they’re sleeping with someone else.”

“It’s not that,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that makes her stomach dip. They both still smell like the outdoors, like sunscreen and salt water and earth.

“I know,” she says, and kisses his shoulder. He pulls her close then, and she rests her head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. Her eyes drift over to the table in the corner, where his typewriter sits, entirely incongruous beside his phone and computer and other more modern devices. “I still can’t believe you use a typewriter.”

“I know it seems pretentious,” he says sheepishly, “but it’s the only way I ever get anything written. No distractions. Just words on a page. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m writing rock music, not trying to crack the Watergate scandal,” she says with a grin. “I use voice memos to catch any melodies. And then notebooks for the lyrics.”

“I’m a notebook guy, too,” he says. “Nothing beats pen and paper. Though I guess it depends on the pen.”

She nods. “Rollerball all the way.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, shifting position so he can look at her. “You don’t use a fountain pen? There’s nothing better.”

“Yeah, there is. A fine-tip Pilot V5.”

He laughs. “What, do you have a sponsorship deal or something?”

“No, but I should really tell Howie to—”

Before she can finish, he kisses her, and when he pulls back again, his face is lit with such simple happiness that Greta’s heart does a little judder.

“Can I take you out tonight?” he asks.

“We’re on a boat.”

“It’s a ship,” he says. “And I realize that. I just meant on a date.”

“A date?” she asks skeptically.

“What?” he says. “Too formal? Too nerdy?”

She smiles. “No. A date would be nice.”

When she gets back to her room to shower and change, Greta glances through the pileup of messages on her phone. Pretty much anyone who’s ever been on the payroll has been trying to reach her. She calls Howie, and he picks up right away.

“Jesus,” he says. “Where have you been?”

“On a boat,” she reminds him.

“I know that. I meant— Never mind.” He sighs, and she can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he does when he’s stressed. Which is often. Howie manages only a small number of musicians, but most of them are significantly more famous than Greta, and he always seems to be on call. “Just tell me this. Did you do it?”

“Do what?” she asks coolly. “Get engaged to Luke?”

“No, did you—”

“Plant it? God, Howie. Of course not. What would be the point?”

“To get some publicity ahead of this weekend,” he says flatly. That’s the thing about Howie. He’s not like some agents and managers. He isn’t slick, and he doesn’t try to charm you. He’s a straight shooter all the way. Which is why she likes him. Usually.

“This is not the kind of publicity I want,” she says. “And for the record, we’re not even together anymore. I haven’t seen him in months. And I’d never leak something like this. Even if it were true.”

“Fair enough. Had to ask,” Howie says matter-of-factly. “Next question: Now that it’s out there, do you want me to kill it or wait till after this weekend?”

A knot forms in Greta’s chest, because she knows exactly what he’s saying.

That it could be helpful.

That maybe she even needs it.

It hasn’t even been an hour, but already the joy of playing again—the feel of the strings beneath her fingers and the reassuring weight of the guitar around her neck—is starting to fade.