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Maelie
“And you said no?” Jessie asked her later that night with wide eyes after she spilled the entire story. They were sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing each other over an enormous bowl of popcorn.
Maelie shoved a handful in her mouth, overtly proud of herself. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled around the popcorn. She still couldn’t figure out how she had managed to say no or why every time she thought about missing a chance to spend time with him, her stomach dropped. She would never tell Jessie this, but for the barest of seconds in his studio, she thought he might kiss her. The disappointment that he hadn’t was far stronger than she’d ever admit.
“Why?” her friend asked, daintily popping a single kernel into her mouth. It irritated Maelie. Who actually ate popcorn one piece at a time?
“Because he was being an ass. Agreeing felt like giving in.” Her tone went up with righteousness. “And you know how I hate to lose.”
Jessie eyed her thoughtfully for a few seconds and swished her long hair off her shoulder. “I do. Are you sure you’re not sorry you said no?”
Maelie lifted her chin. “No.” Sadly, it didn’t come out as powerful as she had hoped.
“Oh, come on, Mae, I Googled him today. He’s gorgeous. No, more than gorgeous.” She stretched her fingers out for emphasis. “Godlike. There’s no way you don’t regret it just a little bit.”
“You Googled him?” Maelie asked incredulously, immediately irritated that she hadn’t thought of it before now, and easily ignoring the implication. She eyed her phone sitting on the coffee table with mad desperation.
“I did.” Jessie ate another single piece of popcorn. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t.”
Ignoring the urge to grab her phone, Maelie shrugged. “I mean, what’s there to know? He’s an arrogant ass-hat.”
Jessie grinned. “So you’re not at all interested in seeing all the shots of him performing with his band? I think they’re called the Jazzmen.”
“That’s a stupid name.” She shoved more popcorn in her mouth.
“And pictures of him with like a thousand different beautiful women.”
Maelie froze with her hand in the popcorn bowl, eyes wide. She could hear her heart thundering weirdly.
Jessie went on, “In fact, I don’t think I ever saw him with the same woman twice. It’s like a Who’s Who of actresses, models, pop stars ... basically every beautiful woman has had their turn with the Seb Adams.”
Suddenly the popcorn wasn’t sitting well with her. She withdrew her hand from the bowl and sunk back into the arm of the couch as Jessie went on.
“It seems like he got into a little bit of trouble with the band in Europe, which is why he isn’t with them right now. He’s on a ‘hiatus.’” She made finger quotes. “But I’m sure there is a much more interesting story behind it.”
Maelie lifted an eyebrow, dying to know what it was. “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
Jessie leaned back against her side of the couch looking smugly triumphant. “But, of course, you, Maelie Barre”—she pronounced her name in a sweeping manner—“said no to the chance to spend three dates ...”
“They’re not dates,” she corrected.
“Fine, three ‘not dates’ with the man that no one has ever dated more than once. And you don’t regret it at all?”
“No! I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to say, but he’s still an asshat. I should think you would be proud of me.”
Jessie smiled. “Oh, I am. I’m just trying to get you to admit you’re attracted to him.”
Maelie rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, and collapsed back against the couch. “Yes, I’m attracted to him; I feel like I’ve made that clear. But again, and I repeat, he is not worth my time. He’s in love with jazz, and there is no competing with that.”
“Plus,” Jessie added, “can you imagine all the jazz you would have to listen to if you were with him for even a few days?”
“Ugh,” she groaned dramatically. “It would kill me. He probably has one of those toothbrushes that plays music, and you can be sure it’s jazz.”
Jessie laughed. “That definitely makes him less hot.”
“Truly.” Only it didn’t. Not even a little, and as Maelie climbed into bed later that night, she turned her lamp off, her phone on, and poured over the pictures Jessie had told her about.
The photos of him playing were mind-blowingly sexy—he played with such passion and swagger that she could feel his energy coming through the screen. And the videos, oh God, the videos. After she played a particularly delicious video clip of a solo, she had to turn her phone off because she suddenly had an ache between her legs that had to be taken care of.
She bit her lip as relief came, knowing she was well and truly in trouble when it came to Sebastian Adams.
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Sebastian
As Sebastian kicked around his apartment that night, he tried to figure out why he was so irritated with Miss Barre. He wanted to believe it had something to do with him trying to be a champion for jazz, but he had a feeling it went farther than that. Something to do with the way his nether regions twitched when he thought about her flushed cheeks and hard-set mouth.
It didn’t make sense. She was beautiful, to be sure, but there was no reason her opinion should matter to him in the least. And yet it ate at him every time he thought about it.
He had a suspicion it was because he was bored. And lonely. In the Jazzmen, he didn’t have to think about how to spend his time, it was scheduled for him, and the precious little time he had for himself, he usually spent with the closest hot female.
Now he spent his time just trying to survive mentally from meal to meal, day to day. It was so fucking depressing. And now he couldn’t even get a mouthy, not-at-all-unattractive woman to agree to spend time with him, even just to listen to jazz?
“Fuck,” he said aloud as he passed his coffee table for the thirtieth time. He had to think of something to do other than Miss Barre, or he was going to be mentally undressing her in no time.
“Fuck.” The word came out even louder as he imagined those long, artful fingers trailing down his chest.
Out of desperation, he retreated to his piano, sat down, and stared blankly at the keys for a long time trying to figure out what he was doing. He wasn’t a pianist; his skills were limited at best. He’d added the piano to the apartment as more of a status symbol than anything else.
With a sigh, he pulled out his manuscript notebook and played through what he had written the night before. He sat with it for a moment and then played it again.
He was shocked to find he actually liked what he heard. He played it once more just to make sure, and for the second time in a week, a real, actual smile broke out across his face.
With a renewed purpose, he cleared his head of everything but music and got back to composing.
He didn’t stand up from the piano again for several hours and two more pages of music. His legs felt stiff, and he had to stretch out his back. With a yawn, he shut the notebook, turned the light off, and wandered back toward his living room.
He sat on his sofa for a moment and took in his apartment in silence. This was the apartment he had always dreamed of having. Sleek, modern, minimalistic, black from floor to ceiling. Particular attention had been given to the wall-sized television and high-end sound system. Everything was well-made, expensive, and so fucking cool. Perfect for a famous musician.
But now that he was forced to be there day after day and make an actual home of it, it felt singularly cold and empty.
Maybe if he added some pops of color ...
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He pushed himself off the couch in frustration. He was definitely going crazy and the return image of Maelie’s flushed cheeks didn’t make him feel any better.