My leg bounces in my chair while I sit listening to Trent record the same lyrics he’s been recording for the last three hours. My head rests in my hand as I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair and try not to fall asleep. We’ve been working our asses off on this new album, and the long hours and lack of sleep is finally catching up with me.
Ned, our sound tech, stops recording and turns to Decker Cross, the biggest producer in LA and the man who’s about to make this album our best yet. When Robbie told us Decker had shown an interest in working with us, I think we all thought he was fucking with us. Decker only works with Grammy-award-winning and Billboard chart-topping artists. And while we hit one of those milestones, we have yet to get a Grammy.
But that might all change with Decker in our corner.
I thought we’d made it big before, but we’ve reached another level if we’re working with the elite of the LA music scene. It’s a humbling experience.
If only I was getting better sleep and could actually keep my damn eyes open today, then it would be even better.
Turning to Robbie, I whisper, “Dude, I gotta get some caffeine in me or I’m gonna fade fast.”
He glances at Ned and Decker discussing the vocals. “There’s a coffee shop halfway down the block.” He hands me a ten-dollar bill and says, “Be back in twenty minutes, or I can’t guarantee that Decker won’t try to replace you.”
I think he’s only half kidding.
But I can barely keep my eyes open, and we’re not even halfway through this session, so I snatch the ten from his hand and make my escape. The walk is fairly quick, and the fresh air helps wake me up a bit. But then the aroma of coffee beans hits my nose the second I walk in the door, and it’s like I can already feel the caffeine jolt.
Whoever invented coffee is my god. It’s the life-sustaining force that keeps me going when we have long recording sessions like we’ve currently been doing. Making my way to the counter, I stand behind a woman with light brown hair wearing a black tank top and purple skinny jeans. But it’s not her outfit that catches my attention, but the tattoos on her shoulder and upper arm. She places her order, and it’s her voice that hits me next. The melodic rhythm of the way she talks makes me want to listen to her for hours.
I’ve always had a weird thing about voices. Just add it to the long list of “weird” things I’m into. But weird is subjective. It’s all normal to me.
She finishes placing her order, pays, and then walks over to the pickup counter. I fight the urge to watch her walk away and instead step forward and place my own order, keeping in mind that I’m on a time crunch.
She’s still waiting for her drink—or drinks as it appears—when I make my way over to the pickup counter to wait on my own drink, and I am suddenly grateful I’ve never liked drip coffee.
Unlike other people, she doesn’t stare at her phone to waste time while she waits. Instead, she sticks her hands in her back pockets, her elbows bent, her body language open and relaxed. She intrigues me, but I’ve learned from personal experience never to judge a book by its cover. Too many times, people saw my long hair and laid-back personality and assumed I was some stoner drummer.
While I do occasionally smoke weed, that’s not my drug of choice. No, it’s always been the high I get from a sexual release that I’ve sought after—the kinkier the better.
“A vanilla latte and cappuccino,” the barista calls out, and the brunette walks forward and grabs the two drinks.
“Thanks so much,” she says in that sweet voice that makes my gut clench in the best way.
She walks over to the condiment bar to add cream and sugar to one of her drinks, and I fight the urge to bounce on my feet to dispel the nervous energy suddenly coursing through me. I want an excuse to talk to her, but I can see my window of opportunity closing fast. I just need one chance.
“A six shot Americano,” the barista calls out, and I pounce on the chance to grab my drink and make my way over to where the brunette is still fixing her coffee.
I normally know what to say or what move to make when I’m about to flirt with a woman, but this one has me all kinds of twisted, and I can’t figure out why.
“Excuse me,” I say as I step next to her and grab a sugar packet from the holder in front of her.
“Oh sorry, I’m totally hogging the space,” she says as she moves a step away from me, making room for me to put my drink on the counter while I doctor it with cream and sugar. She places the lid back on her coffee, and I know I’m about to lose my chance.
“I’m Miles,” I say, smiling at her with my most winning smile.
Her eyes sparkle with what looks like amusement, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I know,” she says before walking away.
She’s out the door before my brain catches up with her movements. She knew who I was? How is that possible? She didn’t steal glances at me—I would’ve known since I was stealing plenty of glances at her.
Thrown off and uncharacteristically disappointed, I put the lid back on my coffee and walk back to the studio. I’m dangerously close to hitting that twenty-minute mark. I make my way to our recording booth, still processing my interaction with coffee girl and why I was so thrown off my game.
When I walk into the studio, I freeze, my eyes not convinced what I’m seeing isn’t a figment of my imagination. But no, coffee girl is standing next to Decker, the second coffee she got at the shop now in his hand.
“Miles, glad you could make it back in time. If I’d known where you were off to, I could’ve told you to save yourself some time. Tamsin was picking up my usual for me.”
“Tamsin?” I ask, my eyes bouncing back and forth between him and the woman that’s captured my attention since the moment I saw her.
“My daughter,” Decker says, taking a sip of his coffee and turning back to the board.
His…what now?
Fuck me.
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