I pat him on the back as I pass by the seat he’s slumped in and lean down so only he can hear. “Thought maybe you’d want to stand in front of the urinal. Heard you like golden showers these days.”

Sick, hung over, drunk or not, Nolan tears ass and chases me around the entire floor. I’m going to guess Tabby got a fair sample of what she’s in for over the next few months.

I told myself I was going to the meeting and leaving. I wasn’t going to hang around like a puppy looking for scraps of something he has no business sniffing around. Yet here I am, for the fourth time, passing by the studio where I know she works. I grumble at myself and set off to grab the coffee I avoided earlier before traveling back downtown.

Deciding some fresh air will do me good, help clear my head, I stroll to the main entrance. In the reflection on the glass lobby doors, a set of legs catches my attention. I’ve never seen them before, yet I know who they belong to before I raise my eyes to take in her beautiful face.

I hold the door open and wait for Lucky to pass. She’s busy messing with her phone and doesn’t look up until she’s about to cross the threshold. “Thank you,” she says, and then her eyes focus on my face and surprise registers on hers.

“Flynn?”

“At your service.” I bow my head and pull the door wider, sweeping my hand for her to walk through.

She smiles, but squints to assess me. “Are you following me, Mr. Beckham?”

The way my last name falls from her lips has me momentarily glad she knows I’m Mr. Beckham, because I could definitely get lost in this woman and forget my own name. “Wouldn’t I be behind you if I was following you?”

“I suppose…” she trails off suspiciously.

“You’re following me, aren’t you?” I deadpan.

“What? No! I am not. I was just leaving. I didn’t—”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“Oh.”

Without thinking, I rest my hand on the small of her back and guide her the rest of the way out of the building. It feels natural—right—so I don’t let go even when we’re outside.

“Your voice sounds hoarse, is it bothering you?”

It’s not. “Maybe a little.”

With concern in her eyes, Lucky stops and lifts her hands to my throat. “Is it sensitive to my touch?”

No. Although some other parts of my body feel your touch. “A little.”

“You need to retrain your voice or you’re going to wind up without one. Come by the studio. At least let me teach you some new techniques to help keep the strain off your cords.”

If she were any other woman, with the way my body reacts around her, I’d be detailing the techniques I’d like to show her in return. But I don’t. She’s not just any woman…she’s Dylan freaking Ryder’s woman. I should walk away, not even go near the temptation. But living life without temptation is like having a heart that doesn’t beat. And I’m a musician. I need a good strong beat.

Chapter Eight

Lucky

I peer at the clock through sleepy eyes and want nothing more than to turn over and pretend today isn’t today. But it is. Cheery sunlight flitters into the room through the open blinds and lands straight on my face. Dark clouds and rain would be more appropriate to match my temperament for the day I’m facing.

The life we want does not often come easy. It was one of my dad’s favorite dadisms. I used to ignore most of them, sometimes even roll my eyes when I heard them spoken. I listened to the words a hundred times, yet I never really heard him. Not until I woke up one day and realized I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m frozen in place. And it isn’t just the singing.

Settled into a comfortable life, I resist most change. My career, my friends—even my relationship with Dylan. He’s older, and moves at a faster pace than me. I don’t want to leave another one of my dreams behind. So I started seeing Dr. Curtis again. We worked together on my stage fright for almost four years, before I finally gave up. Six months ago, I decided it was time to try again. I realized I was more afraid of regret than I was of making changes.

When Dr. Curtis and I came up with the twelve-step-like program to combat my fear of singing on stage, it seemed so easy. The plans were all in the future, not the here and now. Now the day of reckoning is staring me in my face.

Step one: Admit you have a problem. That was a piece of cake.

Step two: Let go of the past. And so I sold half of Lucky’s to Avery. Became a silent partner only. Check.

Step three: Get a job that involves music. Pulse Records voice coach. Check. I’m making progress. On a roll now.

Step four: Sing for a small crowd of friends on a small stage.

The needle of progress makes a loud screeching sound as it halts. Herein lies the reason for my racing pulse this morning. I’ve already spent hours debating the definition of “a small crowd.” My definition was Avery and Jase. Somehow, I let Avery talk me into three more. Five is most definitely a small crowd. The idea of singing in front of one person makes my palms sweat. Two makes me lightheaded. I can’t even imagine what five will bring.

To make matters worse, I have to get through a packed day at work, which includes an hour of one-on-one coaching with Flynn. It’s not that I don’t want to help Flynn…it’s that I really want to help Flynn. Perhaps I’m a little too eager.

My entire life has been spent around musicians. Famous, infamous—legends, even—I stopped getting anxious around them years ago. But something about Flynn Beckham makes me nervous. He’s different. Sure, from the outside he’s a rockstar, all gorgeous and self-confident, with that laid-back swagger that comes with years of being praised for a multitude of talents. Yet somehow he still feels unaffected by fame. He’s playful. And comforting. Oddly, I find myself thinking my dad would have liked him.

The first step in assessing a singer’s vocal health is to observe. I ask the artist to recite the words to the song they last sang so I can examine their vocal posture during normal speech and inflection.

“Just a verse is fine. I want to see how you’re filtering laryngeally generated sound up through your vocal tract.”

Flynn shrugs. “If you say so.” Then he proceeds to recite some lyrics, “‘When life gets rough, I like to hold on to my dream of relaxing in the summer sun, just lettin’ off steam.’”

The words are vaguely familiar. “Is that from one of your songs?”

“Nope.” He offers nothing more.

“It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Who sings it?”

“Olaf.”

“Olaf?”

He smiles. “It’s from the Frozen soundtrack.”

“That’s the last song you sang?”

“Sang it three times just this morning.”

“Disney fanatic?”

“My niece, Laney, loves it.”

Earrings, rings, leather tied around his wrists, tatted skin, scruff on his face, hair a sexy mess—and sings Disney songs to his niece. The inside of this man may just be as beautiful as the outside.

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. How old is she?”

“Four.”

“Does she know her uncle is a rockstar?”