Page 67 of Synced to Us

“How many times are you going to make me call bullshit?” McKenna leans forward—as much as she can. “Dee, I’ve never seen you look or sound so insecure. And I’ve seen most of your sides.”

“I told you, I’ll be fine.”

“His family really affected you. I can tell. Does he—does Wyn know about your childhood? Everything that happened? Maybe if he did, you two could come together—”

“No.”

“Dee.”

I work my jaw, staring over her head at the other patrons quietly eating their meals. “I made sure Wyn never had to get to know me or my past. It wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Yet pretending to be his girlfriend was. And him acting as your fiancé. You’re telling me you were both ready to do this without involving feelings or understanding each other in any way.”

“It’s only been one weekend! Catching feelings after spending forty-eight hours with this man is a fluke. If I gave Wyn more time, he’d prove he’s just like any other guy, with bad habits and poor judgment and easily bored. I’ll get over it.”

“Sadly, you’re so utterly, ridiculously wrong.”

I scowl at her.

“You know his entire life at this point!” McKenna smacks her palms on the table to enunciate her argument. “You’re even aware of his mother’s problems, his sister-in-law’s passions, and had a close-up look at his brother’s maturity level, which I doubt has improved since high school. You’re emotionally involved, Dee Sparrow, whether you like it or not.”

I shake my head. “As soon as we got back to the city, I cut it off. We have the gala, sure, and after that I have to plan for our ‘break-up’ and work around Dennis’s blackmail, but it’s nothing I haven’t battled before. I can do this on my own.”

McKenna chews on the inside of her cheek. She won’t take her eyes off me, not even for the complimentary mango sticky rice that’s placed in front of us.

I’m about to order another drink to get some relief from her blatant attention, but then she speaks. “Dee, you’re an expert at men’s vices. You’re a genius at managing their bank accounts. How about for once you let yourself know a man’s heart?”

My own heart hammers in my chest. I curl my fingers around the stem of my empty wineglass, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking at the impact of her words.

“I can’t. I won’t.” My voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Not if it means unlocking my own.”

25

Wyn

With sweat dripping down the line of my back and sticking to my brow, the musical intent flows from my fingers, but the instrumentals just aren’t coming together.

I’ve been at this for hours, days, nights, working on the piano chart—I’ll worry about harmony and counterpoints later—but even playing the notes back through the music software on my laptop isn’t doing the trick. The time signature is off in my head. I could’ve sworn on my father’s grave the perfect notes revealed themselves as soon as I watched Dee slip into her town car. The stunning old Parisian architecture of Grand Central Station was the backdrop of a ballad, and the gap between us growing as she drove away, a requiem.

It hit me the way a punch to the gut would, interposing the Dee covered in wood dust with the sleek, professional creature I deposited into an oil-slicked car. Suddenly, it became obvious, all those different Dee’s she was showing off, keeping the most vulnerable part of her shielded from view.

The part I saw when my fingers slid from my keyboard, and I traced the line of her back.

How could I not write something about this woman?

Dee’s allure, power, sex, scent, smile—every aspect stifles my breath, opens my mind, and refuses to let go until I match the composition to the woman in perfect stature.

Our agreement remains solid, but my feet are on shaky ground. I’m desperate to bring something to my manager and get my former label’s attention, and I think this is it, fakeness be damned.

There’s nothing fake about Dee Sparrow. Everything about her is in high definition, yet I can’t get. Her. Right.

“Fuck.” I erase another staff on the music chart, my pencil nothing but a nub at this point.

Leaning back, I stare out into the immaculate city. Mason and McKenna’s giant windows resemble more of an aquarium than an apartment. I’m exposed, despite being thirty floors up. The glittering lights of surrounding high rises and the busy rush of traffic cover my body head-to-toe. I’ve been spending so much time here, I must be gilded in New York City’s white gold electricity at this point.

My head hurts, and I’m not an idiot. It isn’t solely due to my writer’s block. Ma owns the center of my worry, with Brad, Lucy, and Dee revolving around like various sized planets, asking me to be the sun.

I was tired of the pull, and worse, I allowed it by sending money every month and expecting a change when there was no force to activate it.

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