Page 68 of Serving the Maestro

“Well, work won’t officially start today, but the director insists on meeting you. Macri was adamant that you handle the music if you agreed, and the director and executive producer who greenlighted the project are cool with it. But they want to meet you before anything gets started.”

Dropping my gaze to the phone, I thought of the flight. Thought of Jazz and her beautiful eyes and how she melted against me.

“Trent?”

Dragging my gaze from the phone, I met Stephen’s eyes.

“I was trying to book a flight out to see Jazz. Today.”

Stephen winced. “She’s not going anywhere, man. This opportunity, though, will. They aren’t going to wait while you worry about your love life.”

“Aren’t you the one who was telling me I needed to ask her if she felt anything for me?” I glared at him.

Stephen shrugged. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean you have to fly out today.”

I lowered my eyes to the phone while a war raged inside.

“Fine,” I said after what felt like forever. “Where are we supposed to meet up?”

“Hollywood Hills.” He gave me a critical once-over. “But you have to shower first. And shave. You look like you’re a step away from living in a bottle.”

“Fuck you, man,” I said tiredly.

On my way out of the kitchen, my phone rang. Stephen picked it up from where I’d left it on the table. “Looks like the CS rep from the airline.”

I shook my head. “Answer it and tell them I’m not interested or just ignore it.”

If I got on the phone, I might change my mind and take whatever flight they offered, the need to see Jazz a visceral ache.

Soon, I told myself. Soon, I’ll go back and talk to Jazz.

TWENTY-FOUR

JAZZ

The Lyft driver found a spot in front of the employee entrance, and I only had to dart a few feet to get under the protective awning, but even a second in the pouring rain left me soaked, flattening my hair and the clothes I’d selected with deliberate intent, hoping to distract from my pale features and the circles under my eyes.

I’d looked like crap when I saw my reflection upon rising this morning. After an hour of work, I’d looked fine, and the dress I’d selected moved me from fine to sexily competent.

Now I probably fit in the category of a drowned wet rat.

Once inside, I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to fix the worst of the damage. Fortunately, my umbrella protected my face, so my makeup wasn’t running in streaks down my face. I brushed, then sectioned my hair into parts before weaving it into a loose braid.

My clothes, however, there was nothing I could do but change.

Since I kept a spare set on hand, I changed into jeans and a geeky t-shirt with a sad T-Rex lamenting his inability to do push-ups. I dumped my wet clothes into my gym bag and took them with me into the central part of the office.

I was far from the only person looking a little bedraggled, seeing several commiserating smiles from my employees who glanced at my casual clothes.

Cam was in her office on the phone and tried to wave me in, but I pretended not to notice, hurrying past her open door to reach mine.

The plan was to sit, get on the phone, and look busy—too busy for us to talk until my spinning head settled.

She derailed my plan by calling out my name before making it around my desk.

“How can somebody with a belly like a watermelon move that fast?” I shot her a dark look as I dropped down into my seat.

“Bitch,” Cam said mildly. She came around the desk and managed to hop onto its edge with the same grace she’d shown pre-watermelon belly. “The way you came running in here makes me think you wanted to avoid me.”

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