Page 16 of Erik

I huff, muttering under my breath, “Not that I behave much better either.”

The entrepreneur self I’ve built over the years, with arduous effort, goes out of the window each time our stares meet. He’s got an eerie power over me I can’t explain. My inner teen takes over, and I react to his moods with a snappy attitude of my own.

This is not working.

Yesterday, he lashed out when I couldn’t remember how to play a particularly difficult sequence. Granted, I failed it half a dozen times. In my defense, he was standing so close to me, his pheromones caused a sensory overload. In any case, I had to dash out of the deserted soundstage before I broke out in tears. Except, I’ve run out of tears a lifetime ago. I never cry, so why would I start now, in front of him, of all people?

I cannot go on like this.

A couple of feet shy of his trailer, I grumble to myself, “I'll put an end to his torture of my senses today.”

With the sole of my right boot resting on the first step of the metal stairs that lead to his door, I pause. Grabbing the leather strap with my left hand, the shiny material bites my palm, grounding me in the moment. I knock twice before turning the knob and swinging the door open.

The sight of Erik Crawford standing by the door, a single red rose in his hand, throws me off balance as I step inside. My blood zings through my veins so fast my eardrums ring. I dart my eyes from his hands to his face and back down again.

He scoffs, handing me the flower. “Too much?”

I accept it with the silliest of smiles on my lips. “No, just unexpected.”

He gestures to the couch opposite his desk. When I pass by him on my way there, he wraps his long fingers around the strap on my shoulder. I stop, and he assists me pulling the guitar case over my head and settling it on the floor.

On the glass top of the desk, I find an empty porcelain vase half-filled with water.

“May I?” I ask, tipping my head to the container.

“That’s why I’ve put it there.”

As I arrange the rose in the black vase, I try to organize my scattered thoughts. This right here is another example of the emotional turmoil of the past week. I need to get my act together. Plopping myself on the couch, I take a deep inhale.

I must end this today.

Then, I make the mistake of gazing up into his deep-set, dark brown eyes. My heart thuds against my ribcage as he sinks into an elegant crouch in front of me.

Resting his palms on the leather, on either side of my hips, he holds my stare. “I was an ass yesterday. I mistreated you and I am sorry.”

For a split moment, a myriad of emotions parade on his expression, with self-reproach marshaling the herd. My heart breaks at the sight. He quickly slides on his perpetual mask of aloofness, and I’m back at wondering if I’ve seen things that don’t exist.

He adds, “It’s no excuse for my behavior, but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I understand.” Pulling on my big girl pants, I go on, “I understand that making a new album on top of producing a film could drive anyone insane. Hats off to you for that.” I pause, scanning his face, at eye level with mine. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve taken on the extra hassle of trying to help me learn music.”

“Angel, I’m dying to teach you so much more than music.”

My skin sizzles under the once-over he gives me. I should be annoyed at his behavior, but my brain is too busy sorting out X-rated images to care about anything else. I gasp when he leans forward, sweat trickles down my spine.

Instead of kissing me, Erik pushes his palms against the cushions, and bolts up. He narrows his eyes and presses his lips into a white slash. “But we’ve got work to do. Let’s hear you play, Ms. Daee.”

My head spins with the hundred-eighty-degree turn in our conversation. My rising temperature plummets as if he has dumped a bucket of ice on my head. It’s all that diving in a frozen lake routine again. I comb my fingers through my curls as I watch his retreating back. He shuffles music papers on the desk. Examining them, picking some, and discarding others, he’s forgotten I’m in the room.

My heart can’t take this any longer.

I spring from the couch. With a huff, I bend to collect the guitar case. As I fumble with the damn strap, I recall all the ways Erik Crawford is an ass. I’ll tell him off, walk out, and never come back. By the time I straighten up again, I’ve got a speech on the tip of my tongue.

I choke on it when our eyes meet.

I drown on the sea of vulnerability staring back at me from the chocolate depths.

A deep wrinkle furrows his brow as he slides a sheet over the surface of his desk, rotating it so I can read it. “This is something I’ve been working on. I thought it’d be a good exercise for you to read the music as you play it. There’s no muscle memory, you know?”

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