Page 77 of Play the Last Track
“Yes. Of course, you can.” She hesitates but only for a moment before she takes my hand and leads me down the corridor. There’s a fancy code lock on the door, and she taps in four digits. It beeps, and the door clicks open.
The room isn’t bright. Katie switches on the light overhead, but it’s dull, likely in need of a change. I expected it to be an office, and maybe she was going to show me her plans for the bar. It’s all she’s been talking about since we came home from her parents’ house last week.
Instead, it’s full of musical instruments and recording equipment. There’s a laptop on the desk, a camera, and a microphone plugged into a sound board. There are wires along the ground, connecting the keyboard and the two different guitars on stands in the corners.
“What the—” I step into the room behind her, taking it all in. “So youdoplay more than occasionally?”
I smirk, snaking a hand around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. She sniffles but lets me.
“Yes. More than occasionally.” She taps my arm, and I release her. Moving over to the music station, she lifts the lid of the laptop and, once it loads, steps aside to show me the screen.
It’s a YouTube page. Not just any YouTube page, but the one I showed her the night I called from my hotel. The one that’s been posting all my favorite love songs.
“But that’s—” I look over at Katie. She’s wrapped her arms around her middle like she’s protecting herself from whatever my reaction is going to be. “Is this you? This channel?”
She nods.
Chapter Twenty-One
Katie
So,everyoneknows.
Flynn, Ivy, and even Scott.
They all know about the channel, the music producer, and the fact that Grant was the one to spill the beans by sending all my videos to said music producer. Instead of spending the night eating dinner and talking about the wedding, Ivy grilled me on the music and the channel. Flynn stayed quiet, but his hand also stayed under the table and firmly on my knee for the whole evening.
The house is dark and cold when we get home. I slip off my shoes, not bothering with the hallway lights as I head for the living room and the fireplace. All I feel like doing is curling up under a blanket, with the fire on, and watching a show. I want to forget about Grant. I want to forget about the channel.
I feel Flynn following me.
We didn’t really speak in the car. He drove one-handed, his other hand on my knee, his fingers squeezing my leg every few minutes. I rested my head against the window and prepared for the conversation I knew was inevitably going to happen between us.
I wish I could delay it. I wish I could live in the bubble Ivy talked about for a little while longer.
Flynn flicks on a lamp, but leaves the rest, as I kneel in front of the fireplace and turn it on. It heats up quickly, and I shiver as afresh wave of warmth floods me. I strip off my jacket and lay it over the back of the couch, heading for my favorite corner.
Flynn watches me sit down, right in the corner, before smirking. One knee at a time, he lowers himself almost directly on top of me and starts crawling.
“Excuse me,” he says, trying to wedge himself behind me and into my favorite corner. “Sorry—I just need—excuse me. One second. I just—there we go.”
When he’s finished, he’s completely wedged himself into the corner of the couch, forcing me to sit up. I glance over my shoulder. “You’re not funny.”
“Liar.” He pats his chest. “I’ll curl up in the corner, you can curl up on me.”
“You’re not as comfortable as the couch.” I pout, but he just smiles wider.
“You’re lying again, Rockstar.”
I frown, giving in and finally lying back against his chest. His arms immediately encircle me. A calm, safe feeling rushes through me as I settle into him. I close my eyes when I feel him press a kiss against my hair.
“So,” he says after a minute or two. “All of my favorite songs, hey?”
Thankfully, it’s too dark in the room to really see it, but I feel my face heat up with a blush. I hum. “I’ve been staring at the records on these damn walls for months. It was an unconscious decision on my part.”
“Uh-huh.” His hand slips onto the waist of my jeans.
“Besides, in my defense, I didn’t expect you to find it on your own and then show it to me,” I say, angling my head to see him. The low light of the room casts his face in shadows, but they don’tstop me from seeing the way he stares at me, into my soul. I used to think it was intense, that maybe he stared a little too much. Now, I hope he never stops.
