Page 21 of A Love Song for Dreamers

I turn away, taking a long, urgent drink of champagne as my gaze lands on the poolhouse.

Except it’s not a pool houseanymore.

There’s a decorative iron gate—open, for now—between the patio and the structure, and the building itself has been renovated, expanded to twice its originalsize.

I head toward the building, winding through the crowd, and a parking lot on the other side comes into view through the hedge of shrubs angled to afford privacy and separate the two areas. The main entrance to the building is off the parking lot, meaning the door by the pool is a side entrance, likely intended for family only and accessible solely from thisdirection.

My dad would never want someone else’s business in his backyard. But his business, with a literal door he can close, a way to access it anytime and close it just aseasily…

That he’dlike.

The door is etched glass, and I turn the handle, expecting it to be locked, but itgives.

For all the noise outside, it’s quiet inside. I step inside to find sleek off-white carpet with geometricdesigns.

I follow the short hallway that opens into the old pool house bedroom, which is now a lobby unlike any I’ve ever seen. Display cases line the walls, but instead of rows of hard seats, there’s a couch and comfy chairs, plus two more hot-desk workstations on the farside.

A more permanent-looking desk—probably for reception—is where the bed used tobe.

Feelings slam into me, the scent of sun and cedar I must be making up frommemory.

It takes a second for me to notice a curvy, dark-haired woman younger than me behind the desk. Her hair is in braids, her smile wide. “I know you. You’re Annie Jamieson. I recognize you from photos,” she says, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I’mShay.”

“Nice to meetyou.”

“You must’ve come to look around. Good idea to wait until after the rush.” She gestures toward the desks. “These are for visiting artists and staff. On each side of the hall there’s a studio, an office, and a meeting room. It’s for music, not luxury. Function, not form. But I think it’s beautiful.” She says the last part under her breath, as if she’s rebelling by merely voicing thewords.

“You saw it before the renovations,” Shay goes on. “Do you miss what itwas?”

Feelings slam into me—nostalgia, longing, regret. “Sometimes. But things are meant tochange.”

I walk down the hall and try the handle of the first studio door. It’slocked.

When I look across at the second studio, I see movement on the other side of the door. I try the handle, and it gives, opening soundlessly. Laughter fills myears.

There’s a man standing straight, a woman pressed close to him. I clear mythroat.

They both turn towardme.

The woman’s beautiful, but it’s not her I’m lookingat.

It’shim.

Strong legs are encased in indigo jeans. Broad shoulders stretch the black jacket, which is rolled up at the sleeves to reveal swirls of inky tattoos. The top two buttons of the matching shirt are undone. And abovethat…

There’s a face so familiar it hits me in thegut.

Not because it’s impossible to scan an entertainment newsfeed without seeinghim.

No, the gut punch is because I’ve kissed that face. Dreamed aboutit.

I’ve felt it between mythighs.

He was a man when he left on tour, but he’s more than that now. I see it in every hard line of his body, every shadow on hisface.

“You surprised us.” The woman laughs, reminding me we’re not alone. She keeps talking, but I don’t get any ofit.

Tyler’s dark eyes intensify as he takes me in. His chin drops as he starts a slow survey at my heels, drags up my legs, lingering at the top as if he can see what’s beneath mydress.

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