Page 67 of Behind the Net

CHAPTER33

PIPPA

The next morning,Daisy and I are just getting home from her morning walk when we run into Jamie in the hallway outside his apartment.

“Heading out?”

He can barely meet my eyes as he shifts his gym bag over his shoulder. “Yep.”

“Have a great practice.”

“Thanks.” His gaze lifts to mine, and I think he’s about to rush to the elevator, but he doesn’t move. He clears his throat. “What are you up to today?”

I can’t say the first answer that comes to mind.Riding my new toy while I think about sitting on your lap, grinding against your huge erection.

Definitely can’t say that. My face heats, and my body tightens in anticipation.

I’ve been using that toy nonstop.

I’ve never owned one, so I didn’t know how incredible they were. On the tour, there was no privacy, so it’s not like I could have used one. And even if I had one, I’m sure it would have fallen out of my bag at the worst time, in front of everyone.

“We’re going hiking with Hazel.” I hesitate. “And I might play my guitar for a bit.”

His gaze goes soft and warm, and a funny feeling rises in me. Ilikethat look on his sharp, handsome face. I like him looking at me like that.

“That’s great, songbird,” he says, and the corner of his mouth curves up.

My heart flutters. I’ll do anything to make him smile again. His eyes hold mine, and the flutters in my chest intensify.

“Send me a picture on your hike.”

I nod, smiling. He just wants to know how Daisy’s doing throughout the day, I remind myself.

After we say goodbye, I head to my room and pull my guitar out. I play around with it for an hour, strumming and hovering with my pen above my notebook, ready to write lyrics, but nothing shows up. That’s how I used to write music—I’d get a few parts of the song, maybe one verse, the chorus, maybe just an opening line, and then I’d fill the rest in, but today, nothing feels good enough. Nothing sounds worthy of creating a song around. I can’t stop picturing Zach and his manager.

I blow out a long sigh of frustration. Some musician I’d make. I can’t even do this as a hobby without seizing up in self-doubt.

* * *

“They’re opening up that marketing position next week for internal applications,” Hazel tells me on our hike that afternoon.

“That’s great.”

I picture myself in meetings to discuss brand partnerships, campaign strategies, or a logo redesign. Compared to the insane hours on a tour, an office job will allow me to have a normal life. Maybe I’ll even make friends there. And if someone makes fun of me or laughs at my ideas? I’ll be fine, because a marketing idea isn’t a piece of my heart the way songs are.

Something makes me pause. If I work for the marketing department, I won’t get to see Jamie or Daisy anymore.

My good mood pops like a balloon.

It’s for the best, though. I think about trying to write music this morning and how paralyzed I was by the idea of negative criticism. I’m not like Zach, who was always able to ignore the bad stuff.

“You don’t have to apply for it,” Hazel says quietly. “Just because it’s what Mom and Dad want—”

“I want to,” I cut in. “It’s what I went to school for.”

Her gaze lingers on me, wary. She doesn’t buy it. Hazel has always been able to see right through me.

I can already hear how happy my parents will be that I even applied. They’ve been asking nonstop about it.

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