No Place Like You Read online

  “It’s just as well I don’t have sheet music or I’d be swatting you right now. So. That’s the song. Now play me the piano part on its own.”

  Leah pulled up the file. “This is still rough.” She hit play, then watched as Faith listened, her fingers moving above the keys as she followed along. She’d have it memorized after she’d heard it once or twice, an ability Leah still envied. She could puzzle out something by ear eventually but she didn’t have Faith’s speed at picking up a song so fast. Zach had that gift too. But then, neither of them knew how to finesse a soundboard like Leah did, so things evened out, she guessed.

  The track came to an end, and Faith flexed her fingers then began to play. The tempo was a little slower than what Leah had just played her but she had the melody right. She ran through it once, nearly perfectly and then stopped. “Okay, let me hear it again.”

  “Freak,” Leah said with a grin, but obliged.

  The second time Faith ran through the part it was perfect. Then she did it again, adding a couple of variations while she did so. It sounded even better.

  “Okay, remember that,” Leah said. “That was awesome. You’re awesome.”

  “You wrote it,” Faith said. “I just played.”

  “Then we’re awesome,” Leah said. “And now, you need to come down to the studio and let me record that.”

  * * *

  If she held her breath any longer, she was going to pass out. But Zach was standing in the middle of Grey’s studio, listening to the mix she’d made for his song, and she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

  Nerves. That was all it is. Nerves and the fact she’d spent almost all her spare time for the last two days working on his song. Sleep hadn’t featured much.

  She forced herself to relax. Opened her mouth and let out her breath noisily. Zach slanted a glance at her, then turned his attention back to the laptop. Four minutes. The damn song was only four freaking minutes long. Who knew four minutes was eternity?

  She always got nervous waiting to see what someone she was working with thought about a mix, but this was ridiculous. She twined her fingers together. Then loosened them and sat on her hands instead, sliding her palms under her thighs where they pressed against the wooden top of the stool she occupied. She picked the stool over a chair because she couldn’t curl up and assume the fetal position on a stool while she waited.

  Being this nervous was one thing, but letting Zach see it was another. He needed to think she was one-hundred percent confident in her work. He needed to trust her. Or they’d never be able to work together. Producing an artist’s work was an intimate thing. A producer had to be a cheer squad, a critic, an inspiration, a hand-holder, a sounding board, a taskmaster, or any of a myriad of other things the particular musician or band needed. Every collaboration was unique and, while she hadn’t done a ton of producing on her own, she’d watched enough producers work their magic over the years to know that the key to all of it was trust. If the artist didn’t trust the producer, the relationship would never work.

  She waited impatiently as the song went into the last chorus.

  Silence descended. Zach stood there staring down at the laptop, hands shoved into his pockets.

  God.

  Was he going to say something? Did he like it? Did he hate it? Hell. She bit down on her lip—hard—to keep from asking.

  She should give him time to reflect, to process his reaction but … hell, he was a guy. How much thinking time did he need? If he hated it, couldn’t he just put her out of her misery?

  “Nice piano,” Zach said, turning to face her.

  “Thanks.” It didn’t seem like the time to mention it was Faith playing. Zach probably knew anyway. He’d grown up listening to Faith play. Surely he would recognize her style. And anyway, she wanted to know what he thought about the whole song, not just the piano. It was just as well she was already sitting on her hands or she’d be gnawing her fingernails down to stubs.

  Zach looked back at the laptop. Oh God. Was he going to play it again? She wasn’t sure she could survive another four minutes of limbo.

  “Just tell me whether or not you like it already,” she blurted out and then wished she could sink through the floor. So much for professional.

  He turned back to her, eyebrows lifting. “You know I did.”

  “How exactly am I supposed to know that?” she said, indignant. “I forgot to turn my psychic powers on tonight and you were giving pretty good poker face while you listened.”

  “I was concentrating. That was my concentrating face.”

  “When you concentrate, you kind of frown and bite your lip,” she retorted and then wished for the second time for a great big hole to open up so she could climb inside and be done with it. She did not want Zach Harper getting the idea that she paid any kind of attention to his facial expressions. “I mean, when you play, that’s how you look. At least, from what I remember.”

  “I do?”

  “Yep. But don’t sweat it, most musicians have something they do when they play that they don’t know they’re doing. I used to wriggle my eyebrows when I was playing the piano, when I first learned. Used to drive old Mrs. Anthony mad. She threatened to tape them in place at one point.”

  He laughed. “That would be a look.”

  “I don’t think she actually would have done it,” Leah said hastily. “She was a softie underneath it all. But she had definite ideas about appropriate ways to address the piano. But enough about my childhood music traumas, we were talking about the song.”

  “Which I like.”

  “Just like?” she prompted. She slid off the stool. “Don’t make me come over there. I might be shorter than you but I can take you.”

  “Is this how you woo all your potential clients?” he asked, looking amused.

  “Only when they’re all manly and annoyingly nonverbal.

  “I’d be verbal if you’d shut up for a second and let me talk.” He shook his head. “You always did talk a lot when you were nervous. Some things don’t change. But you can relax. It’s great. So yes, let’s try this thing. Make a little music together.”

  She refrained from jumping up and down like a lunatic. But she couldn’t stop herself indulging in a fist pump. “Yes.”

  Zach snorted.

  “I mean, great,” she said, wrestling the grin threatening to spread across her face into a more-sedate expression. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Harper.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Likewise, Ms. Santelli. You can talk money with Jay. He handles all that stuff.”

  Money. Right. She hadn’t even thought about the money. She’d been too focused on getting the job. “It’s your studio,” she pointed out.

  “I’m hiring you as producer, not studio manager. If I was hiring the studio it would cover your fee as engineer, not producer. So you need to work out a fee.”

  “I’d—”

  He held up a hand. “Do not say you’d do it for free. You’re good, if that track is anything to go by. Don’t sell yourself short. You wouldn’t tell anyone asking you for advice to work for free, would you?”

  No. The working-for-exposure thing so many artists and musicians started out getting fobbed off with was bullshit. “Right.” She stuck her chin out. “You’d better hope you can afford me, now that you want me so bad.”

  Her words floated out into the air and there was a long shimmering moment where they just stared at each other, neither of them breathing.

  You want me so bad.

  Her cheeks felt hot. Say something. Anything. Anything that couldn’t be interpreted as flirting like that last sentence to fall out of her mouth. “Jay. Fee. Right. I’ll get on that.”

  “And you’re good with Eli still working on a couple of songs?”

  “Sure.” She hadn’t expected Zach to change his plans entirely. “We can do some planning and scheduling once you know what songs you have. Two producers might even help with your timetable if you want stuff ready for CloudF
est. In the meantime, when did you want to start? Like I said, the studio is free this week.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Studio?”

  “That’s what we agreed, remember?” Please say he remembered. The studio was safer than here. Less chance for more awkward moments like the one they’d just shared.

  “I’ve been liking the sound in here.”

  Dammit. “This is nice, Zach, but I’m not sure it’s the best plan for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She swept her arm at the room. “I mean, I know that you want to tap into the Blacklight mythos a bit—or at least the marketing machine will want that—but I think when it comes to your music, you need to be yourself.”

  “I am being myself. I’m writing the songs and doing the vocal and playing lead guitar. Not sure how much more “myself” it can get.”

  Awkward. But if she was going to be his producer, it seemed like she was going to have to get used to some awkward moments. And tell him the truth when he needed to hear it. Yes, she would be more comfortable working in the big studio but now, as she thought about what she was trying to convince him of, she knew there was a bigger argument. A less selfish one. “It’s just that this is Grey’s studio”—she nodded at the Martin on the guitar stand—“Grey’s guitar. And, if you want to break out, then I think you have to let Zach be Zach. In a place where there aren’t quite so many ghosts for you.”

  “I have just as many memories of Dad at the studio as here,” Zach said, folding his arms, mouth set in a stubborn line.

  “Maybe. But ‘here’ is the place where you used to sit outside the window and listen to him. The place you weren’t allowed into unless he asked you. Grey’s famous man cave. It’s all his. I mean, until you came back, I doubt anyone else had dared to come in here for years. At the studio, you could always walk right in and watch him. It was never exclusively his.” Blacklight’s recording sessions had been fairly open affairs unless the band was trying to work on something that wasn’t going well. Then Grey would get cranky and ban everyone from hanging around, but otherwise there’d been wives and girlfriends and kids and friends coming and going at all hours. She should know, she’d been one of them, just like Zach had been. “This place is…” she trailed off, not knowing exactly how to explain it. But this place was Grey’s. And maybe Zach could make it his own in time, but he was on a deadline. So why put himself at a disadvantage?

  She changed tack. “At least come and try the big studio for a couple of days. You can always work here writing, if you like. But the big studio is easier all around. Better gear. More space when you get the rest of your band in.”

  “When did you get so practical?” he said. But he smiled as he said it, and she knew she was winning him over.

  “I’ve been running the studio for a few years now. I know what I’m doing. So, trust me. That’s what you’re going to pay me the big bucks for, after all.” Well, semi-big, maybe. She didn’t know how much she should ask for. Zach wouldn’t care—he’d never had to worry about money in his life. Never would. She’d have to talk to Sal. Or maybe Eli. He’d done some producing, and explaining to him that she was working with Zach might be easier than telling her dad. After all, her parents liked having her here on Lansing. If she started producing, not all the musicians she worked with would want to trek to the island. Her parents had always been supportive, but she knew damn well they were happy she’d never moved away.

  Zach went over and picked up the guitar, running a hand over its curves, expression serious. Was he thinking about Grey?

  He looked back at Leah and smiled lopsidedly. “All right, we’ll try it your way.”

  * * *

  Morning came eventually. Actually she knew exactly when it came because she was already up and walking along the harbor front, having given up on the concept of sleep sometime around four a.m. So she had the perfect view of the sky lightening slowly over the water.

  “Just another day,” she muttered as she reached the end of the marina and stopped to breathe for a moment as the sky painted itself gold and pink and deep blue, the light making the sleeping boats shine gold and the water below them shimmer while they waited for the day to begin.

  A new day. Just like any other. Yeah and if she believed that, she could probably convince herself that pigs could grow wings and fly her to the mainland. It wasn’t just another day. It was day one of the season of Zach Harper. A season she’d never expected would return. But here it was. She’d be spending a lot of time with him until these songs were finished.

  She just needed to make sure that her heart survived the experience.

  * * *

  Five hours later she was sitting outside the booth, no longer worried about her heart, but starting to wonder if it was possible to die from terminal awkwardness. Zach had arrived about an hour ago, by which time she’d practically scrubbed the studio from top to bottom as well as changed her set up for the song they would be working on today about five times.

  It hadn’t done much to calm all the nervous energy that was making her feel as though her veins were full of tiny spiky balls bouncing around. She’d almost spilled coffee on herself when she’d offered to make Zach a cup as a way to break the ice.

  He’d almost spilled coffee on himself when he’d taken it from her.

  Then he’d retreated inside the booth after making the bare minimum of small talk, leaving her to go back to her seat in front of the board and try to summon the nerve to get started.

  While she hesitated, she still watched him. Sitting there, looking nervous or something close to it. His fingers drummed the side of the guitar as he shifted on the stool.

  She hit the intercom. One of them had to act like the adult in this situation. It was just first-day jitters. Lots of bands had those when they came into a studio. So it was her job as producer to make Zach feel comfortable so they could stop being weird and get to work. “Everything okay? You need to change something?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s good.”

  “All right.” She stared at him through the glass. If it had been Nessa, she might have gone in there and made chitchat until she relaxed. But she wasn’t really sure that would work with Zach. “So why don’t you just run through the first song a few times so I can get a feel for it and then we can try for a take?”

  Maybe they should have kept this to Grey’s studio. It was smaller, more familiar to him. But she was more at home with the set-up here, and she wanted to give him her best.

  Zach nodded, closed his fingers around the guitar’s neck, and adjusted the angle it rested at on his thigh. Then he began to play.

  It sounded great. He was good. More than good. She’d spent half the night listening to Fringe Dweller’s two albums and the couple of demos Zach had e-mailed her, plus a few old recordings of him and Faith playing that she found buried in the depths of the studio server, but none of them were quite the same as listening to him play live.

  Seeing him curving slightly over the guitar, fingers moving surely, she felt like she was seventeen again, trying to listen to him on the sly and wanting him more than she had imagined it was possible to want someone.

  No. No-oooooo.

  Not going to happen. She crossed her legs, leaning forward. She was here to listen. To hear the music and decide how to bring it to life, not to crush on the guy playing it.

  She was a professional. She’d had famous guys on the other side of her glass before. Hot famous guys.

  And she’d done her damn job.

  So that was what she was going to do now.

  No stupid crush allowed.

  No sirree. All hormones would be maintained under strict control.

  And then Zach began to sing.

  God. His voice. Lower than Grey’s famous tenor, but it shared some of the honeyed quality that had made his father’s voice so compelling. And despite that touch of familiarity, it was somehow all Zach. Grey had been known for the hint of rasp under the power of his voca
ls. Zach’s voice was clearer, even when he dropped to a low note. Stronger than she remembered. He’d been working on it, it seemed, and something told her if he ever decided to let fly on one of the power-rock ballads that Grey had been the master of, he might just be able to blow Grey out of the water.

  But that wasn’t how he was singing now. No, this tune was low and intimate and a little dirty. A song of longing and of trying to win back a woman wronged. And seemingly every note he sang was perfectly pitched to set all her nerve endings on fire, heat springing to life in every female part she possessed.

  She sat frozen, trying not to melt into a puddle as she listened. She had no idea what words he was singing any more, just that right that second she’d do just about anything to keep him singing them.

  Fu-u-uck.

  She was screwed.

  Because she pretty much wanted to bolt into the studio, yank that guitar from his hands, and do him right there on the no-nonsense studio carpet.

  She dug her fingers into the edges of her chair to stop herself doing exactly that and tried to remember how to breathe as he sang. It took a few moments after he finished the song before she realized he’d stopped singing.

  And that he was staring at her through the glass.

  Crap. Was her face as hot as it felt?

  “So?” Zach asked.

  Her brain still hadn’t kicked back into gear. Her fingers closed around her water bottle and she drank, trying to regroup. Music. Producing. All that stuff.

  “Leah?” Zach said. “Something wrong?”

  “Um. No.” She shook her head, hoping she sounded less scrambled than she felt. “All good. Sounded great.”

  “Want me to run it again?”

  Absolutely not. But there was no way she could say that. Listening to him play and sing to her was precisely the job she’d just signed up for. Okay. So she just needed a quick break so she could regain her grip on her stupid hormones and then get back to work.

  So what if the guy sounded like the devil had sent him up specifically to entice her into a sexual frenzy? That was just her stupid nostalgia talking. She just needed to give herself a chance to get used to the sound of him again. Get over the shock of him being right there just a few feet away from her again. Then the impact would wear off. Disappear.