“What are you listening to?” I ask, as the enchanting sounds of a male voice comes through the speakers. I feel like I’ve heard the singer before, but I can’t pin down a name. The musical accompaniment is minimal, as it should be. The man has a beautiful voice, his upper register so impressive that it’s almost feminine. However, there’s a raspy attribute to it that gives it a certain edge.

“Matthew Koma.”

I nod but silence the questions on my tongue to take in the music. His song is one of desperation, pain, and surrender. It’s heaven to my ears, yet stirs something dark and hot within me. I know the name, I just didn’t know he could sing like this.

“We’ve been working with him on our new material,” he answers without me asking.

“New material?” That gets my attention and I turn in my seat to gaze at him through our capsule of darkness. Shadows play across his sharp features, brilliant, neon lights brushing kisses across the edge of his jaw. His hair is completely slicked back tonight, making him seem even more severe. Almost menacing.

“Yeah. We’ve been writing. Got to step into a booth earlier. Felt good.”

“Wow.”

He doesn’t miss the hint of disbelief in my voice and turns momentarily to face me, his brow furrowed in offense. Artists are sensitive motherfuckers. “What?”

“Nothing, that’s great,” I quickly assure him. “It’s just . . . his sound is so different from yours. The artists he works with are just . . . not like Ransom.”

He shrugs with nonchalance, yet the tick in his jaw gives him away. “We sing—we play—what we feel. Change is good. Growth is good. Especially when it’s felt. We’re still Ransom. We’re just evolving. Shouldn’t that make you happy?”

Make me happy? Why would he even care about my happiness?

“Stay off of Page Six with drunken brawls and sorority girl hookups, and that would make me happy.” I tack on a nervous laugh, which Ransom doesn’t return. Damn. Something surely crawled up his ass.

Luckily, we pull up to the venue, which is a popular hotspot in the Meatpacking District. After his baby is secured with valet, Ransom comes to stand beside me, of course, drawing every flashing camera and catcall on us. I keep my head down and go to stand off to the side so Ransom can do his thing, but find that he keeps perfect pace with me, gently placing a hand on the bare skin of my lower back to guide me into the building. I’m flattered for a hot minute before full-on terror coils in my gut. Well, that surely will be front-page news. Ransom Reed Steps Out with Older Woman. The press will not be kind.

Once we cross the threshold, servers with shots of the featured tequila bombard us with offers. We each take one to be polite, especially since my clients are in attendance. Ransom looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to join him in a drink.

“What? You don’t actually expect me to drink this, do you?” I say low enough that no one hears.

“Why not? It’s free booze . . . that you happen to represent. Shouldn’t you have faith in your client?”

I roll my eyes, all the while shooting fake smiles and waves to familiar faces around the room. I don’t want anyone to think that Ransom is any more than a business associate. “Forget it, Ransom. Tequila and I don’t mix.”

“Just one drink, Heidi. Just have fun with me. Loosen up. Please?”

I finally allow myself to gaze up at him, and I plunge into the dark depths of his onyx eyes. Even with the nose ring and keen features, there’s something soft and vulnerable about him. Something that I can only unravel when I get this close to him. I saw it that night we spent together, right after he sang to me while stroking me from behind. And when he kissed me, I felt it too. I felt it all over me, intoxicating me. Filling my lungs with his own brand of potent smoke. I inhaled deep and held it in, refusing to let it go. And when it hurt too much to hold on to, I exhaled, gasping his name in my desperate need for air.

“Yes.”

It seems like I’m always saying yes to Ransom Reed. I can’t fathom any woman ever telling him no.

He taps his shot glass against mine, and then raises his glass in salute. But instead of tipping it to his lips, he brings it to mine. Eyes locked, breaths ragged, I let him feed me a sip of the fiery elixir. It burns all the way down, but I lick my lips in craving, needing more. Just one taste is all it takes to hook me. All it takes to break me down.

“Heidi! Girl, where have you been? The caterer thinks we’re going to run out of crab cakes within the hour. We got some stragglers outside trying to get in with fake invitations. And I swear, some of these old ass rich bitches are smuggling bottles in their bags.” Tamara throws her hands up dramatically and wraps me in her thick arms. Luckily, I hand my shot glass to Ransom before she spills it.

“Ok. Calm down. I can handle this.” I pull away from her and nod toward Ransom. “Tam, this is Ransom Reed. Ransom this is my assistant Tamara, the person who usually keeps just anybody from walking into my office.”

Ransom nods and smiles to a starstruck Tamara, who gushes and squeals like a brace-faced Belieber. Ransom accepts graciously before excusing himself so we can get down to work. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I need if I want to get through this night unscathed with my dignity in check. I have the caterer put out bacon-wrapped scallops to replace the loss of crab cakes to the menu. I double up on security at the entrance. And I make sure the staff keeps the alcohol behind the bar when they pour, replacing the ones on display for decoration with empty ones filled with colored water. Let those cheap old biddies steal that. Ha!

I don’t even realize how much time has slipped by when I am done putting out all the PR fires until I look up to find that Ransom is nowhere in sight. I swallow down the knot of disappointment when I realize that he’s left. I’m not sure why it bothers me—I’ve hardly paid him any attention. And it’s not like I can’t get a ride home.

I’m directing a few partygoers to the swag table to grab a few freebies when I hear the faint, melodic sounds of piano coaxing me from the pounding rhythm of Top 40s pop anthems blaring from speakers around the room. I follow the sound, sniffing it out like a hound in search of sustenance, and find that it’s generating from a smaller space reserved for special events. Tentatively, I push open the door, and my gaze eagerly discovers Ransom sitting at a Steinway, his eyes closed as he regurgitates his soul through black and white keys. He doesn’t look to me when I enter and shut the door behind me, but I know he feels my presence. A slight smile falls on his lips as he continues to play without falter. I know this tune—it’s one of my favorites that Tucker plays at home on his record player. And even though Ransom isn’t singing the words, I can feel the beauty of those lyrics as if they were etched on my heart.

Ransom finally opens his eyes when I sit down beside him on the bench, and his smile stretches wider. I can’t help myself. I smile too.

“I didn’t peg you for a Stevie Wonder fan,” I say as he restarts “Ribbon in the Sky.”

“My parents were . . . deeply religious when I was growing up. He was one of the few secular musicians they allowed in their home.”

I nod, soaking it all in. Ransom Reed is telling me personal information about himself. He’s opening a wound to let me in. Why?

“I learned every one of his songs. This one was one of my favorites.”

He begins to hum, the sounds feral and intimate, like the way he sings seductively on stage in front of thousands of fans, grinding his hips to the beat of an equally suggestive Ransom tune. Or the way he moans when he thrusts deeper, until he’s completely embedded in me, the tip of him stroking the sweet spot that causes me to clench around him.