Page 20 of Speechless

“What’s going on, guys?”

Graham throws me a subtle smirk before tilting his head just slightly in the direction of the foyer.

Henry.

Ishere.

In my head, I think I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again. Like maybe he was just this mythical being I dreamt up on our flight in order to deal with the trauma of my life. But he sure looks real now. And as if he wants to make sure I don’t forget again, his eyes bore into mine like laser beams of lust. My knees press together involuntarily as I try—and fail—to break his gaze.

I’d almost forgotten how gorgeous he is, how someone who looks like him is the same man who wrote every note on my “Take a Breath” playlist. I definitely forgot how tall he is, how broad, how commanding. He hasn’t said a single word and yet every set of eyes in the room is locked on him, like they’re waiting for his royal decree. Even Rowan is sitting at attention.

How can one man look undeniably smoldering but still adorably shy? He’s such an enigma. I take in his face. His eyes are vibrant, a deep azure that almost glows. His hair is a bit disheveled, like he’s been combing his fingers through it over and over. The color is such a rich, chocolatey brown, I imagine it’s exactly the shade women ask for at their salon. I’m openly gaping at him now, memorizing each of his features. I know I should say something, but the words just aren’t coming.

“Sorry for—well, I’ve been a bit busy since you’ve been here.” He’s looking down at his shoes, biting the inside of his cheek and I can see his jaw popping with nervous energy. “Once I start working on something new, it can get a bit compulsive. I just can’t stop.”

“It’s fine. Spending time together was never part of the arrangement.” I hate how bitter I sound. Why should he have to apologize for working? Working on music that’s like a drug for me.

“Would you like to see the studio? I think I did promise you that much.”

I glance back at the guys and Graham speaks up. “I’ll take Rowan out. Go get the tour, Luce.”

“Thanks.” I turn back to Henry and can’t help but beam at him. “Okay.”

I follow him down the stairs ready for my big tour. It’s weird being with him again. The flight seems so much longer than four days ago, but I remember how easy it was talking to him. Henry wrote the soundtrack to my therapy. He cured my pain without ever knowing who I was. Of course it feels good to be near him.

“You’re really spoiling HAAAM with all your cooking. It’s delicious by the way.” He’s walking ahead of me and can’t see my face, but he must take my silence as surprise since he follows up with: “They, umm . . . bring me the leftovers.”

The room we enter has a glossy white grand piano, three floating shelves covered in plaques and statues and the largest futon I’ve ever seen. There’s also a mini fridge, possibly the same model I had in my dorm at Emory, with a foot-high stack of sheet music and other papers on top.

I’m not sure what I expected from his studio, but this is not it.

He watches as I survey the room and chuckles at my confused expression. His gaze feels heavy on me and I try to remember the last time a man watched me this closely.

“This is just my solo writing space, for when I need to work alone. It’s also kind of my sanctuary. There’s more to see, I promise.”

“I was just surprised is all, but it’s beautiful. Especially the piano.” I walk over to the wall to sneak a peek at his trophy shelf. He has four Oscars, two Emmys, a Tony, a . . . “You won a Grammy?”

“Ouch. And here I thought you were my biggest fan. Not worthy of a Grammy, eh?”

“No, no of course you are. I just didn’t know they had a category for you.”

“It was for album of the year actually. Remember Adam Levi’s first solo album? I happened to write the music and lyrics.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like there weren’t at least seven singles from that album that I can remember. Like those aren’t still the most played songs on every radio station in the country. I walked down the aisle toBetter than Waffles. Our first dance was toCity of Starlight.

Ilovethat album. Sure, Adam Levi can sing, but the music, the lyrics . . . the lyrics.

Henry wrote those lyrics? Some girl isverylucky. I can’t tell if he’s in a relationship now; he’s made no hints at one. Maybe there are several girls. He doesn’t really seem like the type, but he’s gorgeous, rich, has a mansion in Malibu. It would be easy for him to have a different model or actress on his arm every night.

“Lucy?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking—I was thinking about how much I love that album. I’m sad I never knew it was you. Actually, why didn’t I? And come to think of it, why didn’t I know what you looked like when you’ve won all these awards? I know I‘ve watched at least a few of them on TV over the years.”

“Well—I’ve never actually gone to one of them. These were all sent to me. You know I’m not the best with words. I really prefer to stay out of the spotlight.”

Our eyes meet and I can see a hint of shame in them, like he thinks he’s let me down, like he’s failed. A feeling I’m only too familiar with myself. I step closer to him and offer a supportive smile. “I think your words are perfect. Can I see the rest now?”

He shows me five more rooms and I notice how much more comfortable he gets the deeper we go into the studio. He’s fully in his element now, never stumbling over his words or showing nervous energy.

Me, on the other hand; I’m fan-girling hard. For me, this is basically the exact opposite of what people think of when they say “how the sausage gets made.”

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