Page 41 of #Moonstruck

That he was so gracious in accepting my gratitude made me feel guiltier that I hadn’t thanked him before. His hand moved closer to the side of my head, and I fought the urge to lean into it. I was glad we were alone. “I also need to thank you for making this a pleech-free zone.”

His hand stilled. “A what?”

“The night we met, you had this mob of women, and they were these plastic, peacocking leeches. Pleeches.”

“Now you’re just making up words?”

“I am a lyricist, thank you.”

“Is that how you write? More lyric-centric?” Musicians didn’t write songs with just the lyrics or just the melody. The two came together, but one might come easier than the other. For me it was always the words.

“Yep. What about you?”

“Usually the music first. Sounds like we’d make a great songwriting team.” He paused, letting the word “team” sink in. As if we could be more. “I’ve been working on something. Do you want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

Several guitars stood in the corner next to a black baby-grand piano. Like this was his own personal music room. Ryan grabbed one of the Martin guitars and sat down again. This time he twisted his body to face me, and our knees touched. I sucked in a deep breath, ordering my pulse to calm down and my lungs to start working again.

He began to play. It was not so long ago that I’d thought he was a poser and pathetic for holding his guitar like it had a force field that could protect him. But now, as he sat there and played a beautiful tune, solely focused on making his music, I realized it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

My heart beat slow and hard in time to the rhythm of his song.

“What do you think? I’m considering calling it ‘Maisy Is Jealous of Pleeches.’”

Ryan laughed when I shoved his shoulder. “I’m sorry you’ve confused my disdain for jealousy. Although, to be fair, you’ve probably made a lot of women very jealous.” Not wanting to think more about that, I changed the subject. “I bet your fans love it when you sing ballads.”

“Doyoulove it when I sing ballads?”

I probably would. “I have no opinion on you singing ballads.” I wanted to say I wasn’t a fan, but at this moment that wasn’t exactly true. “Do you want help with the lyrics?”

“I’m doing okay, thanks. They’re probably not very good, though. Lyrics have never been my strong point.”

“Duh. ‘Hashtag My Heart’ wasn’t exactly profound.”

“Ha. I would bet the rest of my savings that you know every word of that song.”

He was right. I did. “Sort of speaking of money, you said you were going to tell me what was going on with your financial situation tonight.”

Ryan set the guitar down. “It’s a pretty simple story. My manager made a lot of poor investment decisions and wiped me out. I still have assets but not much else.”

“Did you fire him? Her?”

“Him,” he confirmed. “And I can’t fire him because he’s my dad.”

“That ...” What could I say? “That sucks. How are you paying for this tour?”

“I took most of what I had left for the initial costs, and we make a lot of money every night in ticket sales and merchandise. I think tonight they cleared almost half a million in merch alone.”

Half. A. Million. Dollars. I couldn’t even conceive of earning that kind of money in one night!

“This tour will pay off the few debts that remain and help get me back on the right road financially. I’ll be okay.”

It made me realize what a big risk he’d taken in choosing us as his opening act. If he had hired a more famous band, one that could bring in more fans, it would have helped his bottom line. “Does everyone know?”

He looked alarmed. “Nobody knows. No one on this tour besides you.”

The fact that he trusted me with this information filled me with a glowing lightness not unlike what I had felt onstage earlier. “Why not tell people?” I was poor. It wasn’t that big a deal.

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