Page 12 of Cadence
This isn’t an off day. This is a goddamn choice.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I say, watching as he unzips the case and pulls out his guitar like I’m not even here, the body glistening under the lights, the deep, rich red surrounding the edges blending into a warm, golden amber. A sunset sealed in gloss. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay, honey. Enjoy your first practice.” I start to lower the phone, but the sound of my name makes me pause. I lift it back to my ear just as she adds, “And remember to send me the contract. I want to read it over before you sign anything.”
I roll my eyes. “Always the entertainment lawyer, huh?”
“Don’t you know it?” She chuckles. “Oh, one last thing before you go. Did you get the box with you and your sister’s things Dad left out for you the other day?”
Something tightens in my chest as I think about the worn cardboard box sitting in the backseat of my car. “Yeah. Got it.”
“It’s just some things you might want. Old notebooks, music-related items, things we thought might be useful.” A knock sounds through the phone, followed by a muffled voice. “Okay, I’ll let you go. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you.” Smiling, I hang up, brushing my fingers across the phone screen.
“Entertainment lawyer?” Maddox asks from the couch, slipping a pick between his teeth and focusing on the tuning pegs of his guitar.
I shove my phone back into my bag and set it aside. “You know, most people acknowledge their new bandmates when they walk into a room.”
“Didn’t realize we were doing social etiquette lessons today,” he mumbles flatly, not even bothering to glance up.
“And yet you’re the one who asked about my family.”
My arms cross over my chest, my molars pressing together as I watch him—focused, detached—the yellow pick bobbing between his lips like he doesn’t even notice it’s there.
Right on schedule, the part of me drawn to bad decisions stirs to life, noticing things I shouldnotnotice about my new bandmate.
Especially not someone like Maddox Knox.
His lower lip curves slightly fuller than the top, dark lashes cast faint shadows when he blinks, and his brow furrows with that same potent concentration that was glaring back at me from across the table during my audition.
There’s something about him, though. Something beyond my superficial attraction to assholes. Curiosity, maybe?
Focus, Paige.
I try, I really do. But he’s methodical with his guitar in a way that shouldn’t be so sexy. Most people I know use a tuner, trust the little flashing light, and call it a day. Maddox? He does it by ear, like he can hear something the rest of us can’t, twisting each peg with slow, practiced movements, listening intently after every adjustment.
It’s a skill.
It’s annoyingly precise.
It’s also hot as hell.
And totally off-limits.
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing my arms to relax, hating how warm my skin feels just from watching him work.
“You don’t use a tuner?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
C’mon, Paige. Don’t ask dumb-ass questions.
He still doesn’t glance up, just removes the pick from his mouth and sets it on the amp in front of him. “Don’t need one.”
His fingers move again, plucking another note, then adjusting. The muscles in his forearm flex subtly as he twists the peg, veins visible just beneath his skin, the ring on his thumb glinting under the studio lights.
My gaze lingers longer than it should, and I blink hard, dragging my focus to the window into the control room behind him instead.
“How long have you been playing?” I ask, trying to shake the growing heat prickling up my spine.
