Chapter Two
Sydney
I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along
to his music with my made-up lyrics when he
stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-
song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s
leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up
his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.
What the hell is he doing?
And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s
acknowledging me make me so nervous?
He comes back outside with paper and a mark-
er in his hands.
He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?
He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint
to get a good look at what he’s written.
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A phone number.
Shit. His phone number?
When I don’t move for several seconds, he
shakes the papers and points at them, then points
back to me.
He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call
him. I can’t do that to Hunter.
The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh
sheet of paper and writes something else on it,
then holds it up.
Text me.
When I still don’t move, he flips the paper
over and writes again.
I have a ?
A question. A text. Seems harmless enough.
When he holds up the papers with his phone
number again, I pull out my phone and enter his
phone number. I stare at the screen for a few
seconds, not really knowing what to say in the
text, so I go with:
Me: What’s your question?
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He looks down at his phone, and I can see him
smile when he receives my text. He drops the pa-
per and leans back in his chair, typing. When my
phone vibrates, I hesitate a second before looking
down at it.
Him: Do you sing in the shower?
I shake my head, confirming my initial suspi-
cion. He’s a flirt. Of course he is, he’s a
musician.
Me: I don’t know what kind of question
that is, but if this is your attempt at flirt-
ing, I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t waste your
time.
I hit send and watch him read the text. He
laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because his
smile is so . . . smiley. Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s as if his
whole face smiles right along with his mouth. I
wonder what that smile looks like up close.
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Him: Believe me, I know you have a boy-
friend, and this is definitely not how I flirt.
I just want to know if you sing in the
shower. I happen to think highly of people
who sing in the shower and need to know
the answer to that question in order to
decide if I want to ask you my next
question.
I read the lengthy text, admiring his fast typ-
ing. Guys aren’t normally as skilled as girls when
it comes to speed-texting, but his replies are al-
most instantaneous.
Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing
in the shower?
Him: No, I don’t.
Me: How can you think highly of people
who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in
the shower?
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Him: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in
the shower is why I think highly of people
who do sing in the shower.
This conversation isn’t going anywhere.
Me: Why did you need this vital piece of
information from me?
He stretches his legs out and props his feet up
on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a
few seconds before returning his attention to his
phone.
Him: I want to know how you’re singing
lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even
added lyrics to them yet.
My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment.
Busted.
I stare at his text, then glance up at him. He’s
watching me, expressionless.
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Why the hell didn’t I think that he could see
me sitting out here? I never thought he would no-
tice me singing along to his music. Hell, until last
night, I never thought he even noticed me. I in-
hale, wishing I’d never made eye contact with
him to begin with. I don’t know why I find this
embarrassing, but I do. It seems as if I’ve in-
vaded his privacy in some way, and I hate that.
Me: I tend to favor songs with lyrics, and
I was tired of wondering what the lyrics to
your songs were, so I guess I made up a
few of my own.
He reads the text, then glances up at me
without a hint of his infectious smile. I don’t like
his serious glances. I don’t like what they do to
my stomach. I also don’t like what his smiley
smile does to my stomach. I wish he would stick
to a simple, unattractive, emotionless expression,
but I’m not sure he’s capable of that.
Him: Will you send them to me?
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Oh, God. Hell, no.
Me: Hell, no.
Him: Please?
Me: No.
Him: Pretty please?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: What’s your name?
Me: Sydney. Yours?
Him: Ridge.
Ridge. That fits him. Musical-artisty-moody
type.
Me: Well, Ridge, I’m sorry, but I don’t
write lyrics that anyone would want to
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hear. Do you not write lyrics to your own
songs?
He begins to text, and it’s a really long text.
His fingers move swiftly over his phone while he
types. I’m afraid I’m about to receive an entire
novel from him. He looks up at me just as my
phone vibrates.
Ridge: I guess you could say I’m having a
bad case of writer’s block. Which is why I
really, really wish you would just send me
the lyrics you sing while I’m playing. Even
if you think they’re stupid, I want to read
them. You somehow know every single
song I play, even though I’ve never
played them for anyone except when I
practice out here.
How does he know I know all his songs? I
bring a hand up to my cheek when I feel it flush,
knowing he’s been watching me a lot longer than
I initially thought. I swear, I have to be the most
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unintuitive person in this entire world. I glance
up at him and he’s continuing with another text,
so I look back to my phone and wait for it.
Ridge: I can see it in the way your whole
body responds to the guitar. You tap your
feet, you move your head. And I’ve even
tried to test you by slowing down the song
every once in a while to see if you would
notice, and you always do. Your body
stops
responding
when
I
change
something up. So just by watching you, I
can tell you have an ear for music. And
since you sing in the shower, it probably
means you’re an okay singer. Which also
means that maybe there’s a chance you
have a talent for writing lyrics. So,
Sydney, I want to know what your lyrics
are.
I’m still reading when another text comes
through.
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Ridge: Please. I’m desperate.
I inhale a deep breath, wishing more than any-
thing that this conversation had never started. I
don’t know how in the hell he can come to all
these conclusions without my ever having no-
ticed him watching me. In a way, it eases my em-
barrassment over the fact that he saw me watch-
ing him. But now that he wants to know what lyrics I made up, I’m embarrassed for an entirely
different reason. I do sing, but not well enough to
do anything with it professionally. My passion is
mostly for music itself, not at all for performing
it. And as much as I do love writing lyrics, I’ve
never shared anything I’ve written. It seems too
intimate. I’d almost rather he had sent me a vul-
gar, flirtatious come-on.
I jump when my phone vibrates again.
Ridge: Okay, we’ll make a deal. Pick one
song of mine, and send me the lyrics to
just that one song. Then I’ll leave you
alone. Especially if they’re stupid.
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I laugh. And cringe. He’s not going to let up.
I’m going to have to change my number.
Ridge: I know your phone number now,
Sydney. I’m not giving up until you send
me lyrics to at least one song.
Jesus. He’s not going away.
Ridge: And I also know where you live.
I’m not above begging on my knees at
your front door.
Ugh!
Me: Fine. Stop with the creepy threats.
One song. But I’ll have to write the lyrics
down while you play it first, because I’ve
never written them out before.
Ridge: Deal. Which song? I’ll play it right
now.
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Me: How would I tell you which song,
Ridge? I don’t know the names of any of
them.
Ridge: Yeah, me, neither. Hold up your
hand when I get to the one you want me
to play.
He puts down his phone and picks up his gui-
tar, then begins playing one of the songs. It’s not
the one I want him to play, though, so I shake my
head. He switches to another song, and I continue
to shake my head until the familiar chords to one
of my favorites meets my ears. I hold up my
hand, and he grins, then starts the song over from
the beginning. I pull my notebook in front of me
and pick up my pen, then begin to write down the
lyrics I’ve put to it.
He has to play the song three times before I fi-
nally get them all out. It’s almost dark now, and
it’s hard to see, so I pick up my phone.
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Me: It’s too dark to read. I’ll go inside and
text them to you, but you have to promise
you’ll never ask me to do this again.
The light from his phone illuminates his smile,
and he nods at me, then picks up his guitar and
walks back inside his apartment.
I go to my room and sit on the bed, wondering
if it’s too late to change my mind. I feel as if this whole conversation just ruined my eight o’clock
patio time. I can’t go back outside and listen to
him ever again. I liked it better when I thought he
didn’t know I was there. It was like my own per-
sonal space with my own personal concert. Now
I’ll be way too aware of him to actually enjoy
listening, and I curse him for ruining that.
I regretfully text him my lyrics, then turn my
phone on silent and leave it on my bed as I go in-
to the living room and try to forget this ever
happened.
Ridge
Holy shit. She’s good. Really good. Brennan is
going to love this. I know if he agrees to use
them, we’ll need her to sign a release, and we’ll
have to pay her something. But it’s worth it, es-
pecially if the rest of her lyrics are as good as
these.
But the question is, will she be willing to help
out? She obviously doesn’t have much confid-
ence in her talent, but that’s the least of my wor-
ries. The biggest worry is how I’ll persuade her
to send me more lyrics. Or how to get her to
write with me. I doubt her boyfriend would go for that. He has to be the biggest jerk I’ve ever laid
eyes on. I can’t believe the balls of that guy, es-
pecially after watching him last night. He comes
outside on the patio and kisses Sydney, cuddling
up to her in the chair like the most attentive boy-
friend in the world. Then, the second she turns
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her back, he’s out on the patio with the other
chick. Sydney must have been in the shower, be-
cause the two of them rushed outside as if they
were on a timer, and the chick had her legs
wrapped around his waist and her mouth on his
faster than I could even blink. And it wasn’t a
first-time occurrence. I’ve seen it happen so
many times I’ve lost count.
It’s really not my place to inform Sydney that
the guy she’s dating is screwing her roommate. I
especially can’t tell her through a text. But if
Maggie were cheating on me, I’d sure as hell
want to know about it. I just don’t know Sydney
well enough to tell her something like that. Usu-
ally, the person to break the news is the one to
catch all the blame, anyway. Especially if the
person being cheated on doesn’t want to believe
it. I could send her an anonymous note, but the
douchebag boyfriend would more than likely be
able to talk his way out of it.
I won’t do anything for now. It’s not my place,
and until I get to know her better, I’m not in a
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position for her to trust me. My phone vibrates in
my pocket, and I pull it out, hoping Sydney de-
cided to send me more lyrics, but the text is from
Maggie.
Maggie: Almost home. See you in two
weeks.
Me: I didn’t say text me when you’re al-
most home. I said text me when you’re
home. Now, stop texting and driving.
Maggie: Okay.
Me: Stop!
Maggie: Okay!
I toss the phone onto the bed and refuse to text
her back. I’m not giving her a reason to text me
again until she makes it home. I walk to the kit-
chen for a beer, then take a seat next to a passed-
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out Warren on the couch. I grab the remote and
hit info to see what he’s watching.
Porn.
Figures. The guy can’t watch anything without
nudity. I start to change the channel, but he
snatches the remote out of my hands. “It’s my
night.”
I don’t know if it was Warren or Bridgette who
decided we should divvy up the TV, but it was
the worst idea ever. Especially since I’m still not
sure which night is actually mine, even though,
technically, this is my apartment. I’m lucky if
either of them pays rent on a quarterly basis. I put
up with it because Warren has been my best
friend since high school, and Bridgette is . . .
well, she’s too mean for me to even want to
strike up a conversation with her. I’ve avoided
that since Brennan let her move in six months
ago. I really don’t have to worry about money
right now, thanks to my job and the cut Brennan
gives me, so I just leave it alone. I still don’t
know how Brennan met Bridgette or how they’re
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involved, but even though their relationship isn’t
sexual, he obviously cares about her. I have no
idea how or why, since she doesn’t have any no-
ticeable redeeming qualities other than how she
looks in her Hooters uniform.
And of course, the second that thought passes
through my head, so do the words Maggie said
when she found out Bridgette was moving in
with us.
“I don’t care if she moves in. The worst thing
that could happen would be for you to cheat on
me. Then I’d have to break up with you, then
your heart would shatter, and we’d both be
miserable for life, and you would be so depressed
you’d never be able to get it up again. So make
sure if you do cheat, it’s the best sex you ever
have, because it’ll also be the last sex you ever
have.”
She doesn’t have to worry about my cheating
on her, but the scenario she painted was enough
to ensure that I don’t even look at Bridgette in
her uniform.
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How in the hell did my thoughts wander this
far?
This is why I’m having writer’s block; I can’t
seem to focus on anything important lately. I go
back to my room to transfer the lyrics Sydney
sent onto paper, and I begin to work out how to
add them to the music. I want to text Sydney to
tell her what I think about them, but I don’t. I
should leave her hanging a little while longer. I
know how nerve-racking it is to send someone a
piece of yourself and then have to sit back and
wait for it to be judged. If I make her wait long
enough, maybe once I tell her how brilliant she
is, she’ll have developed a craving to send me
more.
It might be a little cruel, but she has no idea
how much I need her. Now that I’m pretty sure
I’ve found my muse, I have to work it just right
so she doesn’t slip away.