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wondered how many famous songs had been recorded there, or if it was solely for auditions.
    Duncan Prospect sat across from us at the table, but the man who called himself Jimmy Keats walked down the row of us, shaking our hands one by one. I was last, and the closer he got to me, the more my body sizzled with remembering his fingers on me. I tried to bury the sensation under my anger, but my skin wouldn’t behave, tingling in anticipation of his touch. When he finally reached me, he held my hand a little longer than the others. At least, it seemed that way, with how time felt like it was on pause while he met my eyes. His melting brown eyes that probably saw through all my bravado. Maybe he had as many questions as I did. I hadn’t been entirely honest about who I was, either.
    “Nice to you meet you all,” he said. I narrowed my eyes at him and his lips went into a flat line. So, that’s how it was going to be, was it? Pretend we’d never met and move on.
    He released my hand, finally, but his warmth lingered. I wasn’t one to get unsettled by a man, usually. A flicker of annoyance lit inside my stomach. I looked down at my lap and smoothed my short skirt over my thighs. I could be cool. I had to be cool.
    “Did you bring your recording?” Duncan asked. When Bea had finally gotten hold of him, after calling the general AGM number, being transferred about a million times, leaving ten messages and speaking to a whole gaggle of random people, Duncan had asked us to bring a sample of our music to our meeting. I hoped it was good enough.
    When I looked up again, it was to catch Jimmy Keats staring at me. He didn’t look away when I noticed, and I both thrilled and became irritated at his boldness. This wasn’t a man used to not getting his way, I could tell. And yet, he’d acted completely calm in the meeting, so far. A far cry from the passionate lover of several weeks ago. What if Duncan—and Jimmy—did love our recording? Could I work with a man who’d touched me the way he had? Could I draw a line between business and pleasure? Could I even find that line, having to be so close to someone who brought all my senses to heightened attention?
    The questions didn’t even matter, right then. He hadn’t said a word about signing us, yet, and if my emotions right now carried over into all our interactions, I’d spend most of my time disgusted that he was a liar. So, I tucked down the way he was making me feel. Told my skin to be calm. Put a chilly expression on my face.
    Duncan took the recording Bea passed over and tucked it in his jacket pocket. He ran his palm over the few wisps of hair on his head and settled back, relaxing into his chair. Jimmy Keats, on the other hand, leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
    “Let’s just get to know each other a little bit.” Duncan said. “Where are you from?”
    We spent the next hour talking about ourselves. How Bea was super close to her dad, since her mom died when she was little. How Kaitlin was raised on a dairy farm in the Midwest and hadn’t seen the ocean until she came to UCLA for college. And me. Growing up in New Orleans, seeing changes to the vibrant city I loved: its glory days, its low times, its rejuvenation, and being taught classic blues by a mentor at times gruff, at times tender.
    Duncan had a way of asking question after question, prying every last tidbit of our life experiences out of us. And Jimmy Keats had his own way of making us want to talk: watching us like we were the only person in the room, making low sounds of agreement or understanding at the right moments, never interrupting. Some things Jimmy Keats, at least, already knew about me. But he sat there and listened intently, as though he’d never heard me say I was from New Orleans, before. I didn’t know if I should feel buoyed by his attentiveness, or dejected by the way he acted like he’d never met me.
    Before long, we were all smiling like old friends. I actually