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“What’s there?”

“Nothing, I mean actually on the street corner. I chased down one of the organizers and made her talk to me.”

She laughs. “And how did it go?”

“I think she’s going to come to my gig in Long Beach next weekend. Which reminds me, I need to confirm specs with them.” I frown and make a mental note because I haven’t heard from them since returning from Ibiza.

“Well, if Wild Fest doesn’t want you, they’re nuts. Do you remember when we were in high school? The first gig you played?”

“You held my hand.”

“Literally.” Callie’s lips twitch. “You were shaking.”

I’d been mixing my own music for a year when I got the chance to play a party. A friend of a friend—at least a friend of one of the girls who had been my friend at the time.

It had been dark, and I was alone in the back.

Until I took over the booth.

There I could be anyone. I didn’t need to justify myself or defend my feelings. All I had to do was play.

“I’m surprised you chased that woman down. You must be desperate. Lurking is more your style than full-on attack.”

“Maybe my style is changing.” I’m changing, I realize as I cut her a look. “I’m opening a club for Harrison King.”

My cousin’s smile falls away. “What?”

“It’s in Burbank. He’s not a bad guy, Callie.”

“He’s a billionaire who lives in the tabloids. Yes, LA is full of people like that. But not ones we hang out with. At least, not who we hung out with growing up,” she amends.

“Harrison’s intense. He pushes, and with anyone else, I’d tell them to fuck right off. The reason it works is I don’t have to live in the past with him.”

“Because he doesn’t know your past?” she counters.

“Because I don’t have to get into that shit. We can have fun.”

“Fun?” She arches a brow as I grab her arm.

“Yes. He’s fun.”

She rolls her eyes, and I laugh.

“You mean the sex is fun.”

I pull my donut from the bag, swipe a finger through the icing, and lick it off. “The sex doesn’t suck.”

Last night at his place was beyond hot. The first time we were together in Ibiza, the sex was desperate and hurried. This time, I got a taste for how he’d be in bed if we were together.

Not that we made it to the bed.

He demanded I fall in line the way he does when we’re clothed. The difference is when we’re naked, I’m tempted to give that power up to him. Probably because I know I’ll benefit from it in the form of orgasms I could never give myself.

I’ve never wanted to trust a man with my body or my heart.

That’s why when he texted me a few hours ago, I didn’t rush to reply. It’s not about pretending I’m unavailable. It’s about reminding myself I’m not available, in the sense that I’m not going to start jumping every time my phone goes off thinking it’s him like a teenager with a crush. I want more, but there’s a big difference between wanting to christen every surface of his penthouse condo and letting him into my deep, dark secrets.

“I guess I’m protective,” my cousin goes on. “This guy dates models and buys clubs and owns yachts?—“