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I tuck the phone away to disembark.

I’ve got it bad. Since Kian’s wedding, I’m falling even harder for him.

We’re both on the go, and I don’t know what getting more serious means, but I miss Harrison when he’s not around.

Uncharted territory. That’s what this is.

Tomorrow is a huge gig that will decide Wild Fest, but I’m thinking about Harrison.

By the time I get into the hotel and get through some emails for the show tomorrow, it’s late.

It’s three hours earlier in LA, I remind myself as I hit his contact.

Harrison answers the video call on the second ring. “I was concerned my photo gave you a heart attack.”

His gruff voice makes me grin.

“No, but the woman sitting next to me on the plane enjoyed it.”

He cocks his head. “She single?”

“And at least seventy.”

“Perfect.”

“You’re not,” I remind him. “Single or seventy.”

He laughs, and I notice his shirt, open at the front to expose a tantalizing glimpse of skin. I swallow.

“Why were you naked earlier?”

“Trying on some new suits.” He’s in motion the next second, flipping the camera to display half a dozen jackets.

“You’re a clothes whore.”

“I bought you something too.” He flips the screen back, smirking. I’m curious what he got me, but he continues before I can ask. “I’m flying to London tomorrow for a few days. A few conversations with senior Echo staff.”

“Oh.” I’d almost forgotten he has work outside of LA because he’s been here so much. “Did you get the approval for the club?”

The backboard of his bed appears as he shifts onto the mattress. “Not today. I have more urgent matters to attend to first. Mischa’s been causing problems.”

It always seems as if his vendetta trumps what he could create in the future.

“Are you ready to decimate the competition and claim the top spot in Wild Fest’s fan vote tomorrow?”

I stop pacing and sink onto the couch, staring at my computer on the coffee table that contains the set I’ve worked and reworked. I make a face to hide the nerves. “I have a set. But nothing feels right.” I pull up the track I was planning to open with, then click to another and another. I leave the third one running, turning down the volume so it throbs in the background as we continue talking. “I’ve done some research on the crowd. The club sent me some demographics, and…”

He groans, and I trail off.

“My beautiful girlfriend is an exceptional producer who still doesn’t understand what the people want.”

“Which is?”

I frown at my Ableton software, wishing there was an answer that didn’t rely on my own intuition.

“What I already have.”

His voice lowers, and I flick my gaze back to the phone screen. His firm mouth is parted as he shifts back, eyes darkening.