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“I want to hear your music,” she says.

My panic doesn’t know what to do with that one.

“What? Like, right now?” My voice sounds strained.

“Yes, right now.” She grabs her phone and starts typing. My heart is thumping, and I don’t even know why. “What should I start with?” she muses as she scrolls. “Oh wait, I know. I remember one of them from Luke.”

Why the hell am I so nervous? Well, besides the fact that it’s every musician’s worst nightmare for their art to be heard through a crappy cellphone speaker.

I make a living from sharing my music. I’ve played freaking sold-out stadiums, and I’m chewing the inside of my cheek like I’ve just submitted my first demo.

Who cares what she thinks?

I do.

A lot, apparently.

I lean across the bar to try to see her phone. “What are you looking for?”

She tilts the screen away, and her playful smile eases some of my tension.

Then she plays the song she was looking for.

All humor drains out of me when the violent intro to “Argyle” scratches through her phone.

How the hell is this the one song Luke mentioned? The panic returns full throttle. What did he tell her about me?

“That’sthe one song Luke talked about?” I ask, probing as casually as possible.

Please don’t know everything. Please.

Her nose scrunches as she studies me. She must be able to tell I’m rattled. “In passing. It wasn’t in reference to the song itself, but something about guitars and tuning? It just happened to be the only title I remembered.”

Oh thank god.

A huge weight lifts. “Yeah, the guys like to tune down half a step so they can play it open.”

Did I write the song in D-flat to be a dick? Absolutely. That was the whole point of the song.

“Who wrote this one?” she asks, triggering another spike of anxiety.

“All of us, like everything,” I answer, but I must look as shady as I sound.

She seems to have no intention of dropping the issue. “Okay, then who had the original idea for it?”

I wince, caught in an impossible trap. This is an easy question with an easy answer.She’sthe one who’s making it hard because she doesn’t ask questions the way most people do. She looks for more. For the secrets behind the question, and that’s a place I’m not ready to take her. I like her too much to lose her to my shadows.

“What do you think of it?” I ask instead.

She scans me for a second, like she knows I’m deflecting.

Please let this go.

“Honestly, it kind of sucks,” she says in a serious tone. “I’m more of a country girl.”

My stomach sinks, but she can only hold the straight face for a split second.

I breathe a sigh of relief when she grins.