Say You're Mine (The Gallaghers Book 1) Page 4

  “Sure.”

  We sat on the same side of the desk, something I liked to do because sitting on opposite sides felt too formal sometimes. I wanted my clients to feel at ease. We went through the list of questions while I made notes on my iPad. When I was midway through, our dinner was delivered, and we took a short break.

  After arranging the food on my desk, we ate slowly, savoring everything.

  “I love Thai,” I exclaimed.

  “So do I. Mom thinks I’m nuts. If it’s spicy, it’s a no-go for her. But she might enjoy this. I’ll keep it in mind for their next visit.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Back home in Blue Falls, Oregon,” Brayden said.

  “Do they come to the city often?”

  “Once or twice a year. My cousins visit more often. Jana and Donna. We all grew up together. They’re almost like my sisters. I’m probably going to see less of everybody this year though.”

  “Because of the tour?”

  “Yes. And the months leading up to the tour are also intense. But my family is supportive. They’re my biggest champions,” he exclaimed.

  I smiled, loving how his expression changed when he spoke about them.

  “Well, whenever they visit, make sure you also order panang curry for them. It’s the best I’ve had. I should ask them for a special discount since I send them so many clients.”

  I dribbled red curry on the rice before taking a spoonful.

  “When do you have time to be a guide?” he asked.

  “I’ve just made my schedule in a way that it works.” Looking up, I was startled to find him staring at me. Heat shot through my body, and I had to look down at my box of food, fidgeting in my seat. “Speaking of tours, I looked online. You’ve got a huge year ahead of you. Seventy concerts in eleven months.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be insane.”

  GreenFire was starting the tour at the beginning of October. They were going to perform around the world, though almost 75 percent of their locations were in the United States.

  “You don’t enjoy it that much, do you?”

  He sighed. “I like performing on the stage. It’s a completely different experience than recording in the studio. It’s like the music comes alive. But I don’t like all the press and fan attention.”

  “I’ve made notes on that. Wait, let me add—”

  “No, we’ll get back to that later. Tell me more about you while we eat.”

  “Why?”

  The corners of his mouth tilted up. “You helped me lose the game, remember? You owe me. And I want to know more about you.”

  My heart rate quickened. “Still going on about that, huh?”

  “I’ve barely started.”

  ***

  Brayden

  Her appetite for life was addictive. I wanted to lean in and kiss her hard and deep, taste her mouth—all of her.

  She lit up as she talked about her guided tours. We were wildly different. She loved being surrounded by groups, but I didn’t. But most of all, she loved the freedom to roam about wherever she wanted, when she wanted. If I had her in my life, all that would change. I couldn’t ask her to do this, even though I wanted her badly.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She cocked a brow. “Yes I do. I really do.”

  I tilted closer. “I’m thinking about how different my life is from yours. How I can’t offer you what you need, and how much I still want you.”

  She swallowed hard as her eyes widened.

  “See?” I teased.

  She licked her lips, glancing down at her empty food container, as if thinking that if she maintained eye contact, she might give in to whatever I asked.

  I was hanging on by a thread, so damn tempted to push her hair to one side and kiss her neck.

  “Let’s get back to the list of questions now,” she suggested.

  I barely kept myself from leaning in farther.

  “Sure.”

  “Sasha didn’t say anything else about the rest of the guys dropping by.”

  “We’ve been talking, and it’s probably best if you swing by the cottage whenever you have time. We’re flexible.”

  “The cottage?”

  “It’s where we spend most of our time, rehearsing or enjoying the free time.”

  “Okay, let me check my calendar.” She tapped her iPad. “I can come tomorrow. Where is it, Manhattan?”

  “No, it’s outside the city. Tarrytown. It’s a half-hour drive. I’ll have a driver pick you up and bring you home after. It’s easier.”

  “Okay.”

  She pulled out the list of questions after that, and I decided not to push anymore.

  At least not tonight.

  ***

  I left her office an hour later, heading straight home. My driver, Paul, picked me up, and the bodyguard who was with me today followed us in a separate car. I lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. It was a gated building with a concierge, so no one could come up unannounced.

  I couldn’t sleep, so I headed straight to my padded rehearsal room. Even though we had a much larger one at the cottage, I’d wanted one in my penthouse too. I got ideas for new songs at the weirdest hours, and having a room dedicated to my creative endeavors put me in the right mood. I mostly wrote songs at home, but I’d had the room padded anyway for the rare occasion when I’d want to play the piano too.

  I sat on the cushioned chair with the notebook propped against it. Music had always been in my blood. My mom liked to think she was the reason for it since she encouraged me constantly during my childhood. Even now, we bonded over it, even though said bonding always came with a dash of teasing.

  “Young man, when are your lyrics going to be friendly to a mother’s ears?”

  It always made me chuckle, because the answer was “Never.” Our songs were raw and unfiltered, and that meant including dirty words when the song required it. I’d gotten a lot of flak for that from the record company, but I wasn’t budging. Art was art, and I refused to change it to save the radio DJs headaches.

  I scribbled a few random words on the blank sheet. I always started like this, and then gradually I’d see the connection between them and deduce the theme of the song.

  I’d been asked more than once where I came up with the ideas, and my answer hadn’t changed in years: I didn’t. The songs revealed themselves to me.

  I’d always known I wanted to create music, just as Isabelle had always known she wanted to be a counselor. The feisty redhead immediately hijacked my thoughts. She was so refreshingly different that I couldn’t help wanting to know more about her. At that bowling session, I could barely keep my hands off her, especially because she was so damn responsive to me. There was a draw between us, a connection I’d never encountered before, and I wanted to explore that. I’d wanted to capture that sassy mouth and explore her until she went weak in the knees.

  I was used to attention from women. It came with the job description, and truth be told, it was all superficial and got old fast. But what was going on with Isabelle was different, as if she saw me—Brayden Clarke the man, not the lead singer of GreenFire. It felt real.

  I spent half the night in my rehearsal room, resulting in complete exhaustion the next morning, but it didn’t matter. I had the beginning of a hell of a good song, all thanks to Isabelle.

  It was a Friday, which meant I needed to call my parents. We always chatted Friday mornings, unless I’d been performing the night before. They owned wheat fields back home in Oregon, and their lives hadn’t changed since I was a kid. It revolved around the cycle of nature, and they were busiest during crop time. It was comforting to know that some things remained the same.

  I poured myself a bowl of cereal and called with FaceTime, as they always wanted to see me too.

  “Son, can you hear us?” Dad practically yelled. I kept them up with the latest in phone technology, but they never got the ha
ng of it all.

  “We can see you,” Mom exclaimed equally loud. They always spoke like this, as if thinking the farther away I was, the louder they had to be.

  “I can see you and hear you,” I assured them.

  We chatted for about ten minutes before they informed me that they had plans.

  “We’re going to the pumpkin festival at The Barn,” Dad said.

  That place had been the hotspot of my childhood. Everything in our small town happened at The Barn. I hadn’t been home in years. Isabelle’s question popped up in my mind unexpectedly.

  “Does it feel strange, living in this bubble?”

  It didn’t bother me, but sometimes you got used to bars and didn’t want to see them anymore.

  Having a security detail had always been a necessary precaution, because we’d had our fair share of unpleasant situations when we rose to fame. I’d had fans break into my hotel room, and into my previous apartment. They stalked me even during a visit back home. More than once they got past my bodyguards and, in their desperation to reach me, ripped off my shirt. The saying “They want a piece of us” was brutally literal sometimes.

  For years, I’d been content to have every move planned beforehand, have the coast cleared. I’d always told myself it came with the territory, and I’d accepted it.

  But for the first time, I was questioning my lifestyle, and I knew it was all because of Isabelle.

  Chapter Four

  Brayden

  The cottage was our headquarters. Everybody had a place of their own in the city and other parts of the country, but we all had a room—actually a section of the home—there too. We did everything from practicing to eating to relaxing there. We’d bought it after our first album hit platinum not only to reward ourselves but because press and fan attention had become insane. It was a huge house in Tarrytown, on the Hudson River. With twenty bedrooms and three separate living rooms, it had plenty of space. The surrounding yard was huge and full of lush greenery, and the view of the river was very calming. The outside was made entirely of gray stone, and the roof was white. It used to belong to one of the richest families in the US.

  It was a turn-of-the-century style home, and while we’d left the outside as it was, we’d changed a lot inside. We’d given the various rooms different uses, knocking out walls and remodeling to suit our needs. We’d built a swimming pool and saunas on the underground level. On the first level were entertainment rooms: a pool table and darts room, a home cinema, a disco dance floor, and a gaming room. The band’s practice area was on the second level. We’d padded all the rooms there, so each member could practice separately in the smaller rooms or together in the large one. We also had a state-of-the-art recording studio. The official album recordings took place in the label’s studio, but we liked to play around at the cottage as well. The best way for us to judge a song was to record it and then listen to it; while performing, we were too lost in playing to see the bigger picture.

  Today was a day for practicing. Since we’d already recorded the album, we were preparing for the upcoming concert tour. I also had a surprise for the guys.

  “I have something new,” I announced once we’d finished rehearsing for the day.

  “Come on, man. We barely finished recording and you want us to work on something new already?” Harvey asked, running a hand through his hair.

  Lars wasn’t saying much, which just meant he hadn’t had enough coffee yet. He was very opinionated. Thomas stretched out a hand to me. I took out the crumpled paper from my back pocket, handing it to him.

  “I like the lines,” he said slowly. “But, man, you’ve got to improve your drawing skills or finally use score paper.” He squinted at the page. “I can’t make out anything.”

  Harvey snatched it out of his hand, inspecting it. He was much better at interpreting my scribblings. Placing the note on the holder in front of him, he started strumming the guitar. My mind immediately went into a creative space. I could practically hear the missing lyrics in my mind, see the chords I couldn’t figure out at home, as if they were floating right in front of my eyes and all I had to do was write them down.

  Thomas held out a score paper for me, and I immediately wrote down the chords and the lyrics. Harvey played until he ran out of material, then started all over, knowing I needed to keep hearing the song to stay in this creative mood. It was how I ticked.

  I had no idea how much time passed by the time I finished, but my fingers were numb from pressing too hard on the pen, my wrist a bit stiff. I rotated it, straightening up.

  Lars reached out for the note. “The lyrics are good. Very good. How did you—”

  A knock at the door interrupted us. Sasha opened it, poking her head in.

  “Boys, Isabelle’s here,” she exclaimed.

  I glanced at the group once, cocking a brow.

  Lars held up his hands in defense. “We’re good with Sasha’s strategy, okay? And Isabelle’s cool.” His acceptance of her skyrocketed since I lost so spectacularly at bowling.

  We went downstairs to the main living room. The space was so huge that it probably used to be a ballroom. Isabelle was waiting for us on the couch in the corner.

  She averted her gaze as soon as I made eye contact. Good. That meant I wasn’t the only one feeling this insane energy between us.

  “I can’t believe you call this place the cottage. It’s a mansion.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, we thought it would be fun to give it a nickname. So, what’s the plan?”

  “It’s simple,” she said. “I’ll talk to each of you separately about things you like and don’t, and then I’ll recommend some things you could talk about in Facebook live videos and other social media. I looked at older videos on YouTube and read the comments, made note of what people reacted to and what they wanted more of. I’ve outlined some statistics based on those comments so we can focus on what works.”

  “Isabelle, I like you,” Lars stated. “You’re on point. I was afraid you were going to waste hours of our life with this.”

  “Are you always this sarcastic?”

  “Yes,” Lars declared stoically.

  Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you just like me because you think Brayden lost because of me.”

  Lars grinned. “That’s the primary reason, true. Which reminds me, I’m hosting a party here tomorrow evening. It’s my birthday. The opportunity to play some games might arise. Care to join us and help Brayden lose again?”

  Isabelle laughed softly, looking around the group. Still avoiding my gaze.

  “Maybe I’ll cheer you on this time, Lars,” she teased.

  “Ha! No. Don’t even suggest it, or I’ll uninvite you.”

  “Aha! It’s too late for that. Okay, back to business. I suggest I talk to each of you one-on-one. Brayden came by my office already, and we went through all the questions. Lars, you want to be the first one?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I went back to the rehearsal room with Harvey and Thomas while we waited. Once Lars finished, he joined us, and Harvey spoke to Isabelle. Thomas was last. Usually, I had no problems focusing 100 percent on the music, but now I kept thinking about Isabelle. I didn’t want to risk her leaving without my knowing, so I went down when Thomas texted me that his interview was over.

  Thomas patted my back as he went back up to the guys. Isabelle was alone in the living room, sitting on the couch and tapping on her iPad.

  She glanced over her shoulder and immediately straightened up when she noticed me. Smiling, she returned her focus to the iPad.

  “Are you going to avoid looking at me the whole time? It’s going to make for an awkward party.”

  She sighed. “No, but it’s easier to resist all those sexy vibes you’re giving off if I don’t make eye contact. Otherwise, I might get carried away and succumb to this insane attraction.”

  She was killing me. I loved that she pulled no punches and always spoke her mind.

  I sat on the armrest right
next to her. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

  She looked up, shaking her head. “I need a tour of the cottage. Am I right thinking you’ll volunteer?”

  I leaned in even closer. “You bet I will.”

  Clearing her throat, she rose to her feet. “Okay, let’s get moving.”

  I stood slowly, smiling. “You think if we’re on the move I can’t flirt with you?”

  Shaking her head, she elbowed me lightly. “You’re welcome to flirt as much as you want, Mr. Rock Star. My panties will stay firmly in place. Not even that sinful smile can melt them.”

  I burst out laughing. She was definitely something else.

  “Come on. Flirt and show me around. I want to see this place. It’s super interesting, and I think fans would love to see snippets of it.”

  “As long as we’re not moving into reality show territory.”

  She waved her hand. “Not at all. Just giving them enough of a glimpse so they can connect with you.”

  I held the door open for her, and she stepped out first. I walked right next to her, making a concerted effort not to touch her—not even her lower back or her arm; I instinctively knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from kissing her if I touched her at all.

  Seeing the cottage through her eyes was fascinating. She was mesmerized by all our entertainment rooms, especially the ones with the pool table and the home theater.

  “Want to see the rehearsal rooms too?”

  “Of course. I think that’s what the fans would like to see most.”

  I walked behind her as we climbed the staircase to the last level. Fucking hell, that ass of hers was driving me crazy. Her jeans were low-cut, and she walked with a slight swing in her hips.

  “Brayden? Are you listening?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, cocking a brow. She’d caught me in the act.

  I shrugged, flashing her one of my trademark panty-melting smiles. She pointed a finger at my eyes before lowering it to my mouth.