Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5) by Aly Stiles

Author:Aly Stiles [Stiles, Aly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Smartypants Romance
Published: 2022-10-12T16:00:00+00:00

13—RECONNECTING

NASH

Paige has been acting weird. Well, weirder than usual anyway. Talk about a buzzkill. After an amazing half hour of recharging my soul with Abram, Kaitlyn, Val, and my guitar, we returned to the control room to confront a brooding Paige Andrews. I thought that was my role in our little duet, so I’m not sure of the logistics if both of us are broody.

Lunch has fared no better, with Paige glowering at everyone from our server, to the couple at the table beside us, to Abram Fletcher who probably isn’t accustomed to being glowered at. The expressions reserved for me are even more cryptic. I can’t begin to interpret the rainbow of facial cues I’m getting from across the table.

Worst part, I don’t know if she knows she’s being thorny. And maybe horny? Is she trying to kick me or caress me with the foot that keeps crashing into mine under the table? At least, I hope it’s her foot. I look at Abram who’s in deep conversation with Val and Kaitlyn. He doesn’t look like a dude who’s playing footsies with me at the moment.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Fine, why?”

“Um, because, that?”

“Because what?”

“‘Fine, why?’” I mimic with what I’d consider very accurate Paige snappiness. “You’ve been irritable since the jam session. Were you mad that we left you? I just thought… I mean, for Val—”

“The jam session was amazing,” she says, one hundred percent snappily.

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “So, what is it then?”

“Nothing. I don’t know why you think there’s a thing.”

“There’s clearly a thing.”

“Unless you’re referring to my delicious chicken Caesar salad, there is no thing.”

I’m no detective but her demeanor doesn’t seem related to a chicken Caesar salad.

“Okay, whatever,” I say, focusing back on my regular Caesar salad. It’s far from the best I’ve ever had but at least it’s not yelling at me.

“Why did you really quit music?” she blurts out.

The crouton I just swallowed lodges in my throat when I look up again.

“What?” I croak.

“You heard me.” Her eyes narrow with what maybe is chicken-Caesar-salad ire? “I saw you in the studio,” she continues. “I saw the way your soul bloomed while you were playing. How can you tell me music isn’t your life when it’s who you are?”

“It is my life. I make my living through music.”

Well, “make a living” might be a stretch. Marcos and Nate would argue my “living” is pretty far from made at the moment.

“No, you make a living helping other people make music.”

“I still make plenty of my own. Just because a passion doesn’t pay the bills doesn’t mean it’s any less valuable.”

She quiets, and my heart races as she studies me. Can she read the lie behind my excellent point? I’m not wrong, except by implication. I think she’s about to concede when the hardness returns to her features.

“But your passion almost did pay the bills, didn’t it? You had a record deal.”

Any remaining appetite I had drains away. If she knows that then…

I clench my fist and draw in a stuttered breath.

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