“You want to know how the sausage gets made.”
He quickly taps his nose and points at me as if to say, You’ve got it.
“So you want to sit in on our recording sessions and have the freedom to write about all the dredge that comes out before we maybe write something remotely decent?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to have total access to Jeremy and Owen and me?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know what goes into this—how we plan the album, the songs?”
“Yes. You’ve already started, right?”
“Of course.” Three mediocre songs that I can never use. But hey, there was that little melody I stitched together this afternoon on my couch. “And would you like to know which brand of toothpaste I use too?”
He shrugs playfully. “Suppose it couldn’t hurt. Jane’s Tips For a Brilliant Smile has a nice ring to it.”
“You’re asking for a lot.”
“I know. So what do you think?” There’s a childlike glimmer in his eyes.
“Why me?”
“Because Glass Slipper is redefining how independent music is marketed, because Jeremy doesn’t give a shit about appearances and corporate accouterments and rules. And because I f**king loved your album and I can’t wait to hear what you do next.”
I don’t say anything immediately. I want to bask in the glow of his compliment for a moment. I want to savor the fact that he likes my music. But hell, I don’t have a goddamn clue what I’m writing next, so how can I let a journalist into my creative process when it’s on a standstill? And even though Jeremy wants this, I’m going to need to keep Matthew at bay until I get a grip on some words and music.
“Maybe,” I answer.
He leans in closer across the table, looks me straight in the eyes, and when he does that my resolve starts to weaken because his eyes are so beautiful, and he doesn’t break my gaze. “When you were younger, when you were a teenager, did you read the music magazines?”
“Of course I did.”
“And did you read those in-depth features where you really get to know a musician, how she works, how she operates? And did you ever wonder, ‘When I am a famous rock star someday, will they do this kind of feature on me?’”
“Did you get a hold of my diary from high school or something?” I say playfully. Because, though I didn’t keep a diary, Matthew is uncannily hitting all the right notes.
“I have a hunch you didn’t keep a diary,” Matthew fires back.
I smile at him this time but don’t let on that he is right. “I will think about it. When do you need to know by?”
“How’s a week?”
“Fair enough.”
Matthew raises his glass to toast. “To my hope that you’ll say yes.”
I clink my wine against his vodka tonic.
He adds, “So you’re doing David Letterman before your Roseland show on Friday. And I also saw on CRB Radio’s website that you’re doing Words and Music Sunday morning with Max Cohain.”
“Wow. Letterman, Roseland, CRB Radio. You are thorough.”
“I’m trying to impress you. Win you over with my encyclopedic knowledge of your career now. But listen, watch out for Cohain. He loves the pretty ladies.”
Matthew smiles at me and I can’t think of anything to say as a tingling feeling sweeps through my body. Pretty. Does Matthew think I’m pretty? I swallow, a touch of nervous hope racing through me. Holy f**k. Maybe this isn’t a one-way street. Maybe he’s has a thing for me too. Because he’s holding my gaze, almost as if he’s waiting for me to say something. But I haven’t a clue how to respond. All I know is my body is buzzing, alive with possibilities. Something shifts, too, in his expression. His eyes are usually so playful, and they seem to twinkle. But now there’s an intensity to them, and they’re darker. Neither of us says anything, and the electric quiet makes my brain feel blurry and my blood turn hot.
“Pretty ladies?” I ask carefully, in an uncertain voice.
“Like you,” he answers, looking me straight in the eyes. I don’t want to look away. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do a single thing to ruin this moment.
Then the waiter brings the bill, and the moment and whatever it was turning into is broken. Before I can reach inside my bag to retrieve the gift certificate, Matthew has already handed the waiter his credit card and sent him on his way.
“I was going to pay. I told you I had a gift certificate. The meal was supposed to be on me.”
He waves his hand in the air. “I love that you offered and you’re very generous. But we have a policy at Beat. We can’t accept any kind of gifts. So I’ll be picking up the tab for the next few months.”
I smile at him, giving him a flirty tilt of the head. “You’re presumptuous.”
“Optimistic, I like to think,” he says as the waiter returns his credit card and he tucks it back into his wallet. Then he adds, “Besides, even if we were just having dinner I’d want to pay then, too.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” he answers and his voice is stripped of all the teasing, all the toying, even all that journalistic seriousness. He seems so completely sincere in his tone, in his features, and then he does that thing again—where he reaches for my hand, clasping his on top of mine. I’m suddenly aware of the pressure on my wrist. Of the smooth inside of his palm. How his skin feels hot on my skin. I’m dying for him to slide his fingers through mine, because that would be a sure sign, right?