I laugh and tease him back, “I guess I won’t sing it for you then if I’m too pedestrian in my tastes.”
He places his palms together as if he were praying, begging with his pretty blue eyes. “I would love to hear you sing ‘Physical’ right now.”
“I only remember the refrain.”
“Then sing the refrain,” he says, practically commanding me now. I oblige, cycling through the chorus of the song.
“Wow,” he says in a stunned voice.
“Wow?”
“You have to do that for your next album.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Honestly?”
He places his hand on his heart. “I am completely serious. You sound absolutely fantastic singing that song.”
“But it’s such a cheesy song.”
“That’s the point. Dress it up, slow it down, make it sizzle in a whole new way. That’s the point of a cover song. You make people hear the song in a new, fresh way, as if it were a new fresh song.”
I consider this for a minute. “That’s not a bad idea. And it would solve one little problem.”
“What would that little problem be?”
I feel immensely comfortable with Matthew. I don’t know if it’s the British accent, the fact that he’s an extremely good listener. Or if it’s a lot simpler, as in six foot two, blue eyes, dark hair, trim body that I’m dying to know better.
“I don’t have many songs for the new album,” I say casually, as if that little nugget is no big deal.
Matthew sits up straight. “Jane, you’re going into the studio in—” He flips back through his notebook and finds the page he’s hunting for. “In exactly twelve days. You don’t have any songs?”
“Well, I had three but they kind of suck…”
“Oh.” He sounds crestfallen.
“I guess I better do that ‘Physical’ cover tune then, huh?” I joke.
He wipes his forward in the mock “whew” gesture. “There, I feel so much better.” He flips back to where he left off in the notebook and writes in big bold letters so I can see, “Jane Black has one song for the new album. Everything is okay.” Then he looks at me. “But seriously. You’re going to write some music, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course.”
“Three yeses? And an of course?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry,” I say sharply. “You’ll get your story.”
“Jane,” he says, his voice softening. He places his hand on mine again, like he did the first night at Café Cluny, and I feel goose bumps all over. I love the way his hand feels on my skin. I love that even a soft gesture from him turns me inside out.
“Are you ready to go back to the studio?”
“Of course,” I say with fake confidence.
“We can postpone the story if you need more time.”
Oh, God. Could he be any more considerate? Handsome, thoughtful, funny? Slay me now. “Maybe I should spend less time talking to a certain journalist.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “I can’t imagine any scenario where that would be the answer.” His hand is still on mine. Another small squeeze, and it’s so tender and caring and sends a warm rush through me. How can he kiss me senseless in the elevator and then hold my hand as if he’s my guy and he’s worried that I won’t make my deadline? But he manages both sides—the sexy one and the considerate one—and if he keeps this up, my mind just might turn to mush because I am dangerously close to this being more than a crazy kind of chemistry, more than a fun bit of flirting. I could see him as the man in my life.
My muscles lock up when it hits me what’s happening. That the physical has transformed. That when I said I want more, I wasn’t only referring to more contact. I want more of him. I want more moments. More time. More talking.
Which scares the hell out of me.
“Do you usually work this way? Are you the type of artist who thrives off that last-minute pressure?”
“Um…” I start but don’t answer because my mind is elsewhere.
Prickles of worry race over my body. I glance down at my watch. It’s nearly two o’clock. I must get out of here. I need to escape from him to sort through all the questions that are smashing into me at once. I don’t answer him, because I’m awash in a new sensation, but one that’s far more precarious. One that I don’t know how to account for.
“Are you going to be able to make your deadline?” he asks once more.
“Are you going to return to England and reclaim all your land?” I counter to shift the spotlight off me.
He raises an eyebrow, as if to say I’m onto something. But he is silent. He’s never admitted he’s a baron. I return to the question. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. Hey, I hate to cut out of here, but I need to pick up Ethan from school in a little bit.”
“Are you okay?’ he asks, furrowing his brow.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
I help him clean up, but we’re quiet now. The easy banter has been erased.
Soon, I catch an uptown train and try hard to focus on my new album, the songs I’ll need to write as I head for Ethan’s school to pick him up. I close my eyes and ponder notes, melodies, words.
But I draw a blank and open my eyes because my mind isn’t really on music. Instead, I’m staring out the scratched, grimy, dirty windows of the subway, watching the walls of the tunnels rumbling by, and I’m thinking about summer fruit, about honey-kissed peaches, sun-ripened apricots, sensuous warm cherries, bursting with their dark red, almost burgundy, hues.