by Lauren Layne
Josh held up a beer in offering, and Trevor nodded. He was about to shout to the other guys, but Felix and Donny had already started in again on the music, working their way through the trickier part of the chorus.
He opened his mouth to tell them to knock it off, but he figured they probably had another ten minutes before 4C came over and busted their balls.
Today was Friday, which meant tomorrow was Saturday, and as she’d reminded him at least a dozen times, Saturdays were her big show days.
Excuse him, wedding days.
Although as uptight as she got about her job, they sure as hell seemed more like performances than ceremonies.
“Not feeling it tonight?” Trevor asked, taking a sip of the beer.
“Nah, it’s this new neighbor. Not one of our biggest fans.”
“Shit. That sucks. But we knew it was a risk when Mrs. Calvin moved out. Man, I miss that banana bread.”
“Trust me, no banana bread coming from the new resident. I doubt she bakes, and if she did, it’d probably be, like, sour apple cyanide cake or something,” Josh said, leaning against the counter and rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Bitchy neighbor sure got under your skin,” Trevor said, already opening the fridge for another beer.
Josh didn’t have the heart to tell Trevor that it wasn’t Heather who was getting him down. Yeah, his hot neighbor was sort of a pain in the ass, and he’d sell a little piece of his soul to be the one she came to when she finally decided to get rid of all that wound-up energy, but . . . she wasn’t what was bugging him.
Instead it was a tiny, annoying nagging sense that he didn’t mind that they had to wrap up their practice early. Even worse: that Josh might be just a little bit relieved.
Which didn’t make sense. Josh loved music. Loved listening to it, writing it, playing it. He knew that without vanity or conceit, he was the center. Most of the band’s songs were his songs; the band was together because he’d brought them together.
Josh was the heart of the Weathered Gentlemen.
But lately, he hadn’t been feeling the whole band thing.
He’d been feeling the music, yeah. At the risk of sounding like a douche, even to himself, Josh had always felt the music. He was the kid that had happily squeezed choir in alongside baseball practice all the way through high school.
And though his baseball prowess had maxed out in high school, his voice was good enough to get him into an a cappella group in college, where he’d continued to write songs at night to give himself a break from finance homework and economics papers.
And that was the tricky part. Josh had been every bit as good with numbers as he was with music.
Only, it wasn’t just a matter of having two separate skills; it was as though they’d been intertwined. Music had been the counterpoint to the numbers, and vice versa.
Hence the problem. Josh still had the music, and was damn glad of it.
But he didn’t have the numbers.
Not since he’d quit the firm. First because he’d had to, and then because when it had been time to go back, he’d realized he hadn’t wanted to.
Hadn’t wanted to go back to the suits and the power lunches and the power drinks followed by power dinners, and then . . . repeat. Days had blended into nights, weekdays blended into weekends, and though objectively he’d known that it wasn’t his long hours that had caused his entire life to fall apart, it certainly hadn’t helped matters any.
Maybe if he hadn’t been so damn tired all the time, stressed to the max, living on frozen dinners and cocktails, he might have caught the signs a little earlier. Could have saved himself and his family a whole lot of fear.
And so he’d politely turned down his boss’s offer of having his old job back, and had become, well . . . whatever he was now.
He’d founded the band from a mix of old acquaintances and friends of friends a year ago. The Weathered Gentlemen were good, but they weren’t great. There was plenty of talent, good enough looks to get them into small weeknight gigs if one of the guys knew a guy. But with three out of the four holding down full-time jobs and four out of the four committed to an active social life, they weren’t going anywhere in a hurry. And Josh had been okay with that. He had more than enough money in the bank from his old job to sustain his new appreciation for the simple life.
For the other guys, he always figured this was more of a hobby. The kind of thing where they’d gladly be along for the ride if the band hit the big time, but music wasn’t their whole life.
And Josh was realizing slowly that it wasn’t his, either.
He needed music in his life, definitely. It just wasn’t enough. As if it wasn’t bad enough that his routine was boring the shit out of him lately, now even the band—the one thing he’d thought he wanted—wasn’t doing it for him.
Which begged the question: What was he missing?
A loud, repeated banging at his front door scattered his thoughts.
Heather.
Just like that, Josh felt his bad mood lift in spite of himself as he pushed away from the counter and went to open the door.
“That the neighbor?” Trevor called.
“Probably.”
“Then what’s the lady-killer smile for?” Trevor’s asked. “I thought you said she was a bitch.”
For once in Trevor’s charmed life, his timing sucked, the last part of his statement coming just as Josh had opened the front door and at the exact moment Donny and Felix stopped playing.
The word bitch hovered in the awkward silence.
Josh braced for Heather to tear him a new one. He deserved it. He hadn’t called her a bitch explicitly, but he hadn’t exactly said anything nice, either.
The woman was annoying, yes, but she was also . . . interesting.
And despite all those badass walls she tried to put up, he’d bet his guitar that there was a sweetheart hiding beneath all the curls and sass.
Maybe.
One could always hope, at least.
To his surprise, she didn’t mention the bitch comment at all. Knowing her, she was probably saving it for another time, planning to let it marinate good and long in her woman vault of Things You Did That One Time and haul it out and make him pay later.
Instead she merely lifted her eyebrows. “Do I need to do the whole ‘do you know what time it is’ routine, or is it pretty clear why I’m here?”
“Ahhh—”
For a moment Josh’s brain turned off, because the way her purple tank top hugged her firm, round, slightly perfect breasts made him wish she were here for an entirely different reason.
“Well, hello there. You must be 4C,” Trevor said, coming to the door and giving Josh a reprieve.
Heather shook Trevor’s hand. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”
Josh’s eyes narrowed. Was that flirting he heard in Heather’s voice? He didn’t think the ballbuster was capable of it, but . . .
Yup, that was definitely an eyelash flutter he just saw.
“Can I get you a beer?” Trevor asked.
“Don’t bother,” Josh said. “She’s here to kill all joy in the world.”
“Not all joy, Josh. Just yours,” Heather said, still smiling prettily at Trevor. “And I would also like a beer.”
Josh’s mouth dropped open as Heather came inside.
“Do you want to borrow a sweatshirt?” he asked her gruffly, surprised at himself even as the question came out unbidden.
Finally she looked at him, those wide eyes narrowing. “Why would I want to borrow a sweatshirt?”
“Just thought you might be cold,” he muttered, shutting the door.
“Hey, who’s this?” Felix asked, coming out of the practice room with Donny.
“This is 4C,” Trevor said before Josh could respond.
“Heather,” his n
eighbor corrected sweetly, going to shake Felix’s hand as well as Donny’s.
“So, you guys must be the band keeping me awake,” she said good-naturedly, as though she didn’t secretly want them all to die a painful death for stealing her precious sleep time. Josh felt like he’d just stepped into the twilight zone. Who was this smiling, friendly creature? Why was she not waving her hand around all crazy-like, forcing him to kiss her to shut her up?
And from the speculating look on Trevor’s face, he wasn’t the only one who noticed that Heather Fowler in her skimpy little tank top and flowing pajama pants looked ridiculously kissable.
“What kind of beer?” Josh asked Heather.
“I’ve got it,” Trevor said, appearing at Heather’s side and pressing a bottle into her hand as she stuck her head into the practice room.
“So this is where the noise happens, huh?” she asked.
Josh’s eyes narrowed as his friend’s hand touched Heather’s back briefly. “Absolutely,” Trevor said. “We’re sorry it keeps you up though.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” she said, waving her hand. “I mean . . . it’s not. But tonight I couldn’t sleep anyway, so you get a free pass. What do you all play?”
“Donny’s bass, Felix is on drums. Josh is lead guitar, and I, as the most important member, have the pipes.”
“Oh! I thought Josh was the singer,” Heather said with a quick glance over her shoulder at him.
Their eyes locked, and Josh felt a flicker of . . . something.
“Ah, is that what he’s telling the women these days?” Trevor joked.
“No, I just . . . I hear him, singing sometimes,” Heather muttered.
“Our boy can carry a tune well enough, but wait until you hear me, love,” Trevor said.
Josh turned away in mild disgust, pulling a beer out of the fridge as Trevor and the other guys coaxed Heather into the practice room, thrilled to have any sort of audience, even a reluctant one.
“Yo, Tanner,” Felix called.
“What?” he called, popping the lid off the bottle and tilting the beer to his lips as he tried to shake off whatever was bringing down his mood tonight.
“Let’s show Heather here that we’re more than a bit of noise coming through her bedroom wall.”
Josh turned around to see Donny dragging one of his kitchen chairs across the room, disappearing into the practice room.
“All right, love, you just sit down and get comfortable,” Trevor said. “Tanner! Come on, man.”
Josh heard the low strum of Donny’s bass guitar, heard Felix do a little warm-up rhythm, and knew there was no way of getting out of it. If he refused to play a song now, he’d look like an ass.
Still, his feet didn’t move, and he took another sip of beer.
Feeling eyes on him, he glanced up to see Heather in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb as she studied him.
“Okay, 4A?” she asked.
Her tone was lighthearted, almost slightly reluctant, as though she didn’t want to care about why he was out here alone, feeling oddly itchy with his life.
He appreciated it. He’d spent enough time in the past few years dealing with people who walked on eggshells around him, cooing sweetness. Some of it genuine, some of it not so much.
Heather’s no-nonsense question was refreshing—and exactly what he needed.
He was happy and healthy and living the dream, damn it.
Even if he was no longer sure it was his dream.
“You going soft on me?” he asked, taking one last sip of his beer before setting it aside and strolling toward her.
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Hardly. I just wanted you to get your shit together so I can see your cute lead singer work his magic.”
He deliberately stepped into the doorway so she couldn’t move in either direction without brushing against him, grinning at her discomfort.
“You’re in a better mood tonight,” he said, his eyes skimming over her crazy curls and relaxed expression. “Why?”
“Believe it or not, I’m not a shrew.”
“Huh.”
Heather shoved his shoulder with a little scowl. “I’m not!”
“Does that mean you’re going to start making banana bread like Mrs. Calvin?”
“Yes, definitely. And coffee cake and sugar cookies and whatever other goodies you might like. All while wearing a frilly, feminine apron.”
“Dare I hope there’s nothing under the apron?” he asked, leaning in slightly.
“Right again!” she said, in mock delight. “I just love to bake naked.”
Josh’s pulse leapt, but Trevor interrupted before the sudden X-rated picture in his mind could turn into a full-fledged fantasy.
“Dude, we doing this or what?”
Josh looked at Heather.
“One song,” she said, holding up a finger. “I may as well hear what the music sounds like on this side of the wall.”
She slipped back into the practice room, sitting in the stuffed armchair in the corner. Josh followed her in, reaching for his guitar and slipping the strap over his head before catching her eye and giving her a wink.
Heather rolled her eyes, and Josh couldn’t hide the grin as he ripped his first chord.
Once again, it was this snotty, mouthy woman who’d managed to shake him out of his funk.
It was becoming increasingly clear that his intriguing new neighbor might be exactly what he needed to make him feel alive.
Chapter Eight
IT HAD BEEN A long time since Heather had let herself enjoy a weekend night.
Hell, it had been years since she’d stayed up too late, had one too many drinks, which, considering she was only twenty-seven, was a little sad. But that was the nature of the wedding business. Her slowest days were Mondays and Tuesdays, when the rest of her social group was recovering from their weekend festivities, and her busiest workdays were on weekends, when everyone else was cutting loose.
Most of the time she didn’t mind, even if the lack of overlap with other people’s schedules left her feeling a little lonely. She wanted to be a wedding planner more than anything, and if that meant a limited social life, so be it.
But that didn’t take away the joy she felt at sitting curled up on a cute guy’s couch, with another cute guy’s arm slung casually around her shoulder. And if she was maybe a tiny bit disappointed that the arm around her didn’t belong to Josh, then she blamed it on her third—fourth?—beer.
“So, 4C, you never told us why you’re living on the edge on a Friday night,” Josh said, tilting his beer toward his lips as he studied her. His gaze flicked just briefly to where Trevor’s hand had come to rest on her shoulder, but he looked away almost as quickly.
Trevor glanced at his watch. “Living on the edge? It’s not even midnight.”
“Way past the wedding planner’s bedtime,” Josh explained.
“Not tonight it’s not,” Heather said, scooching down on the couch and resting her bare feet on Josh’s coffee table. When had she ditched her shoes? And why was she so dang comfortable here?
Josh’s eyes narrowed. “Thought Saturdays were your big days.”
“Usually they are. But I have tomorrow off.”
Off.
It was a strange concept, not having to work tomorrow. But her work on the Robinson wedding meant that she didn’t have as much time to help out with Alexis’s and Brooke’s weddings, which meant she was off the hook for tomorrow. She’d offered to help, but they’d both refused. And normally she’d have insisted, wanting to make herself as indispensable as possible, but the truth was, Heather had wanted the day off.
She needed a day to think, although about what she wasn’t entirely sure. And maybe that was the whole point of taking a day off. To think about what you needed to think about.
Oh b
oy.
Heather glanced down at her half-drunk beer and set it on the table. Probably had had enough of those.
“What’s it like being a wedding planner?” Trevor asked, his hand shifting slightly as he toyed with a piece of her hair. This time, Heather was positive Josh’s eyes tracked the motion, although his expression betrayed nothing. Certainly not jealousy.
“Assistant wedding planner,” she corrected, out of habit. “For now.”
Her eyes locked with Josh’s even as she sat hip-to-hip with Trevor. “What do you mean, for now?” Josh asked.
“I’m up for a promotion,” she said, leaning forward and reaching for her beer again, although more to have something to do with her hands than because she wanted to drink it.
“Hey, that’s great!” Trevor said, tugging at a curl again.
Again, Josh’s eyes tracked the motion. Narrowing this time, before they came back to hers.
“How do you feel about that?” Josh asked.
She let out a surprised laugh. “How do I feel about a promotion? How do most people feel about a promotion?”
“I didn’t ask about most people,” Josh said, taking a sip of beer. “I asked about you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being weird tonight. What’s up?”
“Yeah,” Trevor echoed. “You are being a little weird, man.”
“All I’m saying is that there’s more to life than work,” he muttered.
“Right, like this,” Heather said, gesturing around his apartment in irritation to where the three of them sat like bumps on a log with too much beer, and while his other two bandmates had been glued to a shoot-’em-up video game for the past hour. “This is a much better use of one’s life.”
“Hey, at least we’re not pissed off and cranky all the time,” he shot back.
“If I’m pissed off and cranky, it’s because I have a man-child living next door to me, whose life consists of pumping iron, screwing random girls, and having his mom make him pancakes,” she snapped, pushing off the couch and stomping toward the kitchen to dump the rest of her beer and be on her way.
“No way, sweetheart, you don’t get to backpedal,” Josh said, following her into the kitchen. “You knocked on my door, remember? I’d already told the band we needed to keep it down; you’re the one who proudly waved around your day off like it’s some sort of national holiday.”
