Noah whipped his head around, glaring.

"That I'm just a consultant," I clarified. "No one knows I'm actually writing the song for you."

"Quiet!" He darted his eyes back and forth, as if making sure there was no one else in the hallway who might overhear.

"Why don't you just tell the others?"

He ignored me. "Come on. We're leaving."

"If I was in a band and had friends to rely on, I'd ask them for help."

"Friends. Right."

"Are the other guys not your friends?"

"More like overbearing siblings," he muttered.

"Is that such a bad thing? Don't you like having people who look out for you?"

"I can look out for myself."

"There's nothing wrong with relying on people."

"The only person I can rely on is me." He started gathering up all the music sheets he'd been scribbling on. "We're done for the day. I'll text you the address to my place. Be there tomorrow."

He strode out without another glance, leaving me wondering what I had said to make him leave in such a hurry.

Chapter Seven.

I listened to more Darkest Days songs on my way to Noah's place. I couldn't have imagined the pain I heard in his voice. The words he'd written had to mean something more than what he told me they meant. It had to be more than just marketability.

There was no way Noah Hart could have written such heartfelt lyrics simply because he knew they would sell. Those words must have come from somewhere deep inside of him. I needed to find out what kind of person Noah was when he wasn't throwing up all those guards and putting barriers between himself and others.

I needed to get to know the real Noah Hart. That was the only way I'd be able to write a song that not only resonated with the audience but that also reflected something of the man himself.

It was going to be an impossible task. Noah was so prickly. He never seemed to let anybody in, even his own bandmates. I wondered what had happened to him to make him like that. Was he always that way? Was he like that as a kid?

I didn't know anything about Noah. Not his family, or where he grew up. Nothing. For all the information available online, there didn't seem to be much people knew about Noah Hart. There were rumors of trouble with his family, and people talked of a younger sister, but no one had seen his family or heard from them. It was as if he had appeared on the music scene like a ghost with no past.

If I tried to analyze the words in his lyrics maybe I would find a way to get inside that head of his. I wanted my first real music job to go well. If I wasn't able to work with Noah to write a song, or if I wrote a song and it wasn't up to his standards, or even worse, if we wrote a song and his fans hated it, that would be the end of my professional reputation. I didn't want my first impression in the music industry to be a failed one.

Noah's building was a high rise condominium right in the middle of downtown. It must have cost millions. When I walked in the concierge greeted me by name and gave me directions to head up to the penthouse floor. Noah must have told them to expect me.

He was already working when I opened the front door of his apartment. He'd kept it unlocked for me. The music was similar to what I'd heard him composing that first day, but it sounded sadder, more mournful.

I stood inside the doorway, not wanting to walk into the room and disturb him. A grand piano sat in the corner of a huge living room, with plush carpets and dark hardwood. The decor was warm and homey - unlike anything I would have expected from someone as abrasive and closed off as Noah. I half expected to find an austere living space with minimal furniture in a modern style. Instead, his living room was warm and inviting. It was at odds with everything I'd come to know about him.

Noah played the song we'd been working on slower, in a lower key, and with more cautious movements. It made the whole thing sound more forlorn than what I'd originally envisioned. It wasn't a bad sound. In fact, I thought it was even better than the way we had worked on it the day before. I hadn't realized how happy the previous song had sounded until hearing Noah play it slower. This song fit Darkest Days' style much better. Noah could never be considered an upbeat or cheery person. The slow, deliberate notes were emotionally devastating, just the way his lyrics were. He was somehow able to take the feeling of his lyrics and put them into music.

I wondered why he was having so much trouble finishing a song if this was the kind of stuff he was able to compose. The song he was playing on his piano right now was good. All he needed was some help fleshing it out and it would be perfect for their new album.

With a thundering crash Noah slammed his hands on the keyboard. I jumped back, heart pounding. He dragged his hands over his face, staring at the floor. His eyes looked blank and unseeing, as if he were struggling with some invisible inner demon.

"Noah..."

He whipped his head around, looking unsettled. "What are you doing here?"

"You said you wanted to start work at eleven."

He flicked his eyes to a clock on the wall. "Oh. Right."

"You seemed frustrated," I said tentatively. "Is there something wrong with the song?"

"Everything."

"I liked it."

"Of course you liked it."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means it sounds like every other piece of drivel anyone else has ever written."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying I have no taste?"

He stared me for a few moments, before slumping his shoulders, looking almost exhausted.

"No," he said grudgingly. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying you like it because it's marketable."

"Isn't that what you want?"

He looked down at the piano, playing a few quiet notes. "Maybe."

"Just maybe?"

He buried one hand in the hair at the back of his neck. "The others are going to write songs that sound like them. I don't want mine to just be another Darkest Days song. I want it to sound..." he trailed off, the words barely audible.

For all that Noah talked a good game, he obviously wanted this song to be different from his usual work.

I was resolved. I was going to get to know this man, no matter what. Even if he tried to shut me out, I was going to crash my way through those guarded walls and find out what he was truly like.

"You want it to sound like a Noah Hart song. I can help with that."

"How?"

I sat next to him on the piano seat. He didn't shuffle over to make room for me. We ended up pressed hip to hip. My inner muscles clenched and throbbed as our thighs brushed together. The rough scratch of his jeans against my leg nearly had me reeling. I could smell him, leather and spice. It was intoxicating.

I snuck a glance at Noah to see if he was as affected by our closeness as I was. His gaze was turned in the other direction, not looking at me. His lips were pressed together firmly.

I took a moment to breathe deeply and compose myself. I only succeed in breathing in more of his scent. I felt myself flushing. I scooted away as far as I could on the piano bench, putting distance between us.

"We want your song to sound unique," I told him, proud that my voice was smooth, not giving away my inner struggle to contain myself. "So why don't you tell me about yourself?"

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "Why would I want to do that?"

Despite his bad-tempered personality and penchant for needling me, there was something about the way Noah Hart looked at me that made me want to swoon. Those rare moments of curiosity, like he was trying to figure me out. Those heated moments when he would zero in on my lips.

I inhaled and exhaled deeply to calm myself. I couldn't get so worked up. Yes, I wanted Noah Hart to tear off my dress and take me on the piano right then and there. No, I wasn't going to let that fact affect my work. I could be professional.

I picked up the sheets of music notes he'd been working on, avoiding his gaze before I did something stupid.

"If we're going to be working on a song together, then I'm going to need to get to know the real you. If we want this song to sound authentic to your fans, it needs to sound like something you wrote. I've listened to your lyrics millions of times-"

"I knew you were a fan, but millions?"

I ignored him. "I feel like I know the Noah Hart who wrote those words, but that's not the Noah Hart I'm sitting next to right now, is it? You're a different person."

"You mean I'm an asshole."

"No."

He snorted.

"Okay. Yes. You're an asshole sometimes. But that just makes me want to get to know the real you even more. You're not an asshole around everyone, right? What about your bandmates? Your friends?"

He stiffened. "Friends? You mean the people who come out of the woodwork once you get famous, trying to sponge off you and use you? Yeah. Some friends."

"What about your family?"

He shot me an almost panicked look, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. The look was soon replaced with a scowl. "We're not talking about this."

His family must have been a sore spot. I filed it away as something to explore later.

"We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But I think it would be good if I got to know you."

"And what about me? Don't I get to know you?"

I shrugged. "There's not much to know."

Noah 's dark eyes held that same spark of interest I'd seen before, as if I were a puzzle to be solved. What was it about me that made him so curious?

"And what exactly do you want me to talk about?" he asked.

If I'd known as a teenager I'd have the chance to ask Noah Hart anything I wanted, I would have been ready with a list of questions. Now that I was actually in front of him, I was at a loss.

"Maybe you can tell me how you first got into music?"

He thought for a moment. "It wasn't the music so much," he murmured. "It was an English teacher who-" he cut himself off, looking almost embarrassed.

"What about your English teacher?" I prompted.

"He got me into poetry," he admitted.

"You had a Oh Captain, My Captain moment?"

Noah snorted, looking almost amused. "Are you really referencing Dead Poet's Society?"

"Robin Williams at his best." I gave him a small smile. "So you got into writing poetry first? Then the music came later?"

"It was an outlet, of sorts. A way to deal with all the shit I was going through."

I opened my mouth to ask exactly what kind of shit that might be, but stopped myself. I'd listened to his lyrics enough times to guess. There was something in his past that caused him pain, that caused him grief. Something that made him feel angry and guilty and alone. I didn't want to open up that Pandora's box. We weren't quite ready for that. Not yet.

"My teacher convinced me to go to some poetry readings," Noah continued. "That's how August found me."

I sat up straight, getting excited. There was little information online about how the band had formed. "August saw you at a poetry reading?"

"He was looking for a lyricist. August can compose music but he's no good with words. Then he approached me and found out I could sing, too. That's how it all began."

"I never knew. There's not much about you guys before you burst onto the scene."

Noah shifted uncomfortably. "None of us want people prying into our past. Our personal lives."

"I'm sorry," I said automatically, suddenly ashamed. "I don't want you to think I'm prying. I just really think knowing more about you will help me."

"And what about you? Don't I deserve to know about you? And don't say you've got nothing. Everyone's got a story to tell."

I hesitated. I didn't know how much to share.

"It was my mom," I began slowly. "My mom used to play piano professionally when she was younger. She's the one who got me into music. I have a lot of good memories of sitting next to her on the piano bench as she taught me scales. We used to-" I paused to clear the lump in my throat, forcing myself to continue. "We used to write music together. It feels like I've been writing and playing forever."

"Tell me about your first."

I flushed, my mind immediately jumping to all sorts of connotations.

Noah noticed and smirked.

"Your first instrument," he clarified. "Although if you want to tell me about the other, I'm all ears."

"My first instrument was the piano, just like my mom," I said, ignoring him and moving on. I didn't need to start thinking about sex and Noah and all the various ways I'd like to have sex with Noah. At least the sexual frustration was helping disperse the spike of pain radiating from my chest. My purse with the letter was only a few feet away on the sofa. I could practically feel the thin paper between my fingers. Could see the fancy handwriting on the envelope.