Chapter Two

Maggie

The rehearsal room feels like stepping onto sacred ground. It’s smaller than I thought it would be, with mirrors lining the walls and a piano in the corner. A man in a big black scarf with a serious face plays scales to make sure the piano is in tune. I’m used to rehearsal spaces, but this feels different than what I’m used to. It’s magical.

I’m early. Growing up in the spotlight teaches you a thing or two about punctuality, but I also wanted a chance to soak this all in before I embarrass myself in front of Broadway royalty.

As people start filtering into the room. I recognize a few faces right away —Tony winners, theater legends, people whose voices I used to mimic in my bedroom when no one was around. My stomach flips as I take a seat, clutching my water bottle like it’s a life raft.

“Breathe, Maggie,” I whisper to myself. “You belong here.”

Rehearsal starts at ten sharp. The organizer of the charity event is giving a speech about how much this one-night event has the potential to raise when the door slams open and in strolls Jonah Saxon, looking like he just rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to check a mirror on his way here. Not that there’s anything to fix, the just-out-of-bed look works on him. He’s ridiculously hot. Too bad he has a terrible reputation.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and exudes the kind of brooding confidence that screams I don’t care what you think of me. His leather jacket hangs open over a faded band tee, and his hair is artfully messy like he, or someone else, has been running their fingers through it all night.

“Nice of you to join us,” the director says dryly, not looking up from his clipboard.

Jonah shrugs, drops his bag in the corner, and surveys the room with a bored expression. When his gaze lands on me, he gives a half-smirk, like he’s already pegged me as someone he doesn’t need to take seriously.

Great.

We’re quickly paired off for warm-ups, and of course, Jonah is my partner. He doesn’t seem thrilled either.

“You’re one of those Pixie girls, right?” he asks as we stretch.

“And you’re the drummer with the temper,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

His eyebrows lift, and then he chuckles, low and gravelly. “Touche.”

I expect him to fire back with some cocky remark, but instead he surprises me. “You ever done this before?”

“Nope,” I admit. “You?”

“Not even close.” He smirks again. “Guess we’re both out of our element.”

Our conversation ends when the director claps for our attention, but the exchange sticks with me. Jonah Saxon might be a grump, but there’s something intriguing under the surface. Not that I’m here to dig it up.

During a break, I pull out my phone and text our family group chat.

MAGGIE: First rehearsal update: everyone here is insanely talented, I might throw up, and oh yeah, Jonah Saxon is here and was late

ROSIE: Wait, THE Jonah Saxon?

PHOEBE: Broadway and a bad boy drummer? This is wild. How are you still breathing?

LOGAN: I give it a week before they’re all be Maggie’s biggest fans, even the big bad drummer.

ALEX: If he messes with you I expect you to let us know so we can set him straight.

I smile, warmth flooding my chest as their replies roll in.

ROSIE: You’ve got this Mags. Show them what you’re made of.

PHOEBE: Seriously. You’re a Pixie. Own it!

Their encouragement bolsters me as I shove my phone back in my bag.

When Jonah walks past me to grab his water bottle, he catches my eye. “You look less terrified than you did an hour ago.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the tiny grin tugging at my lips. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, his voice teasing but soft.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

***

Jonah

She’s cute. That’s my first thought when I spot her. All wide green eyes, curves in all the right places, and this blonde hair with black tips that somehow makes her look like she’s stepped out of some punk rock fairytale.

Cute, sure. But when she moves? When she talks? There’s something else there, something sexy that sneaks up on you. Like she doesn’t even realize the effect she has. It’s infuriating.

And distracting.

The director is going over something about blocking, but I’m barely paying attention. My focus keeps drifting back to Maggie Stone—yes, that Maggie Stone. The bass player from The Pandemonium Pixies. I know who she is. Hell, who doesn’t? She’s been inescapable for years, plastered all over magazines, billboards, and television.

But in person, she’s not quite what I expected.

She’s got this weird mix of enthusiasm and nerves like she’s trying so hard to act like she belongs here but isn’t sure she does. It’s endearing. Annoyingly so.

During a break, I grab a water bottle and end up leaning against the wall, close enough to overhear her talking with another cast member.

“I just want people to see me as more than the pop princess, you know?” she says, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “I love what I do with my sisters, but this… this feels different. Like maybe it’s my chance to be something more.”

Her voice is quiet but steady, filled with a kind of vulnerability I don’t usually associate with people in this business. Most of us are too busy pretending we’ve got it all figured out.

It catches me off guard.

I watch her for a second longer than I should. The way her hands move when she talks, the way her green eyes light up even though she’s talking about something that clearly scares the hell out of her.

And damn if that doesn’t hit me somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

“You staring for a reason?”

Her voice cuts through my thoughts and I realize too late that she’s caught me. Great.

I smirk, leaning casually against the wall. “Just trying to figure out if you’re always this peppy or if it’s a first-day thing.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement there. “And you’re always this charming, I take it?”

“Depends who you ask.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t look entirely annoyed, which I count as a win.

I should leave it there, but something about what she said earlier won’t let me.

“Hey,” I call out as she starts to walk away.

She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Her brow furrows. “Figure what out?”

“Whatever it is you’re here to prove. I think you’ve got it in you.”

For a second, she just stares at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with her. I’m not.

“Thanks,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. Then she walks away, and I can’t help watching her go.

I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s putting on a show. But Maggie? She’s the real deal. And damn if I don’t want to know more.