Chapter Three

Maggie

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

The choreographer’s voice echoes through the room, sharp as a whip. I lunge into the next move, legs trembling, arms flailing, and my timing is, once again, completely off. Instead of gliding left, I stumble right, nearly colliding with the dancer next to me.

“Cut!” the choreographer calls, her tone clipped as she throws her hands up. “Maggie, honey, it’s right-left-right, not left-right-left. Let’s take it from the top.”

I plaster on a smile, nodding as I shuffle back to my spot. My heart pounds, both from exertion and sheer embarrassment. The rest of the cast exchanges looks, sympathetic and frustrated, but no one says anything.

I should be great at this, right? I mean, I’ve danced on stage plenty of times. But there’s a huge difference between choreographed shimmying with a bass slung over your shoulder and Broadway-level choreography that demands you move like you’ve been doing it since you were five.

The music starts again, and I force my aching legs to cooperate. My brain scrambles to keep up, but halfway through the sequence, I mix up my footing and nearly trip over myself.

“Cut again!”

This time, the choreographer doesn’t even try to hide her sigh. “Okay, everyone, take five. Maggie, stick around for a second.”

I swallow hard as the rest of the cast scatter, feeling the weight of their eyes as they pass. The choreographer pulls me aside, her expression softening a little.

“You’re working hard, Maggie and I see that. But this is Broadway and if you’re serious about wanting to pursue a career past this charity performance, hard work only gets you so far if you can’t keep up.”

“I know,” I whisper, my throat tightening.

She pats my shoulder, a gesture that somehow feels both encouraging and dismissive. “Keep practicing. We’ll get there.”

When she walks away, I sink onto a bench near the mirrors, burying my face in a towel. My muscles ache, my pride’s in shambles, and I’m seriously questioning whether I belong here.

“Rough day?”

The low, gravelly voice is familiar, but I still jump a little as I look up to see Jonah standing in front of me. He’s holding a water bottle in one hand, his black leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Didn’t realize you were watching,” I mumble, wiping at my face.

He smirks, dropping his bag onto the floor as he takes a seat beside me. “Hard not to. You were everywhere.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes.

He chuckles, leaning back against the bench. His arm stretches out along the back, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Relax. You weren’t that bad.”

I shoot him a look. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

“Depends how you take it.”

I can’t decide if I want to smack the smirk off his face or laugh. But then he surprises me.

“Look, you’re trying to do something new. It’s not supposed to be easy.”

“And you’re the expert on that?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, his dark eyes softening slightly. “I’ve been where you are. People don’t think I’ve got more than a few drum solos in me. They don’t get how much work goes into what we do.”

I blink at him, caught off guard. “Yeah, people hear ‘pop band’ and assume it’s all autotune and marketing. Like playing bass is just plucking a few strings in time with a beat.”

“It’s not,” he says firmly. “You’re good, Maggie. Really good.”

The compliment lands hard, warm, and unexpected. “You’ve seen me play?”

“Of course.” He tilts his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got rhythm, precision. You don’t just play the bass —you feel it. That’s rare.”

My stomach flips, and for a moment, I can’t find words. He’s looking at me like he actually sees me, not the pop star, not the choreographic disaster, just me.

“So, you gonna keep struggling or do you want some help?”

“Help?” I echo, still processing.

“With the choreography,” he says, standing and holding out a hand. “I’m no dancer, but I know rhythm. Come on.”

I hesitate, but something about the way he’s looking at me —challenging, but not unkind— makes me take his hand. His grip is firm, warm, and steady. He pulls me to my feet with ease.

We move through the steps slowly, Jonah calling out beats and correcting me when I falter. His hands find my waist to adjust my stance, his touch lingering just a second too long.

“You’re overthinking it,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Just feel the music.”

Easier said than done when he’s this close. His breath is warm against my temple, his voice low and smooth. His fingers trail down my arm to guide me through a turn, and I swear the temperature in the room spikes.

I stumble, and he catches me, one hand steadying my hip. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of us.

“You’re not bad,” he says softly, his voice a little rough. “Just need practice.”

“Maybe I needed a better teacher,” I manage, my voice breathier than I’d like.

His smirk deepens, something darker flickering in his gaze. “Careful, Stone. I might take that as a compliment.”

My heart races, and I pull back, laughing nervously to break the tension. “Thanks for the help. I, uh, better hit the showers.”

Jonah steps back, his smirk turning into a knowing grin. “Anytime, Maggie.”

As I walk away, I feel his eyes on me, and my skin tingles with the memory of his touch. I can’t decide if I’m flustered, exhilarated, or a little bit of both. I know one thing for sure…I want more.

***

Jonah

I wasn’t expecting her to get under my skin.

When I first showed up here, I figured this charity gig would be just that —a gig. Show up, fake a smile, do what I’m told, and maybe salvage what’s left of my reputation. But Maggie Stone? She’s like a damn spotlight, impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

It’s not just how she looks, though let’s be real, that doesn’t hurt. Her curves, her green eyes, that two-tone hair that’s somehow sweet and edgy at the same time. She’s gorgeous, yeah. But it’s more than that. It’s the way she lights up when she talks, the way she works her ass off even when she’s struggling. It’s the warmth she carries, the kind I forgot existed in this business.

And now, we’re paired for a duet. Because of course, we are.

The scene’s simple enough. Our characters meet, flirt, and fall into something electric. The director describes it as “sexy but playful,” the kind of number designed to make the audience root for us as a couple. No pressure, right?

When we start running through the song, Maggie’s every bit the professional. She hits every note, her voice bright and melodic, wrapping around mine like a thread of gold. I’m supposed to lean into the flirty vibe and it’s easy. It’s also not acting. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she looks at me when we’re singing, that feels real.

By the time we reach the chorus, I’m not thinking about the audience or the director or even my damn publicist. All I can focus on is her.

“Jonah,” the director calls out, pulling me out of the moment. “A little more energy on the second verse. You’re into her, but you’re trying to play it cool. Let it simmer.”

Simmer? Right. Sure.

We run the verse again, this time with Maggie stepping closer, her gaze locking onto mine. Her hand brushes my arm, a light touch, but enough to send a jolt straight through me.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” she sings, her voice teasing, challenging.

I step toward her, lowering my voice into something rougher, a little cocky. “Maybe. You gonna prove me wrong?”

Her eyes flash, and I swear it’s not just the stage lights making them sparkle. Our voices intertwine, and for a moment, it feels like there’s no one else in the room. Just her, just us, and this tension that’s building with every note.

When the song ends, the room bursts into applause. Maggie grins, a little out of breath, and turns to me. “Not bad, Saxon.”

I smirk, but the heat in my chest doesn’t cool. “Not bad yourself, Stone.”

Before I can say more, my publicist appears out of nowhere, her clipboard clutched like a shield. “Jonah, a word?”

I follow her into the hallway, already dreading whatever lecture’s coming.

“Look,” she says, her voice low but firm. “I get it. You’ve got chemistry with her. If you play it right you can use it to your advantage.”

I fold my arms, leaning against the wall. “And how’s that?”

“To fix your image. Start a romance. Let the tabloids know you are cozying up to Maggie Stone. They’ll see you with a good girl and think that your bad boy rep can’t be all true. Just make sure to keep it professional. We don’t need her believing that she has a chance with you.”

I grit my teeth, I’m not agreeing to a PR relationship with Maggie or anyone else. “Whatever.”

But as I head back to the rehearsal space, her words don’t stick. Because when Maggie turns and catches my eye, her smile lighting up the room, all I can think of is how much I don’t want to stay professional.