Chapter 4

Gideon pulled out the sandwich he'd picked up at the deli on the corner and took a bite. Nobody had booked the first recording session tonight, which meant he could eat his dinner in peace. He moved his mouse to wake up his sleeping screen and checked his inbox. Two messages from his department head and one he didn't recognize. An email from someone named Megs. Did he have a Megs in any of his classes this semester?

He clicked on it and read the short message. Someone interested in audio, possibly a recording session. Gideon swallowed and set his sandwich down, then brushed his hands on his pants before copying and pasting his response from his saved form messages.

Thanks for your interest. Here's the admission process for the program. If you're looking to book a recording slot, here's the website.

Students didn't have to be enrolled in a recording or audio class to take time in the studio, but Gideon's students always took precedence. Hopefully, she'd jump on it. It would be infinitely easier to find an open time in the next week or two before his assignments were in full swing.

Gideon pressed send, then picked up his sandwich.

With ten minutes left before eight o'clock, Megs checked her email. She sat up straight in her chair, and the instructor narrowed his eyes at her before continuing to talk about patient charts.

Professor Adams had already written back. She opened the message and scanned the text. Admissions to the program, blah blah blah, ah! Studios were available for students, she only needed to book a time slot at the given link.

A brief thought flickered, suggesting she wait until class ended to click, but Megs brushed it away. Her instructor was droning on about the assignment due tomorrow, and she already had the gist of it.

With a rush of adrenaline, Megs clicked on the link and navigated through the school's website, and for a moment, she felt like Alice, tumbling headfirst into Wonderland.

Red flag.

Megs loved and hated that feeling. She paused, her finger hovering over the Recording Studio Booking button as an empty void expanded within her. She could not press it. She could set her phone down and listen to her instructor for the last few minutes of class. The emptiness would fade, at least she had enough life experience to know that.

But was this irresponsible? It wasn't costing her anything besides the gas to drive up here, and she could try to book it when she was coming up for class anyway. Maybe they'd have a slot tomorrow, which would give her enough time to submit an audition for the competition.

Theoretically.

If she were entering.

She clicked, and relief flooded her system as the screen changed. A calendar opened up. Tomorrow. They had openings on Saturday, but only . . . Megs' heart dropped. Only starting at five o'clock? Who opened up recording sessions on a Saturday night?

Megs scanned the time slots and realized they opened at 1 p.m., but the other slots had already been booked. There was a single opening. Five to six o’clock. Her certification class started at five-thirty.

She slumped in her chair and rested her head on her hand, idly drawing circles around the button with her mouse. How long did it take to record a short audition? Did she even know what the audition was?

Megs sat up and searched for the Oscar Calloway audiobook competition. The first hit was the author's website. She clicked and stared at the man beaming back at her in the banner at the top of the site. Was this guy real? His dirty blond hair was thick and wavy, his skin tanned, and his eyes a striking pale blue. He looked like he'd just walked out of a surfing magazine, donned a linen suit, and was caught mid-very intriguing conversation. This was Oscar Calloway?

She scrolled down until she found the PDF of the audition scene from the female main character's perspective and clicked.

Elena's heart pounded as she confronted Nathan in the dimly lit room. She stared into his piercing eyes, her voice trembling with pent-up anger and hurt. "How could you do this, Nathan? I trusted you!"

Nathan's face contorted with guilt, but there was still that flicker of defiance dancing in his eyes. That fire was what kept her in his orbit even when she should be clawing to break free.

He took a step closer, his voice laced with regret. "Elena, I never meant to hurt you. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. But you have to understand—”

"Understand? Understand what, Nathan? That you can just waltz back into my life, leaving chaos in your wake?"

Her voice caught on the last word as their eyes locked. Yes. That's exactly what he would do. What he'd always done.

The air crackled between them, and as Nathan inched forward, Elena knew that no matter what came out of his mouth, she'd already lost.

"It's because I love you, Elena. I've always loved you. But I thought I had to protect you, keep you safe."

"From what?"

"From me!" he exploded. "From who I am! Who I've become."

"I don't need a protector, Nathan."

"Don't you?" He took another step.

"Not from you." Her words were barely more than a whisper. Nathan stopped so close, Elena could feel his hot breath on her cheek. Heat from his body washed over her, eroding the walls she'd built around her heart.

"But what if I want to protect you? What if I want . . . " Nathan's eyes softened, his gaze filled with longing and a touch of desperation. He reached out, his hand trembling as it caressed her cheek.

Elena caught his hand in hers. "You left me, Nathan. You left and didn't say a word."

Nathan dropped his head and pressed his forehead to hers. "Because there was too much to say."

Elena tilted her head, and as Nathan's mouth pressed closer, the room seemed to fade away, leaving only the pulsating energy between them. His lips pressed against hers in a searing kiss, obliterating the dam of pent-up desire she’d built brick by brick and sending fire through her veins.

Elena's fingers tangled in Nathan's hair, pulling him closer. Their tongues danced with—

"Miss?"

Megs jolted in her seat and stared up into her instructor's face. Her cheeks flamed, and she slammed her laptop closed.

"Yes, I'm sorry." She shifted in her seat and swallowed hard. "I was very into the . . . charts."

His eyes lit up. "The example patient charts? I spent a lot of time on those. I'm glad you found them helpful."

Megs smiled a little too brightly and glanced around the room. She was the only one still seated. "Is class over?"

He nodded, and Megs hopped up, nearly tripping over her chair as she crammed her belongings into her backpack. "I'm so sorry I kept you, Mr.--"

"Fletcher."

"Right. Thank you so much for the class, Mr. Fletcher." She slung her backpack over her shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow evening."

He nodded and watched her curiously as she exited the classroom.

Megs chewed on her lower lip as she drove the thirty minutes home, her excitement at booking the studio unraveling like the bag she'd knitted for herself in ninth grade. The audition wasn't long, but she knew nothing about recording. A flurry of questions bombarded her mind.

Would she be able to figure out the equipment? Would it plug into her computer to record there or would she need a separate device? Would her voice sound good through the mic? The scene couldn't take longer than ten minutes to record, so if she studied ahead of time and knew exactly what to do, she wouldn’t even have to be late to class.

Megs pulled into the driveway and locked her car, then took her backpack inside and flicked on the living room light. It was dark in the house, which meant her mom was either at the theater or already in bed. It was only nine, but stranger things had happened.

She set her bag down and grabbed an apple from the fridge, then the jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. She sliced the fruit and dipped it straight into the jar. When she was halfway through her snack, she pulled her laptop from the bag and set it on the counter. The screen lit up, and she stared at the 'book now' button under the five o'clock slot.

Megs' heart thumped wildly in her chest. Zero risk. She could do this. With a deep breath, she clicked the button, almost expecting a triumphant fanfare to ring through the air. Instead, a message blinked onto her screen:

Booking not allowed. You are not a currently enrolled student.

Megs looked at the top right corner and saw her avatar symbol. She was logged in, and she was enrolled. In the certification program.

She flipped back to her email and scrolled through Gideon's message. She hadn't misread it. Any enrolled student was supposedly allowed to book a recording studio even if they weren't enrolled in an audio class.

Megs clicked back and tried again, only to get the same message. She exhaled in frustration and dipped another slice of apple into the peanut butter jar as she glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. She couldn't call the registration office, and they'd likely be closed all weekend. But the audition was due Sunday night.

Flipping back to her email, she composed a new message to Gideon. He was a professor, which meant he likely wouldn't see this until Monday either, but since he had studio time available over the weekend, maybe there was a chance?

Megs hit send, then ate another slice of apple. She stared at the screen and refreshed it twice before spinning around and searching for a distraction.

The dishes. She would unload the dishes and clean the frying pan that was still soaking from breakfast. She thought about turning on an audiobook or podcast, but couldn't handle more input above the clanging of her own thoughts. She’d thought she didn't care about this audition, but the idea of missing it made her feel like someone was scooping out her insides.

Megs stacked the plates and lifted them into the cupboard, then went back for the silverware. It was stupid. She would be going up against actual voice actors, and Calloway, or whatever staff he'd hired to judge the auditions, would be able to tell the difference.

Still, her fingers trembled, and she sent a silent prayer up into the universe that Professor Adams would see her message and respond with a fix for her problem.

When the dishwasher was empty, she turned to the sink and saw it. A new email at the top of her inbox. Re: Booking a recording slot.

Megs almost choked on her own spit as she lunged for her laptop and opened the message.

Dear Megs,

I apologize for the inconvenience you've encountered. Unfortunately, the recording studio is reserved for currently enrolled students only.

I took the liberty of taking a look at your student ID and saw that you are enrolled for our medical coding certification course. However, this is not a semester course (it's considered a community class that happens to be taught here at Champlain).

My hands are tied in this matter. Next semester, if you'd like to enroll in a semester course, you'll be able to use the link provided.

Best,

Prof. Adams

Megs stared at the screen and ground her teeth. Not a semester course? Stupid. So stupid. She was taking the class on campus and she'd paid her tuition for the certification through her student portal.

My hands are tied in this matter? Were they, though? How hard would it be for him to let her record a ten-minute audition when no students were using the recording studio anyway?

Megs slammed her laptop closed, cleaned up her peanut butter and apple core, then stomped to her bedroom.

The next evening, Megs strode purposefully toward the arts building, her curls bouncing around her face with every step. The autumn leaves crunched underfoot as Megs mentally rehearsed everything she’d learned after going down a narration rabbit hole on the internet last night.

Consistent distance from the mic and pacing. Sound conversational, maintain even volume. Knowing wasn’t the same as doing, and though she’d practiced the audition sides multiple times, her heart still stuttered as she opened the door and strode down the hall.

Her heart tapped a staccato rhythm as she scanned the area. This tiny act of rebellion, wanting something she knew she shouldn’t and acting on it, woke her up in ways that both thrilled and frightened her. It was like she’d been viewing the world through dirty windows, and someone had come and washed them clean.

But that crystal clarity came at a cost. When her bid to the universe didn’t work out because it never did, she’d have to walk back behind that filmy glass. Revert to living in a world of grayscale.

Megs shook her head. There wasn’t an information desk here like in the main building, and she hadn’t thought to look up a map. A student strode past with pants hanging so low on his hips she was sure they’d drop to his knees at any second.

“Excuse me.” Megs put out a hand, and he pulled the earbud from his right ear. “Do you know where Professor Adams’s office is?”

He pointed down the hall. “Just past the bathrooms.”

“Thank you.” She continued down the hall, searching the placards as soon as she passed the bathroom doors.

Prof. Gideon Adams.

Megs faced the door and clenched her hands into fists, then raised her arm and knocked. For a moment, she wondered if his office was empty. It was only a quarter to five, but maybe the first slot had been filled in the time it’d taken her to walk here from the parking lot. Maybe he didn’t arrive early, or maybe he wouldn’t come at all since his last appointment wasn’t booked.

She was about to turn when the door swung open. Megs’ breath caught. Standing there in front of her, his hair mussed, his tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose was the hot guy from the coffee shop.