Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Keane

When I get to the studio, the guys are already in the zone, working on the track I sent over last night. The melody’s still rough, the edges frayed just enough to make it feel alive. That’s how I like it—unfinished, full of possibilities. Inside, they’re locked in, nodding to the beat, muttering to each other in that shorthand only we understand. I hang back for a second, letting the sound wash over me, feeling out where it might go next.

The studio smells the way it always does: a mix of stale coffee, sweat, and the metallic tang of the equipment. It’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s familiar, like an old sweater you can’t bring yourself to toss, no matter how many holes it’s got.

I should’ve been here hours ago, but my parents requested my presence. I had to attend their . . . Honestly? I can’t even remember what the fancy party was all about. And no, it wasn’t drugs or booze this time. I chose not to drink more than one flute of champagne so I wouldn’t get drunk. The kind of drunk I prefer to be when I have to deal with Kit Stone and his wife—or as they like me to call them, my parents.

So this time I don’t have to piece together the night like I usually do. I just didn’t give two fucks since I had to be there against my will and was stone-cold sober. Mom made sure of it, her eagle eyes tracked my every move while my brother, Rowan, thoroughly enjoyed my misery.

Let’s not forget the cherry on top—I missed my red-eye flight. Ended up on a plane with two layovers and zero dignity. At least something good came out of it, though. Her. That girl with the cute body and the witty comebacks. I owe her my life, kind of. If she hadn’t handed over my laptop, I’d probably still be curled up in some corner, mourning my entire life. Everything is on that laptop. Losing it would’ve been . . . catastrophic.

The music cuts out suddenly, and Brock lets out a loud curse after botching the riff. How many times have I told him? Looking for perfection in music is what ruins it. Nothing in this world is perfect, and music? Music thrives in its flaws. That’s what makes it beautiful.

I’m just about to head in and give him shit for it when I feel it again—that weird sensation.

It’s hard to describe, like a whisper brushing the back of my neck. Not bad, just . . . unsettling. The same thing I felt earlier, when she was chasing me down with my laptop.

And just like that, I glance toward the reception area and see her.

She’s standing just outside the glass doors, her silhouette backlit by the lights. Dark hair spills over her shoulders, soft and loose, a far cry from the messy bun she had going on before. And the unicorn hoodie? Gone. Now she’s rocking a vintage AC/DC shirt, jeans, and an old camera slung over her shoulder. She looks like she stepped straight out of an indie film.

Airport Girl.

She’s waiting for something—or maybe someone. Her head tilts slightly as she scans the area, and for a moment, she looks . . . lost. But not in a helpless way. More like someone who’s always a step ahead but isn’t sure what to do when the world decides to pause.

And me? I can’t look away.

It’s not just the way she looks, though yeah, that doesn’t hurt. It’s the way she moves, the way she is. Like she’s wrapped in this quiet kind of confidence, layered with just enough mystery to make you want to unravel it piece by piece.

I don’t even realize I’ve stepped closer until the door swings open. Then it hits me. What the fuck is she doing here?

It takes me a second to react, probably because the caffeine from earlier hasn’t kicked in yet. Note to self: find the intern and send them on a coffee run.

So now that I’m aware that this isn’t the airport, and she’s not stalking me, I get that . . . well, she’s here, in my world. She’s probably an art student. I should point out that the academy is across the street.

For a second, I just stare. I don’t even mean to, but there’s something about her that makes it hard to look away. She’s cute, yeah, but not in the usual way I’m used to. Not in the overdone, glossy, Instagram-model-trying-to-get-backstage-to-have-some-cred-and-offer-a-blow-job way that’s been following me lately. She’s real. Like, actually real. The kind of real I haven’t experienced in . . . fuck, I don’t even know how long.

As I get closer, I see her grip her camera a little tighter, her knuckles going white. She looks like she’s debating whether to bolt or stay, and for some reason, the thought makes me smirk.

“Hey,” I say, stepping into the hallway, keeping my tone casual, like I’m not already trying to figure her out. “Airport Girl, right?”

Her brows lift, and she blinks at me, caught off guard. “That’s . . . not my name. Mr. Lost ‘my laptop and probably my wallet’ Guy.”

“No?” I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing my arms as I study her. I could tell her that playing games doesn’t look good on her, but I’ll let her for now. “Are you sure it’s not your name? I mean, I never got your name, so it’s either that or Laptop Savior. Your call.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, and I catch the faintest blush creeping up her neck. “Ophelia,” she says after a beat. “My name’s Ophelia.”

Ophelia. It suits her—unique without trying too hard.

“In case you’re wondering, the name is Keane. Not ‘loses his shit easily’ or whatever you want to name me,” I say, extending a hand, even though I’m pretty sure she knows exactly who I am. She hesitates, her gaze flicking to my hand like it might bite her, but eventually, she shakes it. Her grip is firm, her hand smaller than mine.

“So, why are you here?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she sizes me up. “Probably the same reason as you,” she replies, and now I’m genuinely confused.

“So we’re here to take pictures, huh?” I mean there’s no other explanation, is there?

“Oh, this?” She tugs at the camera strap and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, clearly flustered. “No. I mean, yeah, I’ll take a few here and there. But not like you’re thinking. My dad . . . he’s a big fan of Dreadful Souls. If I’m going to be here, I might as well capture a little Chris Decker history.”

I want to point out that Chris Decker might’ve been the frontman for Dreadful Souls but the band was no longer together when he moved to Seattle to start this record company. There’s something that doesn’t add up here, I just don’t know what it is.

“So you’re here to photograph the ex-members of the band?” I ask, watching her closely, trying to figure her out. Maybe she’s not some wide-eyed art major but a savvy paparazzo looking for dirt.

Her lips press into a thin line, and she shifts her stance, glancing back toward the room she came from. “Nope, just the building or some of the memorabilia on the walls or . . . something. I like to capture memories,” she says carefully. Then her tone sharpens just slightly. “And you should know that taking pictures, video, or recording the Deckers is forbidden and grounds for immediate termination. You did read your NDA before accepting the internship, right?”

Internship? She really thinks I’m an intern.

And now it makes sense—she’s here for the summer, probably stuck doing grunt work no one else wants. Still, something about her throws me off. She doesn’t carry herself like the other interns I’ve met—those desperate to impress, eager to name-drop and network. She’s quiet. Observant. Like she’s content to stay on the edges and just watch.

“So you’ll work, but if something grabs your attention, you’ll take pictures too?” I nod toward her camera.

She shrugs, her fingers brushing the strap absentmindedly. “Sometimes. That’s what I do, mostly for myself. I’m not really looking to go pro or anything.”

“Why not?” The words are out before I can stop them. “You’ve got the look for it. Serious artist vibes.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to decide if I’m mocking her. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply with a grin, letting the silence stretch just long enough to see if she’ll fill it.

Instead, she tilts her head, her tone turning teasing. “Wait. Are you buttering me up so I’ll trust you, only to screw me over and get the full-time position next year?”

I bark out a laugh. “You think they’d consider me for a full-time position?”

She rolls her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching. “You’re a guy. You look like you belong here with all the rockstar people, and you’re probably charming when you’re not being insufferable.”

“Miss Foster,” the receptionist’s crisp voice cuts through the moment, and we both glance over. “Mrs. Decker is ready for you.”

Ophelia nods, her expression softening as she glances back at me. “See you around, Keane.”

“I hope so,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can overthink them.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, but something about the way her name lingers in my mind feels different.

Ophelia.

So she really doesn’t know who I am, huh?

I like it. I like that she doesn’t throw herself at me, doesn’t fawn or swoon or act like I’m the second coming of Kurt Cobain. And yeah, maybe that stings my ego a little. But mostly? It feels . . . good. Like maybe, for once, I’m just a guy with a fucked- up haircut and raggedy clothes who doesn’t need to be idolized for his sins.

Fuck. I don’t know what’s more unsettling—how little she seems to care about who I am, or how much I suddenly care about who she is.

It’s okay though, we have all summer to get to know each other and if I’m lucky, I’ll get to screw her but in a way she’ll never forget. That pretty tight ass is going to be mine.

Challenge accepted.