He sets the paper down and lifts the guitar propped against the sofa. “This was hers. I thought she broke it that day.”
“She did,” I huff. “I kept the pieces and fixed it.”
“You fixed it? Yourself?” He sits down, placing it over his lap.
“Is that so shocking?”
“No. It’s on brand for you.” The G-chord hums as he presses his fingers against the frets and strums lightly.
Fun fact: you don’t grow up the son, grandson, and great-grandson of a record label owner or former popstar, surrounded by musicians your entire life, without learning to play. Graham is no exception. He just doesn’t care for it.
My fists clench at my sides when he spins the paper around. His fingers dance over the neck as he clumsily strums out the notes written on the paper. I’m not sure what is actually pissing me off; that he’s playing it at all, or that he’s playing it badly.
It’s the last one. Definitely the last one.
The space between us is cleared in two long strides, and I snatch the guitar from him. “It’s bad enough without you murdering it.”
“Then you play it.”
“No.”
He exhales annoyance, his patience running low. “It’s not bad at all, Jagger. It’s the fucking opposite of bad.”
“Why don’t you stick to whatever it is you do in that office all day, and let me handle the music shit, okay? Stick to our roles and all that.”
“You know what? I’m si—”
“Jagger, where’s my dance bag?” Her voice comes down the hallway. Judging by the slap of bare feet on the polished surface, getting closer. “And what did you do with my…uh…” Her sentence cuts off when she appears with a thick towel covering her, spotting Graham. “Shit.” Her cheeks light up like the Fourth of July. “S-sorry. I didn’t hear any voices and thought whoever it was had gone.”
“Soundproofing,” I deadpan.
“Oh.” She does an awkward, yet somehow adorable, little wave. “Hi…uh… Hi, Graham.”
“Poppy. Interesting finding you here.”
“Knock it off, Graham.” I go to Poppy, dropping a kiss on her lips. “It’s in my closet, tucked in the back, top corner, so it didn’t get stepped on. There’s a stool in there for you.”
“For me?” Her lashes flutter, and her mouth tilts despite blatantly getting caught. I exhale a breath, not realizing until this moment how worried I was over her reaction.
“For you, Halfpint.” I spin her, swatting her ass. “I’ll be another minute. Then I’ll get dressed so we can go.”
“She stayed here?” Graham asks when I face him.
“Don’t fucking start with me, Graham,” I warn. “I know it will upset Casey. And God knows I love her, but fucking everything upsets Casey. I get why, but of all damn people, you and her…You don’t get to give me shit.”
“She actually stayed here?” he repeats. “Like in your apartment? Your bed?”
“Jesus Christ, are you having a stroke?”
“No. No. It’s just…I planned on warning you away from her today, but…She really stayed here?”
“Yes, Graham, she stayed here. She’s been here since Thursday. Why do you keep asking the same question?”
“Because you don’t let women come over here, Jagger.”
My eyes narrow because how in the fuck? “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”
“Did you think that was limited to Casey? I know everything about you, Jagger. Even about the apartment you kept in Brooklyn where you met with Renee. I’ve always known everything.” He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Or I thought I did until I found out about Kri—”
