The answer comes out ragged when I reply, “Yeah.”

But I’m already wishing for a way out of it.

All the anxiety dissipates as I follow him in and see the rehearsal space and studio. Lush purple velvet chairs and tufted sofas. Deep mahogany slat floors, covered in a massive ornate rug. The wood makes up the walls as well, but built-in shelves filled with books line two of them. The lighting is moody and sensual, and the overall effect carries a brothel sort of vibe.

Dev looks up from his bass then at Felix pouring a drink at the bar off to one side. They exchange a glance.

“Adams has officially lost it?” Felix asks.

Dev nods. “It’s officially time to shop for a new member.”

“Officially fuck off.” Foster tips his chin toward the bar. “Artists who’ve used this space etch their names in the bar top. I thought you’d want a shot of us adding ours.”

“Yes.” I finish at the same time as him.

His mouth hooks up. “You can stick around a bit after if you want any footage while we jam.”

I blink at him, and Felix barks out a laugh, landing on a barstool with his drink.

Dev snorts. “You either broke her or made her come.”

Foster grins then and walks toward the bar. “I might have done both.”

I would glare or comment back, but the scene’s staging in my head. I figure out the angle then have a flash of another once I move close enough to see the grooves in the wood. Rich with history and talent.

The guys switch off wearing the spy glasses I had hooked on my shirt’s neck, so I get their faces and them carving without compromising either. Then I become a piece of furniture, afraid if I breathe wrong, I’ll lose access to them while they create.

I imagined this scene a hundred times and then said a painful goodbye when they said no filming during these sessions.

About fifteen minutes in, the door flies open. Christian doesn’t even wait for the band to quit playing.

“We’re leaving.”

Between the barked tone and the muscles of his jaw rippling beneath the skin, not a damn person in the room attempts to argue. He steps out onto the catwalk, giving me a wide berth to pass, and then I cross to the stairs. Colton’s in an arms-crossed stance by the front door. He shrugs when my eyes ask, What the hell?

“He barreled in, demanded to know where you were, and then sprinted up there.”

Me? A harsh knot solidifies in my chest.

Our twenty-minute return ride to the buses remains silent other than road noise. Foster’s arm brushes mine after I crawl out of the van, and my lips turn up when his do.