Whoever decided I should talk to these guys after a show had no idea what they were doing. They’re still keyed up from performing, and I’m between them and whatever they usually do to come down from the high. The musicians on set are similar after a long day, not quite the same as a sold-out concert, but it still leaves their adrenaline pumping.

It’s why I avoid musicians’ dressing rooms immediately following a shoot. The number of times I’ve gotten an eyeful of ass is almost impressive.

“Like I already mentioned to Christian,” I start, “I want to go a different direction than what the label was talking to Heath about. Most of the filming would be more low-key than you’re probably used to. We’d rely on hand cams or spy glasses.”

“Spy glasses?” Felix gives me a look. “What are we, fucking assassins now?”

“That’s just what they’re called,” I tell him, “but they’d give a really cool perspective. Like you are the lens⁠—”

The door off to the side of them jerks open, and when I look over, my gaze hits a bare torso, the skin tan and stretched tight over muscle. As my attention drops lower to the word tattooed just above the low-slung jeans, a maroon T-shirt pulls down over it. My eyes jerk the rest of the way up to his face, and the same eyes from the stage are locked on me.

Adams North.

The lead singer and guitarist for Of Men and Wolves is shoving his hands through his wet hair, straight out of a shower, but he stops moving. The same expression touches his face from before, his lips parting slightly. The room warms from the steam pouring out from behind him, and one of the guys gives him a “Hey, man.”

His throat bobs in a swallow before he blinks, and then he glances at the rest of the room like he wasn’t expecting them to be there. A split second later, he’s back to me, something about him making me more nervous than the others.

I flash a smile, and Adams gives me a quick once-over. His gaze crawls up me, and by the time he reaches my face again, he looks bored, almost dismissive, as he nods on his way past me.

Well, then.

“Feel better?” Dev asks, sliding to the end of the couch to make room.

Adams nods once and settles between his bandmates.

“Adams, this is Remi Sinner,” Christian says. Adams’s jaw clenches at the introduction, his attention already on his phone, so Christian continues, “She was just telling us her plans for the doc since the label pulled a fast one on us.”