“Hell,” Chase swears behind him. “Please tell me she’s not the reason you’ve been pushing for a studio there.”

“She has nothing to do with it. I’ve been pushing for New York long before. It’s still the heart of music. It’s logical for us to be in the center of it. Our presence demonstrates Westfield Records isn’t a fly-by-night label. We’re sticking it out. So much of the competition is gone that there is a demand for studios. They need us. We can do this smart and on budget and come out way ahead.”

Chase raises his hands. “No need to pitch me. I’ve read the location analysis. I’m sold. But your head had better be in the right place. On your shoulders, not between your—”

Dylan cuts him off, knocks his own forehead. “It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”

Chase sinks back into his chair and digs an elbow into the armrest, taps his chin. A slight frown darkens his expression. Dylan can hear his brain whirring.

“What?” he snaps, exhausted. Pissed off he’s been called out. He really needs to stop checking her profile, wondering when her relationship status will change to married, when she’ll update her last name. Maybe she just forgot or doesn’t care. Maybe she kept her last name.

Or maybe he just needs to delete the damn app from his phone.

Chase takes a breath. “I’ll agree with your transfer to New York on one condition. You commute between studios. Sharon’s good, but I don’t want to lose your vision here. I still want your hands on every project.”

That he can manage, and even prefers. He grasps Chase’s hand. “Done.”

“One more thing.” Chase digs out a spiral-bound notebook from a drawer and slaps it on his desk. Dylan stares at the blue notebook covered with Route 66 stickers and flames lick his limbs. He hasn’t seen that notebook in eons. He hasn’t wanted to see it.

“Where’d you get that?” He stashed the notebook in the back of a filing cabinet drawer in his office. Out of sight, out of mind. For a reason.

“Felicia found it.” Chase’s assistant. “Says it was misfiled. She thought you might have lost it.”

Wrong. He buried it. He’s about to lose it. Big-time. Anger flashes through him, hot and wild.

“I’ll take that,” he orders, hovering on the edge between sanity and insanity.

Chase jerks it out of reach. “Not a chance. That Grammy you’ve been pining for? It’s in here.”

Doubtful. Those writings were scribbles to pass away time in hotel rooms on the road when sleep eluded him. It was an attempt to pick apart his growing feelings for Joy. Feelings he never asked for. They sure as hell aren’t Grammy-level material.