“Ah, yes. The serial killer notion returns.” He chuckles, and the sound wraps around me like a song. “You’re going to have to let me lead you. Help you. Control your movements. Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to speak. I’m so very aware of his every breath and my every nerve.

“The snare. The hi-hat. Kick drum . . .” he continues with his quick lesson of the various parts to the set, using our connected hands to point to each one as he goes.

“You think I’m going to actually remember this?”

“You’re a drummer’s wife, knowing them is a requirement.”

I start to say something, to make a quip much like he does, but then, without warning, he lifts my hands and brings them down in a steady rhythm.

My words fail as I try to follow what he’s doing.

It’s useless and yet we’re creating a rhythm. One that I actually like. I’m under no pretenses that my skill has anything to do with the sound—he’s the one moving my hands with the tempo and location to hit—and yet I have an odd sense of satisfaction.

The sharp crack of the snare drum jolts through me as we hit it and then he drops our hands to the tops of my thighs.

“See?” he says, his lips brushing just behind my ear. “Not so hard.”

Easy for him to say. My body is hyperaware of him—his chest pressed against my back, the solid weight of his thighs beneath mine, the slow inhale and exhale that keeps time better than any metronome could.

“All right, let’s try it again. Another something simple.” He guides my left hand to the hi-hat, my right to the snare—at least I think that’s what they’re called. My lesson was quick and his presence is distracting. “One, two, three, four—” He taps his foot against the pedal, the steady thud of it matches the beat he whispers against my skin.

I try to follow along, but I’m awkward and my arms move like I’m fighting off an invisible attacker with zero grace.

Jase groans playfully and chuckles. “Jesus, woman, you’re as stiff as a board.”

“Says the musical prodigy who can probably just hear something and play it,” I say.

“No. That’s Rocket,” he says, referring to his bandmate. He shifts slightly, and I jolt when his fingers graze my waist. “See? There’s your problem.” His voice dips lower, teasing. “You’re too tense, Cookie. Drumming’s all about letting go. Feeling it.”

I huff. This is clearly not my forte. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

He tightens his grip around my waist and pulls me flush against his chest—the exact position I was avoiding.

Heat blooms across my skin as chills tighten my scalp.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stop thinking.”