“So you said, but to my untrained ear it was beautiful.” I pat the bed again, not wanting to be alone anymore. “Please?”

Jase moves across the space and stops at the foot of the bed. His eyes hold mine, almost as if he’s questioning my request and his response to it when he was the one responsible for the sexual tension vibrating between us.

He exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and then takes a seat at the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. “I can’t seem to get it right.”

I frown. “Get what right?”

“The song, the lyrics and beat,” he says, his expression unreadable.

“Isn’t that part of the writing process?”

“Yeah, but . . . we have a contest between the four of us—Hawke, Vince, Rocket, and me. Each one of us has to write a song for each album. We’ve been doing it ever since our first debut album years ago.”

“Four best friends competing at the highest stakes. What could go wrong?” I say sarcastically.

“Exactly. And over the years, at least one of theirs have topped the charts. I’m the only one who hasn’t.” He snorts. “This time, I want it.”

“I thought drummers didn’t like the limelight.”

“I said we were underappreciated.” His lips curve. “I didn’t say that we don’t love the limelight.”

I shake my head. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

His eyes meet mine, something flickering there before he looks away. “It’s not sounding the way I want it to. Something is missing. Besides, saying it was shit isn’t being hard on myself. It’s called being honest.”

“I liked what I heard.”

He chuckles, but it’s not his usual cocky laugh. It’s self-deprecating. “No. What Hawke and Vince write is beautiful. Effortless. And Rocket has this inherent knack for kick-ass bridges. Mine . . . it sounds like a struggle.”

“Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to sound.” I study him, watching the tension in his jaw. “Maybe that’s who you are. Beauty often comes after struggle.”

His gaze snaps to mine, sharp, like I hit a nerve. Then, just as quickly, he laughs it off. “You have no idea.”

Maybe not. But I know enough.

A yawn sneaks up on him, and before I can process what’s happening, he lies back on the bed, his head right beside where my hand is resting on the comforter.

I stiffen.

And then, slowly, I let myself relax.

My fingers drift to his hair before I can think better of it, threading through the freshly showered strands.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Touching him. Not with the words spoken earlier, the needs they stirred in me, and a flimsy cotton tank top and my tiny shorts as the only barrier.