“I get it. You protect the people you care about.”

The corners of her mouth ticked up.

Camden nudged her aside. “Studio time doesn’t come cheap. Let’s do this. Maddy, stop badgering our new friend.” His ice blue eyes twinkled and he nodded toward the door. “Come with me, Miles’s daughter. I’ll go through the song with you. Can you read music?”

Camden guided me out of the soundboard side of the studio and into the twin door beside the one we’d just left. Freddy followed us into the next room.

“Of course.” My stomach was doing a perfect 10 gymnastics routine with each step. Holy shit, I was about to play in front of and maybe with Without Grey—if I didn’t crap the bed completely. My fingers tingled, numbness creeping into my hands. I wiped them on my jeans.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.”

Freddy pointed at the line of six guitars along the wall. “Bay, here are the ones you can choose from. Let me know if there are any issues.” He disappeared out the door and back to the other side of the glass, leaving me in the soundproof room where my heart pounded so loudly I wouldn’t have been surprised if the mics had picked it up.

Camden flicked his thumb against his teeth. It reminded me of the drama club’s production of Romeo and Juliet. Was he biting his thumb at me?

“How about singing? Can you sing?”

I jerked like he’d tripped me.

The intercom clicked on and Freddy’s voice boomed out the speakers. “She can si—”

I cut Freddy off. “No.” More like can’t sing, and I wasn’t going to face plant in front of Without Grey. Over my shoulder, I shot Freddy a look and walked down the line of guitars.

He backed off.

I swallowed back the nerves and grabbed a guitar, the same Martin model as the one I’d played earlier that day, with trembling fingers. How many times had my dad done the same thing? How many sessions had he played in, but never got to play his own songs? I shoved down those stomach-knotting feelings and took another deep breath.

“A Martin. I’m impressed.” Camden picked up his own guitar and sat on the stool beside the piano. “You ready?”

We went over the song twice. The first time, he played it for me with the hand-scribbled sheet music on the keys of the keyboard. The second time, I played along with him, providing the accompaniment.

My fingers flew across the strings, energized by playing with someone. For someone. I was scared as hell, but swallowing that down, I pushed ahead, dropping into the music, doing my best to match Lockwood’s style.

The crescendo fell off and my fingers stilled on the strings. Camden plucked the last notes, shaking his finger on the string to draw out the cry of the note. He drummed his fingers on the side of the guitar and tilted his head to the side staring at me with a wide smile. “Damn, Bay. Freddy wasn’t kidding. You’ve got killer chops.”