“Barefoot is better?”
“Better than boots.”
Grumbling a little, she reached down to unzip the sides of her leather ankle boots, trying and failing not to stare at his happy trail while she was down there, but it was so very sexy and unattended. Not landscaped, but not abundant. A tease. An amuse-bouche of hair. “Are you okay down there?”
“Not as okay as you are down there.”
“What was that?”
“I think I better jump on the box now.”
“Right.” He circled around behind Melody, putting both hands on her hips and guiding her to the spot in front of the box. From up close, it looked a lot larger than it had from five feet away. In fact, it looked insurmountable.
“I think I might have overestimated myself.”
“That’s the fear talking.”
Melody groaned. “Are you sure you’re not Lance dressed in a Beat suit?”
His grip tightened on her hips and pinwheeling sparks lit up in front of her eyes, her toes curling into the cushioned gym floor. Were those his thumbs pressing into the small of her back, massaging gently? Or were those the hands of God? “It’s all in your legs,” Beat said, his breath warm against her ear, the right side of her neck.
That wasn’t very reassuring since her legs were currently made of pudding. “Okay.”
Another firm molding of her hips, then they slipped upward to do the same to her waist and God, she wished more than anything she was wearing one of those cool crop tops, so she could feel his hands directly on her skin. “I’m going to catch you if you don’t make it. But you are going to make it.”
“What if I fall forward, instead of backward?”
“You won’t, but I’d catch you, either way.”
“You’re assuming I have so much faith in someone I haven’t seen in fourteen years?”
A few seconds slipped by. “The faith is there, though, a little. Isn’t it? Kind of like how I knew you would show up for the meeting. Show up for . . . me.”
Melody closed her eyes, grateful he couldn’t see her face. “Yeah.” She swallowed. “Okay, Lance. Count me down.”
“Three, two . . .”
She dug down for every ounce of power and strength in her body—and it turned out, she didn’t have very much. Not physically, anyway. She jumped as high as she could, but her toes missed the ledge of the box by a couple of inches and she went flailing backward, landing with her back against Beat’s chest, her feet dangling off the ground.
“I didn’t make it on my first try, either,” he offered.
“Yes, you did,” she said on an unsteady exhale.
“Fine, I did. But my form sucked.”
“No, it didn’t.”
He settled her down on the ground, his fingertips immediately attacking her ribs—tickling her so unexpectedly that she spun around on a squeal. “Jesus, Mel,” he growled through his teeth. “Would you just accept my comfort?”
“Fine. Fine!” She was laughing. At the gym! “I’ll get it next time. Your turn.”
With a final squeeze of her side, Beat went to complete his box jumps while Melody plopped herself down on the bench and watched him move like an effortlessly graceful animal, all smooth skin and muscle pops and flashes of that reassuring grin. She’d always believed in her heart of hearts that being around Beat would make her feel normal. More comfortable in her own skin, like she’d been that day at age sixteen.
But as she left the gym heading to the Applause offices with Beat at her side, the reality of that seemed too good to be true.
Chapter Seven
“Let’s start with the Concert Incident of 1993.”
Melody sighed fondly. “Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday.”
Beat bit the inside of his lip to quell a smile and found a more comfortable position in his director’s chair. They sat side by side in a dark, airless room in the depths of the Applause offices, recording their “confessionals,” although they weren’t doing any confessing themselves. This was about their mothers’ past.
Based on the uneasy look Melody sent him, talking about those long-held secrets in front of the cameras felt as unnatural to her as it did to Beat.
Damn, she looked pretty today.
A skirt, a snug skirt, the waistband of which hugged the bottom of her rib cage. Black tights tucked into scuffed ankle boots with a moon-shaped buckle. She’d walked into his gym wearing this coat—a bright green color that made her hazel eyes look bottomless. Her bangs were all blown around from the winter wind, cheeks red. He’d had to restrain himself from begging them not to put any makeup on her for filming. Why ruin something that was already beautiful to begin with? Still, whatever they’d put on her lips made them almost . . . plumper?
Stop staring at her mouth.
Stop thinking about how her hips felt in your hands at the gym and concentrate.
Shit. She was signaling him for help with a rapid series of blinks.
“The Concert Incident.” He coughed into his fist and sat up straighter. “Right. That is how people commonly refer to the final show. It took place in Glendale, Arizona.”
“Both of your mothers were pregnant at the time, correct?” asked the interviewer, a young man named Darren, a content manager for the Applause social media channels. “Trina was pregnant with Melody. Octavia with Beat.”
“That’s right,” Melody said. “Octavia was a little further along. Beat is older.”
“You’re going to hold two measly months over my head?” Beat asked.
“Is your hearing aid turned all the way up, dear?” She patted his forearm. “I want to make sure you can hear all the questions clearly.”
“What?”
Melody’s laugh filtered into the studio and Beat’s flipping stomach wasn’t the only one who responded to it. Danielle and Joseph smiled behind the camera. Even the lighting technician flashed a grin. “Okay, the Incident.” Melody tugged her skirt down to cover her knee and the rasping sound of wool on nylon made Beat’s mouth go dry. “The angst had been building up to that point. I think everyone would agree that Trina and Octavia are extremely different personalities to begin with. My mother, Trina—”
“Lyricist. Bass. Backing vocals,” contributed Darren.
“That’s right. She is more of a . . . restless, volatile soul, while Octavia . . .”
“Is more reserved. Most of the time,” said Beat. “Being the lead singer, she had sort of a poise about her, but when the song called for it, she could roar with the best of them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” the interviewer said. “Octavia Dawkins has been referred to as one of the greatest rock vocalists of our time. You must be very proud.”
“I am,” Beat answered honestly.
“And you?” Darren raised an eyebrow at Melody. “‘Rattle the Cage’ has long been known as the anthem of the nineties and it was written by your mother, Trina. That must fill you with tremendous pride.”
Melody opened her mouth but didn’t speak right away. “It does,” she said, eventually.
Darren shifted in his seat, obviously scenting some intrigue. “And is that pride more for the music or would you say you’re a proud daughter?”