My heart flutters wildly. To cover up my feelings, I bring up April again. “Don’t you ever get jealous when you see her on the cover of a magazine?” April is on a cover every other month.
“You do realize she doesn’t look like that in real life, right? Those pictures are airbrushed and Photoshopped so much that I think it’s hard for her own mother to recognize her.”
“So is that a yes?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m pining over her, then no. April and I were two teenagers whose handlers thought a relationship like ours would spur more publicity, and they were right. It did help, but it wasn’t anything more on my part than a media thing. So, yeah, I might’ve had some fun with Izzy, but she never got my phone number.” His voice drops low. “I’m not a cheater, if that’s what you’re asking. If April and I had a real relationship, I wouldn’t have looked twice at another girl. I’m a one-woman man, babe.”
I swallow hard. He has no idea what it does to me when he calls me babe.
“Come to the studio with me today,” he says.
And because I can’t talk, I nod. He smiles brilliantly at me, and I almost miss Belinda ordering me to move.
“Let’s switch it up. Let’s put Oak’s head in her lap,” Belinda suggests.
I heave a sigh of relief and sit up immediately. Oakley takes a bit longer to uncurl his body from mine. We move into position, but having his head in my lap doesn’t make it easier on me. My fingers itch to brush the hair away from his forehead. I shudder a tiny bit, but Oak catches it.
His eyes sparkle as he asks, “Cold?”
Belinda hears him and snaps her fingers. “A blanket. That would be perfect.”
Someone runs to find a blanket.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
How can I? I don’t think anyone could relax in this position.
“Darla, smudge the eyeliner under her eyes. It looks too precise,” Belinda orders. The makeup artist leans over with a brush and dabs under my eyes.
“A lot of work for these pictures.”
“One. Singular,” Oak says.
“Who knows. We might do a collage,” Claudia suggests. Beside her, Belinda’s blue hair bobs in agreement. “Oak, reach up and touch her neck.”
His long fingers curve around my neck, lightly pressing against my skin, reminding me of the way he pressed the frets of his guitar. He has beautiful, talented fingers that are capable of pulling so much emotion from six little metal strings.
“I’m never going to believe another thing I see on the internet,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes my cheek. “This isn’t the internet.”
*
Once the photos are finally taken, Oak whisks me into his SUV before Belinda can suggest another pose. Claudia and her assistants are arguing about the caption as we’re leaving. I have no idea what they settle on, although it seemed they’d narrowed it down to either just a heart emoji or the hashtag “feels”.
In the backseat, Oakley reaches into his pocket. His hand emerges with something, but I can’t tell what. The look on his face is weirdly awkward, though.
“Are you okay?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Yeah. Uh. I got you something.”
My other eyebrow shoots up to join its pair. “Like, a present?”
He gives an adorable little shrug. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Figured I should get you something. But I didn’t want to give it to you in front of the PR peeps, otherwise they would’ve tried to incorporate it into the pictures, and, ah, I didn’t want that.”
I can’t hide my surprise. Or my guilt, because it sounds like he bought me something without Claudia ordering him to, while I didn’t get him a single thing. Not even a Valentine’s Day card. Should I have?
“Anyway...” Another shrug. “Here.”
He hands me a square of paper. I stare at it, because, well, I wasn’t expecting a folded-up piece of paper. Did he write me a letter? My heart speeds up. Or maybe a song?
My confusion returns once I unfold the sheet and see what’s written on it. It’s a list of ingredients, followed by instructions like stir and mix and dust with cocoa. It takes me a second to realize it’s a recipe for tiramisu.
“Oh,” is all I can think to say.
“You said you were looking for a good tiramisu recipe, so...” Oakley shifts in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “So I called Francisco Bello—you’ve heard of him, right? He’s on—”
“Cast-Iron Cookoff!” I finish, naming one of the most popular cooking competition shows currently on TV. Excitement builds in my tummy. “Are you saying he gave you his recipe? His secret recipe?”
“Yup.” He offers a half smile. “It pays to know Oakley Ford, huh?”
I can’t even believe this. Francisco Bello is notoriously tight-lipped about his dishes. Outsiders aren’t allowed into the kitchens of any of his restaurants, and on the show they blur out some of the things he does so that the audience can’t guess the recipe.
“Oh, my God. This is...” I shake my head in astonishment. “So cool. I can’t wait to make this!”
That gets me another smile. “Thought you’d like it.”
Like it? I love it. Except, it’s just another gesture on Oakley’s part that fills me with pure and utter confusion. Why is he giving me gifts? And why won’t my heart stop racing every time he’s around?
I swallow hard, wishing I had answers, but it seems like lately all I have is more questions.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome.”
Our gazes lock for a beat. I think Oak wants to say something more, but the car comes to a stop, and we abruptly break eye contact.
“We’re here,” Big D announces.
“You been to a studio before?” Oak asks as we wait for a gate to open. The moment between us has passed, but my chest still feels warm and gooey as I tuck the prized recipe into my canvas purse.
“No, never,” I admit.
“It’s not very fancy. Soundproof rooms, a lot of equipment. Want a tour?”
Outside the gate, a few photographers who must camp out at the studio waiting for artists to show up yell for Oak to turn his head. Some of them even yell my name. Big D positions himself between Oak and the street, and Oak ignores them as he pulls the door open.
“Sure.”
The studio is two stories. “Offices are up top, three sound studios down here and one upstairs.”
“How does it work?”
“Depends on if your band is getting along.”
“Really?”
“Yup.” He throws one door open and gestures for me to go in. “If you’re all getting along then you record together. Otherwise, you have a session band record the melody and then each band member comes in and lays down their individual tracks. The sound engineers put them all together and then everyone comes back to do their vocals.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“No question it’s a lot easier when the band is a big happy family.”
In the room, there are black leather sofas sitting at an L, a couple of stools, guitar stands and a synthesizer. “No drums?” I ask.