A lyric hits me almost instantly, and I squeeze my eyes closed and hear it again in my head. Pressing my forehead to the glass, I quiet my mind to everything but the words and melody that are taking shape.

Six songs. I need to write six songs, and maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the beginnings of one. My purse is still on my shoulder, and I hurry to the chair near the fireplace and pull out my notebook.

As I scribble out the words and notes, the thrill of excitement rises in my blood. I need a guitar. I really, really need a guitar. It’s one thing Creighton couldn’t know I’d want since he arranged for all of this to be delivered before he even knew who I was.

I look out the window at the darkened city. It’s too late to go exploring for a guitar now, so I keep scribbling lyrics, erasing them and rewriting, until my hand is cramped and my back aches.

I lay down my pencil and rise, my muscles protesting and my head fuzzy. The little sleep I got last night and the sheer craziness of what I’ve done is catching up with me.

Flipping my notebook shut, I wander back into the bedroom, hearing the siren’s call of the giant bed. After running my hand along the silky-smooth comforter, I give up the battle and strip off my clothes where I stand before I slide between the covers.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find a guitar shop.

My eyes snap open and I blink several times, scanning the room.

Where am I?

Then everything comes rushing back. Creighton’s penthouse. New York City. Turning my head to the side, I see nothing but smooth, unrumpled comforter beside me.

I sit up and stretch, my attention going to the clock. It’s already close to noon, and there’s no evidence Creighton ever made it to bed. Swinging my legs over the side and pushing off the plush mattress, I rise and survey the large bedroom.

Nope. No sign of him.

My stomach grumbles and I wander toward the kitchen, wondering if I’m going to find a note or something informing me as to where my husband is. The granite countertop is spotless and note-less.

I grab my phone from my purse, and see a text from almost three hours earlier.

I’ll be home later. Make yourself comfortable. Call the doorman if you need anything.

I’m surprised he has my number, but there’s no questioning who the message is from.

My burning desire for a guitar hasn’t faded, but I have absolutely no intention of asking a doorman to fetch me one. This is New York, and New York has everything.

I pull out my phone to do some quick Google searching.

Bingo. Apparently Rudy’s Music is a New York fixture, and looks absolutely perfect. I check the distance, and realize it’s too far to walk. I have no idea how to get in touch with Creighton’s driver, so I decide that for the first time in my life, I’m going to catch a cab. It can’t be that hard.

I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes before I’m out the door. After all, I’ve got songs to write, and for the first time in months, I can’t wait to dig in.

I’m riding high on the knowledge that I’ve just written the most epic song of my career to date. Granted, my official career has only spanned nine months, but I’ve been writing songs for much longer. Regardless, the song is epic. I’m as humble as the next girl, but even I know when I’ve struck gold.

I don’t even realize the time as I walk through the giant door into the lobby of Creighton’s building. For the last however many hours, I’ve been tucked into a corner at Rudy’s, losing myself in the music. The super-cool old dude finally asked me to leave an hour after he would have normally closed. I guess he was caught up in the music too, but was gracious and awesome, and promised to come to my show the next time I performed in the city.

I swipe the key card the doorman gave me as I left the building, hit the P button, and lean back against the mirrored walls of the elevator. Because Creighton owns the entire top floor, the elevator opens directly into a lobby that has only one door. I left it unlocked, assuming only someone with the key card could get back up here.

I can’t help but hum the melody of my new badass song to myself as I step into the darkened penthouse. Dropping my purse on the huge table in the entryway, I grip the notebook between my teeth as I tug off my boots. It’s cold as heck outside, and even during the short walk from the corner where the cab dropped me off, I think I slogged through some nasty stuff hiding in the snow that has been falling since this afternoon. Since I take better care of these boots than some people do their children—they’re one of very few extravagant purchases in my life—I whisper that I’ll be back to wipe them off in a hot second.

I’m crossing into the living area and heading toward the kitchen when a lamp clicks on. The pooling light reveals Creighton seated in the chair by the fireplace.

For a moment, I’m reminded of one of those movies where the teenager is sneaking into the house after curfew, and the mom or dad is waiting in the living room all quiet-like before flipping on the lights and surprising the kid. Considering I never had a mom who cared enough about me to set a curfew—let alone ever have a dad—I’ve always been a little envious during those moments in movies. Gran was amazing, but she was in bed by nine every night, and I respected her too much to stay out past midnight, which was my self-imposed curfew.

Creighton’s expression is dark, despite the crisp white light. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I stumble to a stop at the question. “Excuse me?”

“I said, where the fuck have you been?”

I’m taken aback by his tone. Creighton was the one who left within moments of depositing me in this penthouse, so if anyone has a right to be pissed, it would be me. And regardless of how nice a place it is, I’m not exactly the kind of girl who can sit idle. He never said anything about not being able to leave.

I try to interject some lightness into the mood. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear husband.”

“Answer the question, Holly.”

Seriously, why is he so pissed?

“I was out. I needed a guitar, so I went and found one.”

“And you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone?”

I glance in the direction of my purse. I don’t remember it ringing, and I sure didn’t look at it after I found my way to Rudy’s. Then I look back to Creighton, a flare of guilt building inside me, but it’s quickly doused when he pushes out of the chair and stalks toward me.