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Y O U R   R H Y T H M

You know what they say: save a snare, bang a drummer.

Kay Fischer is well aware of what they say, and she intends to ignore it completely.

After her first step into the world of music journalism ended with a screw-up so royal it deserved a crown, Kay’s been struggling to re-stack the building blocks of her career. Salvation comes in the form of Sherbrooke Station, the latest alt-rock craze to grace Montreal’s legendary music scene.

A front page feature on the band everyone’s talking about seems like a foolproof shot at success, even after Kay meets their drummer. Matt Pearson might have a smile sexy enough to be the eighth deadly sin and a passion for music so powerful it makes her heart ache, but Kay’s got things under control.

She’s a professional, goddammit, and a professional would not get tongue-tied over a source.

A professional would not find herself opening her door at an hour long past midnight to pull said source inside and lead him to her bed.

 

No, that’s not at all what a professional would do.

E X C E R P T

“I’m not taking your hotel room,” I repeat. “I’m not kicking you out and taking an entire double room for myself just because Lily is the worst host ever.”

“So don’t kick me out, then.”

I blink. “Are you... Are you sugge—”

“Calm yourself, Kay.” He gives me a look that makes me anything but calm. “I’m suggesting you take one bed and I take the other. Or you take both and I room with JP and Cole—whatever you want. I’m just not leaving you in a bar with nowhere to go.”

 

“Or I could go to Lily’s place and kick the nineteen year-old out.”

Matt’s already walking away.

“Or you could follow me one block up the street,” he calls, “and have a whole room to yourself. Come on.”

By the time we make it to the hotel and up to the fifth floor, I’m still refusing to take the room. Matt just forges on ahead, swiping his key card at a door down the hall and peering inside.

“Yeah, no sign of Ace. He had a girl in his lap when I left the pub, so I’m pretty sure he’ll be occupied until morning. I’ll text him and tell him I need the room.” He steps back and sweeps his hand towards the doorway. “All yours.”

“Matt...”

I’ve finally caught up to him. We stand on either side of the door. His face is flushed from the cold outside and I know mine must be too. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears as the space between us narrows and the smell of him, sharp and masculine, seems like something solid, wrapping itself around me and pulling me closer.

I break away, turning to step into the room.

“Just take the other fucking bed.”

W I T H   A   S I D E   O F   S M A R T

R O M A N C E   S E R V E D   S T E A M Y