Score

Book 2: Hollywood Renaissance

by Kennedy Ryan

Genres: Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A scorching second-chance romance between a talented screenwriter and a phenomenal musician from "a fantastic storyteller and superb writer." ―NPR

​You never forget your first love. Isn't that what they say? Verity Hill knows this truth intimately. She didn't simply miss Wright "Monk" Bellamy when they parted ways in college. She's haunted by his touch. Every kiss, any lover since—it's a shadow of what they had. 

Time heals all wounds. Isn't that what they say? Monk doesn't believe that for a second. He wasn't simply betrayed when he and Verity split. He was devastated, with parts of him left behind in the ruins of all that was destroyed. 

More than a decade after their disastrous breakup, Verity and Monk must work together on the set of an epic Harlem Renaissance biopic. With Monk, now a world-class musician, creating the score, and Verity, an award-winning screenwriter, penning the script, there's Oscar buzz before shooting even begins. This once-in-a-lifetime project could catapult them both to new heights, but can they can put the past behind them for the sake of the film…for the sake of something more?

Release date: May 19, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

“Art is our weapon. Culture is a form of resistance.”

—Shirin Neshat, “Art in Exile” TED Talk (2010)

Opportunity doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it invites you to lunch on a sunny afternoon.

I scan the tables in the rooftop restaurant, pushing past my nerves and searching for the man I’m supposed to meet. Open Air sits atop one of LA’s most luxurious boutique hotels, The V. It’s always a who’s who crowd, with everyone that’s supposed to be someone doing deals and eating meals up here. This high there’s a cool breeze even in the spring, so I pull the light cardigan a little closer around my shoulders and scour the diners one more time in case I’ve missed him.

“Looking for someone?”

Living in LA for nearly the last decade, I should be used to gorgeous women. This one, though, with her long-lashed brown eyes, thick curtain of dark hair hanging to her waist, and miles of smooth tanned skin on display in a minidress that barely hits mid-thigh, is still so breathtaking I find myself stammering.

“Um, y-yeah. I’m meeting someone. We should have a reservation.” I drag my eyes away from her to search the rooftop dining area again. “But I don’t see him yet.”

She steps behind the podium and touches the tablet screen, her thick brows furrowing. “Which name would the reservation be under?”

“Holt. Canon Holt.”

Just saying the famous director’s name triggers a full-body flush of anxiety. He’s one of the most critically and commercially successful Black filmmakers of the past decade, and when my agent told me he requested a meeting, I nearly expired on the spot. I’m still trying to shake off the who me? energy and find the bad bitch bravado needed to conduct myself like the confident professional I’m supposed to be.

“Oh, Canon!” She looks up with a beatific smile so dazzling I almost say, Canon who? and ask for her number on the spot. “He’s already here. They’re in one of our private pods.”

She gestures to the discreet, striped-curtained enclosures lining the azure swimming pool at the rooftop’s center and starts walking.

“They?” I follow her, distracted by the swish of long hair and the jiggle of her ass.

Damn.

God took His time with this one.

Time well spent, Sir. Time well spent.

“My brother’s with him.” She glances over her shoulder, flashing me a knowing grin when my eyes have to bounce up to meet hers.

“Your brother?” I ask, trying to recover some of my dignity.

“Well, my stepbrother. Evan Bancroft. This is my place, and they come here all the time.”

“Open Air is your restaurant?”

“Yeah, my father owns the V hotels, but the restaurant is mine to play with.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, skirting the tables draped in white and set with fresh flowers.

The closer we get to the tent with one flap pulled back at the far end of the pool, the more anxious I become. This is a huge meeting, and I hope I can keep my shit together long enough to impress Canon Holt.

“Gentlemen,” she says when we reach the tent. “I believe you’re expecting…”

She turns to me with brows lifted. “I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

“Verity Hill.” I ping a glance between the two men, who stand from the table to greet me.

“Nice to meet you, Verity,” she says. “I’m Arietta.”

“Thanks for your help.” I give her a grateful smile, then turn to accept the hand Canon Holt extends. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Holt.”

“Please call me Canon. Thanks for taking time to chat.” He nods to the other guy. “I hope you don’t mind my producing partner, Evan Bancroft, sitting in.”

“Of course not,” I say, shaking Evan’s hand, too. “Nice meeting you.”

Side by side, the two men cut an impressive picture. Canon—brown-skinned, broad-chested, and just over six feet tall—wears a sports jacket with a white T-shirt and dark jeans. He has a reputation for being austere and hard to read, and his impassive expression seems to confirm it. Matching Canon in height and breadth, Evan looks like the quintessential Southern California boy, his bronze- and gold-streaked hair falling in those waves only achieved with an expensive haircut. He has a charming smile that says he’s trying to be one of the guys, but he can’t disguise the aura of wealth and privilege he wears as easily as his black V-neck sweater and flawlessly tailored slacks.

“You guys haven’t ordered anything yet?” Arietta asks once the three of us are seated.

“We thought we’d wait for our guest,” Evan replies. “Have you eaten here before, Verity?”

“No.” I pick up one of the glossy menus and open it, overwhelmed by the number of options. “Wow. This menu feels like a test I should have studied for.”

“I recommend the prawns to start,” Arietta suggests, smiling at me warmly.

“That sounds great.” I set the menu down, needing a moment to settle myself for this conversation and not really caring what we eat.

“Let’s add one of those iceberg wedges, too.” Evan looks at me. “To drink, Verity?”

“Water’s fine.” I hide my hands under the table and twist my thumb ring round and round, my heart racing while I wait for the real conversation to begin.

“I have to go,” Arietta says. “But I’ll put in an order for the starters and send over your server.”

She only makes it a few steps before turning around and heading back to our table. She reaches for the pen sitting beside a notepad in front of Canon. I’m shocked when she grabs my hand and writes her name and number in my palm.

“Call me,” she whispers, and winks before walking back off, that glorious ass bidding me a fond farewell.

An awkward bubble of silence hovers over the table for about five seconds before Evan pops it with a deep laugh. Canon’s lips twitch and he gives in, adding his rumbling chuckle to his partner’s amusement. My face heats, but I clear my throat and manage to laugh along.

“Wow,” Evan says, hooking one elbow over the back of his seat. “It’s not awkward at all when your sister hits on your business associate.”

“Don’t act like it’s the first time.” Canon reaches for his water, a small smile still curving his lips. It’s nice to see a crack in his famously inscrutable mask.

“Damn.” I feign disappointment. “And here I was feeling special.”

That breaks the ice, so we laugh and spend the next few minutes studying the menu to decide what else we’ll order once the server comes. I use the time to gather my thoughts. Sheila, my agent, didn’t have much information on what Canon wanted to meet about, but who cares? A director of Canon’s caliber reaches out, you take the meeting. We’ve put in our orders and are waiting for the food to come when Canon broaches the subject.

“So, Verity,” Canon says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, settling his chin on steepled hands. “I guess you’re wondering why we wanted to meet with you.”

“Dying of curiosity, since you asked,” I say, making no attempt to hide my eagerness.

Canon smiles and nods. “Evan and I, like everyone else in town, have been very impressed with your work over the last few years.”

“Congrats again,” Evan says, “on the Golden Globe. That was one of the best scripts I’ve read in years.”

“Thank you.” I make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders, which have slowly been creeping up to my ears the more nervous I’ve become.

“Have you ever heard of Dessi Blue?” Canon asks, watching me closely.

The question comes from left field, but my passion and encyclopedic knowledge of the Harlem Renaissance kick in.

“Of course,” I reply, feeling more at ease than I have since I entered the restaurant. “I did a ton of research on the Harlem Renaissance for my thesis. Dessi is the stage name for Odessa Johnson, a fantastic singer in the thirties and beyond. She moved to Harlem during the Great Migration. Her people were from Alabama, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yup.” Canon nods, a grin tipping one side of his mouth. “Her parents actually moved back, but she stayed in New York.”

“Right.” I pick up where he left off. “She worked at the Savoy for a bit, where she met Cal Hampton, a trumpet player who famously dragged her onstage one night at the Radium Club to sing impromptu with his band. The rest, as they say, is history. She ended up going on the road with him, fell in love, married, and took Europe by storm.”

“So much of her career was spent abroad,” Canon interjects, “because she could never have made as much money or garnered as much respect here in the States. They stayed through the Second World War and settled in Paris with their daughter, Katherine, into the late fifties, early sixties.”

“Yeah,” Evan pipes in. “We’ve actually spoken with their daughter. Kitty’s great.”

My pulse pounds at my temples, excitement and adrenaline flooding my nervous system. I don’t want to presume, but why would Canon Holt be asking me about a relatively obscure historical figure if he didn’t have a project in mind about her?

“It’s a remarkable, uniquely American—uniquely African American, to be more precise—story,” Canon says. “We plan to tell it and wondered if you want to help us do it right.”

I can’t even play it off. My hands fly to my mouth and I’m pretty sure I squeak like a little mouse coveting a block of cheese.

“Are you for real?” I gasp. “You’re making a movie about Dessi Blue?”

“We are.” An open grin transforms Canon’s face, his excitement for the endeavor palpable. “I’m putting our team together now, and you’re the first writer I thought of.”

“I am?” I press a hand to my chest. “Thank you. I’m so flattered.”

“We think you’re uniquely qualified to write Dessi’s story,” Evan says.

“I agree,” I say, smiling to take some of the cockiness out of my statement. “But why do you think so?”

“Obviously you have an incredible background, graduating from USC film.” Canon extends a fist to bump. “Go, Trojans.”

“Go, Trojans.” I smile and return the bump, recalling Canon also attended USC’s film school. “Took forever, but I finally finished after working in the industry for years. I was only a few credits shy of graduating when I moved out here to LA, so I figured why not?”

“For sure,” Canon says. “But you also spent a year at Finley, right?”

I’m not sure how to respond. My time at Finley, though brief, was extremely formative for me as a writer. As a person.

Had it not been for all the drama in my junior year, I would have gladly finished my degree at the Georgia HBCU. However, that year was also one of the most painful of my life, as confusing as it was illuminating.

“Um, yeah,” I reply into the expectant silence. “Actually, I wasn’t there even a full year. Really only a semester and a half.”

The server brings out our entrées, so I endure the few moments it takes to get our meals served and replenish drinks. Back on edge at the mention of Finley, I bounce my foot under the table, nerves strung tight.

Canon and Evan take first bites of their meals, so I force myself to eat, though the salad may as well be glue I’m so distracted by the turn the conversation has taken.

“I’m surprised you even heard about Finley,” I say as casually as I can between bites. “It’s such a fantastic place, but I was there so briefly.”

I leave room for Canon to elaborate on why he brought it up, but he shifts gears.

“One of the reasons I see you as uniquely qualified to write Dessi’s story,” Canon says, “is your double major in film and African American history. I’ve seen a few interviews where you discussed the Harlem Renaissance specifically, and your passion for the era really came through.”

“Hmmm,” I grunt neutrally, and take another bite of my salad, letting him lead where we go next.

“There’s no doubt in my mind I’m supposed to direct this film,” Canon says. “I’d never heard of Dessi until I was in Alabama a few years ago doing research for a documentary and saw a sign on the road that read Dessi Blue Was Born Here. That sent me down a rabbit hole.”

Canon puts his fork down and leans back in his seat, giving the conversation his full attention. “I know I’m supposed to direct this biopic, but I also know a Black woman should write it.”

I can’t hold back my smile because not all male directors recognize the importance of a female gaze even with stories so uniquely a woman’s.

“That’s pretty amazing,” I say. “That you want to protect her legacy that way.”

“And I’m not looking for someone who’ll deliver the script and then disappear until the premiere,” Canon goes on, not bothering to acknowledge my praise. “If you accept the project, I’d want you deeply involved. I’d want you on set to consult and be accessible for rewrites, revisions. You’d help me shape it the whole time.”

This kind of opportunity comes along maybe once or twice in a lifetime. It starts to sink in that this could be a real turning point in my career. The dramedy I won the Golden Globe for would be dwarfed by a project of this scope. My fingers go numb I’m clenching my fists so tightly in my lap.

“We honestly think you’re perfect for this script,” Evan adds.

“Thank you very much.” I rest my chin in my hand. “This sounds amazing. I don’t know if you’re waiting to formally offer, but it’ll be an immediate yes.”

“You don’t need to talk to your agent first?” Canon queries.

“She’ll be in touch to hammer out the details, but I’d fire any agent who told me to turn this down.”

“Well, we can work out the specifics.” Canon smiles, obviously pleased. “But I’m glad you’re at least interested in taking the next steps.”

After another thirty minutes discussing the project, we stand and exit the restaurant. I’m riding the elevator down with Evan and Canon, and the air is alive with possibilities.

“Our biggest challenge now,” Canon says, his good mood souring into a frown, “is finding the lead actress.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Don’t even ask how many auditions and reels and actresses we’ve already seen.”

“And none of them have been right.” Canon’s jaw juts at a stubborn angle, his eyes fixed on the lit descending numbers as we travel to The V’s lobby. “I’ll know her when I see her.”

“I mean, it’s a huge role,” I say. “You gotta be sure to cast the right person.”

“The way Canon acts,” Evan grumbles, “you’d think this woman doesn’t even exist.”

“Oh, she exists,” Canon counters. “I just haven’t met her yet.”

“At least we know who’s doing the score.” Evan gestures for me to walk ahead of him when the elevator doors open. “He and Canon go way back. With something like this, the music is almost as important as the script itself.”

“He’ll be a pain in my ass,” Canon complains even as he yields a lopsided grin. “But there’s no one better.”

“That’s exciting.” I smile up at them, the wind at my back and hopes soaring as we walk through The V’s tastefully decorated lobby. “Who’s doing the music?”

“I think you know him,” Canon says. “He was actually the one who mentioned you attended Finley together. Wright Bellamy, but you probably knew him as Monk.”

I trip over my feet, but manage to catch myself with a hand against the wall before I hit the marble floor.

“You okay?” Evan asks, lightly grasping my elbow for support.

“Yeah.” I paste on some facsimile of a smile. “I’m great.”

Besides the fact that the universe hates me.

Despite the heat of the day, I shiver at the memory of my brief time at Finley. There was so much promise when I first arrived on campus. It was supposed to be a place where I could remake myself.

Instead it’s where I broke.

Monk broke me.

Wait, that’s not fair.

We broke each other.

Even after all these years, I’m still not sure I’ve picked up all the pieces.

I always suspected God has favorites, but watching Wright Bellamy perform onstage, now I know for sure.

How else do you explain a man who looks like that—his face a landscape of sculpted bones and slumberous eyes and a mouth made for sin—but who plays the piano like God Himself anointed those hands?

“If I were into guys,” my girlfriend, Petra, says, stealing my margarita and taking a sip, “I’d hit that.”

I laugh a little breathlessly, accepting my drink when she passes it back to me, and letting my eyes drift to the stage. In the dimness of the club, the brightest thing in the whole room is the pool of light cast over Wright, gilding him in shades of copper and dark gold. Leanly muscled, he has wide shoulders and a strong chest. The tapered elegance of his fingers moving deftly across the piano comes as a surprise—a touch so light it seems to barely skim the keys.

Is that how he touches a lover?

“I heard he was some kind of prodigy as a kid,” our friend Ezekiel whispers, jarring me from my wandering thoughts. “Now they say he’s the best musician to come through here in decades.”

I pull my glance from the stage and give Ezekiel my full attention. “He attends Finley?”

“Yeah, a senior,” Petra says, stealing a French fry from my plate. “But he’s already got early acceptance into Juilliard’s grad program.”

“Okay, Miss I Ain’t Hungry.” I slap her hand playfully, but then feed her another fry dripping with ketchup.

“I wasn’t hungry.” Petra grins and chews. “Till I saw your plate. You make everything look better. Especially that dress you rocking tonight. Damn, baby.”

Her eyes hungrily rake my breasts, fully covered with deceptive modesty since I’m not wearing a bra, and my nipples pique through the thin silk of my dress in the club’s air-conditioning.

“Can’t wait to get you home,” she says, her doe-brown eyes heating.

“I’mma hold you to it.” I nod to the margarita she’s sipping on, her third. “You know how you get after a few of those. Watch. I’ll be putting your ass to bed and you’ll be all talk.”

“Oh, I’ll stay up for you,” she says, leaning in and nibbling my ear.

“We still partying at your place tomorrow?” Gillian, Ezekiel’s girlfriend, asks, eyeing Petra over the rim of her martini.

“I’m down.” Petra grabs another fry and looks at me. “You want to, baby?”

“Why not?” I shrug and laugh without humor. “Not like I have a project due Monday or anything.”

“Still having trouble with the screenplay?” Ezekiel asks.

“Understatement.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “I thought I had it, but then all my inspiration dried up and I’m back to square one.”

“Bet I can inspire you,” Petra whispers in my ear, her hand under the table sliding over my knee and brushing inside my thigh.

My breath hitches and I turn to capture her lips in a light kiss. Everything with Petra is light. We both prefer it that way for now. She’s the best lover I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had many, but of the guys and girls I’ve let this close, she’s topped them all.

“You two are disgustingly sweet,” Ezekiel complains with a grin that turns salacious. “Let me know when we can get in on all that sugar.”

Petra slants a look at me that holds a question. It’s not the first time Ezekiel and Gillian have hinted they’d like to swap or do a threesome, foursome… some-some. Petra doesn’t do monogamy. I knew that from the beginning. She was one of the first people I met when I transferred to Finley at the start of the semester two months ago. The attraction was instant, and it only took her a week to get me in her bed, which quickly became a regular occurrence. When we decided to take it beyond just fucking, she immediately clarified she still didn’t want monogamy, and I said I understood. The first time I showed up unannounced, though, and passed a girl from my psych class leaving Petra’s apartment with a ring of fresh hickeys on her neck, I cried. We decided then to discuss other partners and agree before we slept with someone else. That helped ease me into an arrangement I’d never thought I would allow, much less enjoy. College is where you figure a lot of things out about yourself, and I’m not sure I’ll always want an open relationship, but for now, this one suits me. In our time together, I’ve never been tempted to try a threesome, though.

Gillian and Ezekiel aren’t changing my mind.

When I give a tiny shake of my head to Petra’s unspoken question, she chuckles and squeezes my knee.

Onstage, Wright Bellamy shifts into a jazz number and we, like the rest of the room, fall silent. When I study my friends, their expressions are as rapt as everyone else’s. Wright pours the song out like honey, dripping, clinging to the air, ensorcelling the crowd until the last note.

“So you guys know him?” I ask, dragging my eyes from the stage and back to the table as the crowd applauds.

Petra pauses, one of my fries poised at her lips, her gaze speculative. “Yeah. Finley’s not a big college. I met him when we were freshmen, so I’ve known him four years, though we don’t see each other much anymore. All the girls were losing their minds over him soon as he hit the campus.”

If he was anywhere near as fine then as he is now, I can see why.

“Not all the girls,” I tease, brushing that thought aside to lean over and settle my mouth over hers.

“Well, the ones who like dick.” She smiles into our kiss. “Not me, no.”

“We had a few classes together sophomore year,” Gillian says around a bite of her burger. “He’s cool. Kind of intense sometimes, but cool.”

“What do you mean by intense?” I ask.

“You know how creative people are.” She shrugs and washes her food down with a gulp of beer.

“No,” Petra says wryly. “Verity would have no idea about those creative types, being a film major and all.”

“Oh. Right.” Gillian presses the back of her hand to her mouth to catch a giggle. “Well, you’re not like that, Verity. You’re almost… I don’t know, shy.”

“I wasn’t even sure you talked the first few times we hung out,” Ezekiel adds. “I told Petra, ‘That mute girl fine as hell.’”

“Fuck you, Zeke,” I laugh with an eye roll for good measure. I’m not shy exactly, but it does take a minute for me to open up around new people.

“It’s them quiet ones you gotta watch,” Ezekiel says with a playful leer and a wink.

“Anyway,” Gillian continues. “The guy’s like… big-personality vibes. He’s not over the top, but always draws a crowd.”

That prompts another question, but before I can ask it, the words melt on my tongue as Wright’s voice winds through the room, so deep and rich it’s like a physical presence and sends an actual shiver down my spine.

He sings, too? It should be a crime to have that voice and those hands.

And that face. And that body. And that charisma that seems to effortlessly command the entire room from behind a piano in a circle of light.

“I’mma sing a little Anita Baker,” he says, slanting a grin over the crowd. “Some Luther. Remember back in the day, Sunday night, listening to the quiet storm on the radio?”

People in the crowd snap and clap their approval.

“What y’all know ’bout quiet storm?” He turns up the wattage on his smile, his deep voice rolling through the packed club. I couldn’t look away if someone paid me to.

He ends the set with “As” by Stevie Wonder. His voice, reaching for the high notes and rasping over the lower ones, raises goose bumps all over my body. I’ll never hear this song the same again. He’s stolen it. Claimed it—the haunting notes captured in this small, crowded club on a night when I was completely unsuspecting. Unaware that a man like this would arrest my attention so completely with dark mysterious eyes and a piano bent to his will.

The last note dies and his eyes seem to caress each face in the crowd, but it feels like something he’s practiced, cultivated for performances to make you feel you’re the only one in the room.

But then his stare falls on me.

And stays.

His fingers don’t falter over the melody he’s coaxing from the piano, but even as his hands glide over the keys, he seems to still, a new alertness cracking his studied expression. I should look away because the longer his eyes rest on my face, the warmer my cheeks heat. I swallow with difficulty, my throat tightening and my mouth going dry. Without looking away, I reach for my margarita, breaking the strange spell when my hand hits the glass and knocks it over.

“Shit,” I mutter, hastily grabbing a napkin to mop up the liquid soaking our table.

“You okay?” Petra grabs a few napkins to help clean up the mess I’ve made.

“Yeah, I’m good. Not paying attention.”

Or paying too much attention to the man onstage. Wright has moved on, the practiced charm back in place and his eyes elsewhere. I should be relieved, but it feels a little cold without the heat of that stare.

“You wanna meet him?” Petra asks with a knowing smirk.

“Who?” I squeeze a soggy napkin and toss it onto the table. “Me? Meet… huh?”

“You don’t have to hide it.” Petra shakes her head, setting the Kool-Aid–pink tips of her locs dancing across the sleek muscles of her arms and shoulders. “I know you.”

“I don’t need to meet him.”

“You know it wouldn’t bother me if you met him,” she whispers. “And did more if you want.”

I release a slow, measured breath, hoping to regulate the pounding of my heart.

“I don’t need to meet him,” I repeat, injecting firmness into my voice.

Yes, I’ve had a night or two with someone else, a casual hookup, but some instinct warns me nothing with that man onstage would be casual. There is an intensity to him that I don’t want in my relationships. Petra has been exactly what I’ve needed transitioning from USC to Finley for my junior year. A committed relationship, but not restrictive. If we broke it off today, neither of us would be devastated. That’s the other thing I don’t do in relationships. Devastation.

I’ve seen enough of that firsthand.

Wright Bellamy flashes a white smile and leans into the mic. “Thank you all for listening. I’m Wright Bellamy. I won’t be here all week.” He pauses for the crowd’s light laugher. “But I will be back before the semester is over.”

He briefly meets my eyes, his smile flattening a little on his full lips.

“Y’all have a good night,” he says, shifting his gaze and pushing the mic away.

“Let’s go say hello.” Petra stands and extends her hand to grab mine and drag me to my feet. “He’s gonna be a famous musician someday and you’ll regret not meeting him when he was nobody.”

That man has never been nobody—not a day in his life.

I reluctantly follow my friends to where a small crowd has gathered around Wright. He’s seated on the lip of the stage, at ease, long legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees. Some girl with a honey-blond faux hawk is practically preening, fawning over him, and he’s laughing at whatever she said, throwing his head back and exposing the strong column of his throat.

When we reach him, Petra subtly pushes past the people still ringing the stage, gripping my hand and pulling me behind her. The closer we get, the more my stomach lurches and my breath shortens, like I’m approaching a cliff with someone’s hand at my back, poised to shove me over its edge.

Then I’m right in front of him. Our gazes tangle, and the air charges around us. If my hair wasn’t teased tonight into natural curls, tendrils would probably lift and stand on end, infused with static electricity. That’s how powerful of a shock it is to my system being so suddenly close to him. He was speaking to the blonde, but stops mid-sentence, his gaze shifting from my face to my hand gripping Petra’s and back.

“Wright,” Petra says, her smile genuine. “I ain’t seen you in a hot minute. Where you been?”

“What’s up, P?” They fist-pound, and he aims his smile at her. “I been around. I’m interning at a studio off campus. Don’t have many classes this year, so I’m rarely on the yard.”

“I didn’t know you were playing tonight,” Petra says. “Hard to believe you’ve gotten even better. I told my girlfriend she needs to meet you before you on the Grammys or some shit.”

“Hey, that’s the dream.” His eyes drag over to me. “It could happen.”

Everyone laughs, and I pull my lips into a waxen curve, too unreasonably nervous to rouse much amusement.

“Wright Bellamy, by the way,” he says, extending his hand to me.

“Um, Verity Hill.”

I shake his hand with my free one, and I swear it feels like lightning strikes between our palms. I draw a sharp breath, my eyes snapping to his face. He stares at our joined hands, brows lifting before he releases me. I rub my palm along the length of my thigh, hoping to chase away the sensation so strong it’s like the spark from a flame.

“Nice to meet you, Verity.” His voice—dark and rich and smooth—glides across my nerve endings. I’ve never experienced a bodily response this visceral, like it’s a living thing curling up beneath my skin and panting at my neck.

“Great set, Monk,” a server calls as they walk by, carrying a tray of empty glasses.

“Thanks, Chuck,” Wright answers, and gives a quick salute. “See you next time.”

“Monk?” I ask before I think better of it.