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“I listen to arrangement first.”

“That’s because you’re a musician.”

“And you’re an artist.”

I glance up.

He shrugs carefully so he doesn’t move the arm I’m working on. “You notice composition before the subject. Same thing.”

I look back down at his shoulder. “Maybe.”

For a few minutes, there’s only the buzz of the machine and the low music coming from the shop speakers.

Then Zander says, “So where does Hollow North fall?”

I already know what he’s asking.

“I’ve heard more of you now that I’ve had to listen to it.”

“And?”

I keep working long enough to make him wait. “You’re better than I expected.”

His head turns toward me. “Wow.”

I look up. “What?”

“I need a second.”

“For what?”

“To absorb the highest compliment you’ve ever given me.”

I laugh. “Don’t make me take it back.”

“You can’t. It’s already out there.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And clearly talented.”

I shake my head and return to the tattoo before he can get any more pleased with himself.

The annoying thing is, I mean it.

Hollow North is good.

Not good because Zander lives next door to me. Not good because I slept with him. Good because the songs hold together, the guitar work is smart without showing off, and there’s more going on lyrically than I expected from the guy who spends way too much time testing the limits of my patience.

I finish the line I’m working on before saying, “Your songs are more serious than you are.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It wasn’t.”

He thinks about that. “Music is different.”

“How?”