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“What?” Vivi said, concern flickering across her face.
“Nothing, I just—most people go for comfort when they’re recording.”
“Have you seen the stuff I wear? Thisiscomfort,” she said, teeth flashing as she smiled at him. She had a point.
The security guys led Remy and Vivi to an SUV via yet another secret staff-slash-famous-person hotel door then got in one of their own so they could travel to the studio separately. There was only one decent recording studio in town, Vivi explained, and it was on the other side of the city. They rode along in pleasant silence for a while, but it became awkward and strange with the driver right there within earshot—at least on the buses, they’d been able to shut the driver out of the main cabin.
“We’re nearly there, Miss Vivi,” the driver finally called back after twenty minutes of weirdness.
“You’ve been to this studio before?” Remy asked, gathering his bag.
“Nope. I just asked around last night in Portugal, and someone recommended this one,” Vivi answered, slipping her sunglasses back down and lifting her purse.
“Hm—Miss Vivi, we have a problem,” the driver said as the car turned onto a drive.
“What?” Vivi asked, frowning. She leaned forward to look through the seats then groaned. Remy pitched forward to look too.
“How’d they know?” Remy asked when he understood the nature of the “problem.” Paparazzi—it looked like the entire country’s paparazzi—were stationed outside the studio’s slim brick steps. They saw the cars coming and were already taking photos hurriedly. The sound of shutters snapping was audible even from within their car at a distance of a few yards.
The security guys cleared out of their car in one fluid movement then surrounded Remy and Vivi’s SUV. The driver slowed the car to a crawl, and the security guys walked it through the crowd, each keeping a hand on the car’s exterior as if calming a mechanical animal.
“This is a mess,” Vivi muttered.
“Should we just…not go?” Remy asked, because he felt he had to, not because that was a desirable solution.
“No, it’ll be fine. I just…I sort of didn’t want them to have a picture of us together this early. I mean, I have a boyfriend.” She said this quickly, thoughtlessly, without so much as a glance toward Remy.
Remy stiffened. Yes, she had a boyfriend. Which he knew, of course, but which he didn’t want to hear her say aloud. He finally took a breath—she waswithhim, not Noel, and that was more important, surely. “I’m just your producer,” he reminded her and simultaneously grabbed her hand where it dangled between the seats and squeezed it discreetly. It was the first time they’d touched all day—the first time they’d touched since they’d kissed in the London garden—and Remy felt like if he looked down, he’d see his skin sparkling. A smile played with the corners of Vivi’s mouth; she pressed her lips together and turned to Remy, exhaling in a soft, warm way that made him certain he knew how the breath would have felt against his neck.
“Right,” Vivi said softly, raking her thumbnail delicately across his knuckles. “Of course.”
They released hands as the SUV pulled right up to the studio’s steps, the driver rearranging it so the door they’d exit through was directly in line with the studio’s bright-blue front door. Security lined the sides; then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, they pulled the SUV door open. Shouts slammed into Remy, somehow louder even than the roar of the arenas. He was immensely grateful that, in the bright morning light, there were few flashes popping—just the noise of shutters clicking rapidly, harmonizing till they sounded like a horde of insects.
Vivi moved swiftly, accustomed to this particular dance, and Remy followed as close as he could behind her to avoid being swallowed alive. The two of them were halfway up the steps when Remy realized someone was holding the door to the studio open for them—a swarthy-looking Spanish man with gelled hair and a skinny tie. He kept his head up, and when Vivi made it to the door, he made eye contact with a few of the photographers, making certain they had a great shot of him with Vivi Swan.
“Mr. Young! Welcome!” he yelled over the photographers when Remy reached the door. He clasped Remy’s hand firmly and held it a moment longer than necessary while the photo-taking continued. Remy smiled tersely then shoved past him. One security guy ducked into the building, quickly shutting the door. Outside, the paparazzi showed no signs of dissipating, crowding the windows and shouting Vivi’s name.
“Forgive them,” Skinny Tie said with a thick accent. “You’ve never come to Madrid before. They’ve never had a chance to get your picture!”
“I’m surprised they had a chance this time, since this wasn’t an announced session,” Vivi said coolly, giving the studio owner a stern look.
“News travels here, I’m afraid—no telling how they found out!” he said, smiling too wide. “Come along, let me show you to the studio!”
It was a no-frills sort of studio, one with an assortment of instruments in one room and a separate booth for vocalists. The control room was small, made for perhaps two people rather than entire entourages of hangers-on like the ones in LA. Remy pulled his laptop from his bag and set it on the control room desk, digging through a pile of jumbled wires to plug it up to the mixer, while Vivi walked into the studio, Skinny Tie on her heels.
“Is there anything you need? We have coffee and tea and an espresso machine—”
“We’ll call down if we need anything. Thank you so much,” Vivi said warmly. It was delivered in a voice tinged with kindness and finality—a declaration that he should leave now. Skinny Tie hedged, stalling by offering to show her how to use the mics, how she could light the candles if desired, by offering to untangle all the wires so Remy didn’t have to look at them in knots. When there was nothing else he could possibly fiddle with, he finally left, reminding them he’d be just down the hall, but they’d have to crack the door to call for him or else he wouldn’t hear.
The door shut behind Skinny Tie, and the room fell into the syrupy, sweet silence of a still recording studio. Remy was in the control room, separated from Vivi by a pane of glass, but still—they were alone together, finally finally finally. Vivi turned to him and smiled a bit then knelt to get her guitar out of its case. Her Moleskine was set on top of it, slid beneath the strings.
“Anything I should know about how you like doing this?” Remy asked over the intercom, sliding the headphones onto his ears.
“Literally the only guy to ever say that to me,” Vivi replied with a snicker at her own innuendo. Her voice sounded lovely and solid over the studio mics, like something that could be tasted as well as heard. Remy’s computer screen lit his face as he opened programs and checked peripherals.
Vivi rose from her case, the guitar strapped over her shoulder; she released the instrument to pull her hair back into a ponytail then tuned it slowly, carefully. Strands of hair worked their way free from the ponytail and slipped in front of her eyes, drawing attention to the fact she bit her lip when she tuned. Remy hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s just get the base down so we have something to work off, okay? And can you play the drum parts?” Vivi asked without looking up.
