Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
He kisses me like he owns all the time in the world, hands exploring with the same careful attention he gives his guitar. When I reach for him, he catches my wrist gently.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want to stop thinking.” The admission scrapes out rougher than intended. “I want to forget everything except this.”
“Just this?”
“Just this.”
He understands what I’m not saying—that this isn’t about promises or futures or anything beyond the immediate need for connection. This is about two people who found something unexpected in each other’s music and want to explore what else they might discover.
When he moves over me, settling between my thighs, something loosens in my chest that I didn’t realize was locked tight. His body against mine, inside me, creates a rhythm that matches the harmony we found at the piano. Like we’re continuing the same conversation in a different language.
I lose myself in the movement, in the way he responds to every sound I make. When release builds in my core, spreading outward through my limbs, I don’t think about consequences or complications. I just let it happen.
Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like sleep and possibility. His arm curves around my waist, fingers tracing patterns on my hip that resemble music notation.
“I needed that.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Good.”
“Not good. Honest.” I turn to face him, studying the way afternoon light plays across his features. “I don’t want you to think this means anything more than what it was.”
Something flickers across his expression—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. “What was it?”
“Two people who got caught up in the moment.”
“Is that what you want it to be?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
“It’s what it needs to be.”
He nods slowly, gets up and gives me a fine view of his very nice ass, and disappears into the other room, leaving me there to wonder if I just made another mistake.
darian
. . .
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter where I left it after making coffee that sits untouched. The apartment sits quiet, sheets still tangled from earlier. Rye was gone when I came back from the bathroom, leaving nothing but the impression of her body in my mattress and questions she’s not interested in answering.
The text is from Zara: Family dinner. Levi’s grilling. Stormy’s making her famous mac and cheese. Come hungry and prepared to explain why you’ve been avoiding us.
Three weeks in Nashville, and I haven’t seen my sister once. We’ve texted, sure, but I’ve dodged her invitations to come out to the ranch.
I haven’t been avoiding anyone.
Her response comes immediately: Bullshit. Get your ass out here. The girls miss their uncle.
The girls. Stormy at sixteen thinks she knows everything about everything. Willow at twelve sees through adult lies with uncomfortable precision. And baby Poppy, who doesn’t care about my emotional baggage and just wants to be held and give slobbery kisses.
I’ll be there.
Good. And Darian? Whatever’s eating at you, bring it. We’ll figure it out together.
I set the phone down and dump the cold coffee into the sink, then grab my keys, noticing Rye’s sweater is sitting on my chair. I could take it over to her, but then that might embarrass her. I pick it up, and inhale her floral perfume. Memories from earlier flash through my mind. No, there’s no way I can walk into The Songbird and hand it to her. She’d hate me forever. I set it down and look up the venue and press the number. The phone rings six or seven times. I’m about the hang up when the line clicks on.
“Songbird.”
“Hey, is Rye there?”
“Nah, she’s out. Can I help you?”
“This is Darian Mercer. I’m trying to get a hold of her.”
There’s a laugh on the other end. “Here’s her number. Call her.” Jovie, at least that’s who I’m assuming is on the other end, rattles off Rye’s number. I quickly type it out and save it in my phone.
Calling would be nice, but the thought of doing so gives me anxiety. I text her instead.
Hope you’re okay. Your sweater is still here if you want it back.
Rye: Keep it.
Ouch, that stings. I shake my head and immediately start typing an apology, erasing, and then typing: Rye, what we did—
But I can’t bring myself to say it was a mistake.
I don’t have to because she does it for me.
Rye: Was a mistake.
My mouth opens in shock as my heart hammers in my chest. I shake my head and type back: If you say so.
I grab my keys, Martin, and head for the parking lot. She didn’t even ask how I got her number. That’s how much she hates me.
The drive to Levi’s ranch stretches forty-five minutes through countryside that still surprises me with its rolling green beauty. Nothing like the stark desert around Los Angeles or the concrete sprawl that swallowed most of my twenties.