“Holy shit,” Avah breathes.
No one else knows who Jensen is, but I can feel the questions pressing toward me. I can’t answer because his presence has nearly made me forget my own name. And I don’t know what I’d say if I could speak. How do I explain that two nights in a stranger’s arms changed everything I knew about my life as much as a cancer diagnosis did?
But explanations will have to wait, because Jensen doesn’t have eyes for anyone but me. And the part that undoes me the most is that I can’t look away either.
2
JENSEN
Sloane Winslow lookslike she’s seen a ghost, which is fairly close to the truth. Two nights with her somehow altered my DNA to the point that I’ve been walking through life for the past year feeling transparent. Only to become solid again in a Colorado town I hadn’t heard of until a week ago.
“You ran away,” I tell her. It comes out harsher than I mean, though maybe not as unjustifiably butthurt as I feel.
The six other women around the antique table stare at me with varying degrees of curiosity and confusion, a healthy dose of caution thrown in for good measure.
I don’t know or care about any of them.
I care about the woman whose blue eyes have gone wide while she grips the edge of the table like she needs the anchor. The last time I saw those eyes this close, she was tangled in hotel sheets and laughing at a joke I can’t remember because all that mattered was making her smile. Her dark hair is shorter than it was in Nashville, barely grazing her shoulders now, and she looks thinner, which makes sense based on what the couple who hosted the cancer caregiver camp last weekend told me.
God, she’s so beautiful—haunt your dreams beautiful. She’s definitely been a frequent visitor in mine.
“How did you find me?” Her steady voice is a damn miracle, because I can practically hear her heart hammering across the room. Or maybe that’s mine.
“Finding you was easy after last weekend.”
She shakes her head. “I left before?—”
“Did you think I wouldn’t see you?” I lift a brow. “In an ocean of people, I’d find you,Sloane.”
Her flinch is barely perceptible, but I notice. I can’t stop noticing—and remembering—everything about this woman. Even if all she gave me was a couple of nights and a fake name.
The other women’s gazes—her friends, I assume—snap back and forth between us. Has she told them anything about me, or was I relegated to the what happens in Nashville stays in Nashville time capsule?
The redhead with gentle green eyes clears her throat. “Are we having aJerry Maguireyou-complete-me moment right now?”
A blonde with a braid falling over one shoulder, who looks like she’d just as soon shank me as say hello, shakes her head. “If so, we missed the good part.”
“We’re not having a moment.” Sloane flicks a finger between herself and me. “And y’all—” She loops that same finger around the table. “—didn’t miss anything.” Her gaze lands back on me with icy composure. “We’re in the middle of a meeting, Jensen.”
“I’ll wait,” I answer, trying not to reveal what hearing her speak my name does to me. More memories—her calling it out in pleasure—assault my senses, and I grab hold of the doorframe with the same intensity she was holding onto the table moments earlier. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
That’s partially true. After three days of internet digging into the woman glaring at me, I cleared my schedule for the foreseeable future. And the store out front filled in so many of the details I didn’t have about her life without her needing to say a word.
Cover to Cover, the name lettered in gold across the front window, shelves running floor to ceiling and the scent of lavender layered on top of the scent of books. It’s a place that invites you in and encourages you to stay a while with mismatched chairs, worn soft from use, tucked into various corners. I knew from the second I walked in that it all belonged to her, and my urge to stay should be frightening.
I pictured this kind of life for her on the nights I let myself picture anything at all.
My phone has four missed calls from the record label and probably double that amount in unread texts. But I could give two shits about the people trying to find me. I’m exactly where I need to be.
The silence holds for a beat while Sloane’s chest rises and falls, her shuddery breaths in stark contrast to her steady tone. I can see her attempting to work out how to make me disappear with the least amount of fuss.
I’m all about fucking fuss at the moment.
The blonde who was with Sloane in the mountains—Avah Harris, according to the chatty cancer camp couple—pushes back her chair. “Dude, if she says go away, you need to get going.” Her gaze is razor-sharp, which I admire even if I wish she weren’t looking to cut me. “Go strum your guitar somewhere else.”
“What guitar?” another of the women, this one with dark hair and just as much attitude, asks. “What’s going on, you guys?”
“I’ll wait,” I say again, my voice even. The protective vibe of these women tells me Sloane has people who love her, and I’m not interested in picking a fight with any of them.
