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“Well, that would be because you’re not interested in anything other than yourself and how many likes your last Insta post generated.”
And now I was talking
to myself. My therapist would have a field day with this.
The bedroom door cracked open, and I immediately turned to face the window, eyes squeezed shut, hoping for an Oscar-worthy performance of Sleeping Beauty.
“I brought you some soup, and this time, you’re going to eat it.”
I didn’t say a word because I was too much of a pussy and didn’t want to face him. Not when I was lucid, anyway. The floor creaked as he crossed the room, and I held my breath.
“Echo, I know you’re awake.”
I did not say a word. Or make a noise. In fact, I was trying to exhale slowly so he wouldn’t know he was right.
“Echo. I’m not leaving until you eat. Your dad will have my ass if something happens to you.”
Debatable, but I wasn’t up to arguing. “How did you know I was awake?”
“Your breathing is different when you’re asleep.”
I frowned and turned over. “How would you know that?”
Boyd set down a steaming bowl of soup on the table beside the bed and shrugged. “I sat here for two nights until your fever broke.”
“Oh.” Sounded lame, but it was all I had. Anything sitting inside my throat died as I looked up at him. Really looked at him.
He hadn’t shaved, so there was a good amount of scruff along his jaw and chin. His hair was messy in that way a girl likes, and the faded jeans and deep navy Henley did nothing but emphasize his wide shoulders, impressive abs, and a body honed by hard work. Knowing Boyd, it wasn’t all from the gym. I knew he owned a spread in Tennessee and that he liked to work the farm on his own. At least that was what TMZ had reported.
He was big and lean and muscular and so damn masculine, it wasn’t fair. There was a reason he’d been named one of the hottest men in the US of A.
I ran a hand through the tangle of hair around my shoulders and winced. I must look awful, and I’m sure I smelled worse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered. I had no clothes with me, and I…
Shit. I knew I was going to cry.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, struggling to sit up.
He bent forward like he was going to help me, but I batted at his hands. “Don’t touch me. I got this.” My tone was sharp and ugly, and Boyd backed away, hands in the air.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” A pause. “Just eat the damn soup.”
And then he was gone.
I took a few moments to lick my wounds, and then I ate the damn soup. Which was good. Beyond good. I wondered who made it. Was Boyd dating some secret Icelandic supermodel who spent hours in his kitchen, naked, cooking up a storm while yodeling Johnny Cash?
When I was done, I set the bowl onto the table and, exhausted, fell back onto the bed. I was beyond tired, and with hot soup warming my belly, I closed my eyes and eventually fell asleep.
I must have slept for hours, because when I woke up, it was dark. I could hear Boyd in the main room playing his guitar. The same melody he’d been playing since the day before. It was beautiful. A slow ride of sexy blues that made me think of the plantation. Made me think of the watering hole. Made me think of things I didn’t want to think about. My cheeks burned, and not because I was sick.
Actually, aside from the burning cheeks, I felt a lot better.
I hopped in the shower and, after rooting around Boyd’s stuff, found a white T-shirt that I knotted at my waist and a pair of red-and-black sleep pants. I rolled up the legs and tied them as tight as I could, but they still hung on the low side, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d trip over them. Whatever. It wasn’t as if I had much choice. There was no brush that I could see, so I used my fingers to untangle my hair as best I could and then stared at the door.
I couldn’t stay in this room forever, and why should I? This wasn’t Boyd’s cabin. Besides, what the hell did I have to be nervous about? We didn’t even like each other.
I squared my shoulders and yanked open the bedroom door. The main room was warm with the fire burning, but on the dark side with only a few candles lit. Boyd was on the sofa, guitar in his lap, long elegant fingers splayed across the frets. His eyes were closed, and he had no idea I was watching him. Shadows from the fire danced across his face, the planes of his cheeks and jawline shown off to perfection. He really was beautiful, and I couldn’t stop staring. It was like being at the zoo and somehow finding yourself inside the exotic cat pen. I was too close to perfection. Too close to something dangerous, and yet I couldn’t help myself.
He started to play, and I jumped, resting my hip against one of the overstuffed plaid chairs. He was still playing the same song he’d been playing for the last day or so. Even in my semi-delirious state, I’d listened, and now I recognized it. It was a slow piece, a haunting melody that for some reason brought tears to my eyes. There was no denying the guy had that elusive something that went beyond talent and the all-important “image” record companies clamored for. Boyd Appleton possessed the ability to make people feel. But more importantly, he made them care.
