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An hour later she’d ended up drinking the better part of another bottle of wine from his extensive wine fridge.
“You look beat, Izzy.”
She traced her fingertip around the lip of the glass. “Gee, thanks.”
He crossed his arms on the table and rested his chin on his stacked arms. “Doesn’t make you any less hot.” His eyelids were heavy with a bit more than she’d had to drink. He didn’t seem overly drunk though. Just this side of sleepy and relaxed.
“You’re the one that looks like he could sleep on the table.”
“Oh, I have.”
“This does not surprise me.”
He started yawning and pressed his forehead to his arms to cover it.
“Now who looks like the tired one?”
“I think I’ve forgotten how to sleep.”
“Aww, the perpetual party boy doesn’t have an off switch?”
“Something like that.” He smiled, but it was the fake one. The easy one that was supposed to reach his eyes and yet didn’t. But he wasn’t her friend, wasn’t her lover, and surely wasn’t her problem. So why did she want to smooth back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead and ask him what was wrong?
Too much wine.
Had to be.
“Well, thanks to you, I have now had far too much wine for driving. Especially down your crazy roads.”
“Good idea. Let me show you to a room.”
She stood and gathered their glasses.
“Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”
“Aren’t you going to bed?” She looked at her watch. “Or is this too early for you?”
“Gotta do the locking up thing.”
“Ahh, right.”
She slipped her feet back into her shoes and followed him out of the kitchen and around the corner. The staircase was narrow with collages of pictures covering the wall. Landscapes in black and white, people she didn’t recognize, and instruments. So many instruments.
When they got to the top of the staircase, she lost her breath. Moonlight bathed the entire upstairs in a soft silvery white. Huge potted plants with body-sized leaves were shoved between couches and chairs that could be classified as couches. Guitar cases, various sized drums, and a case filled with tambourines were jammed around all the greenery.
She could only imagine what it would be like in the daytime. A sunroom in the middle of the upstairs. Or in this case, a moon room. A single guitar sat on one of the leather chairs. It looked like it had been through a lifetime of torture. Scrapes along the front, the fret worn through from the finish to bare wood in spots. A million stories probably lived inside of that guitar.
“Izzy?”
She turned, realizing he was already down the hall. “Sorry.”
He was in shadow, save for a sliver of moonlight that had dented the darkness to highlight his cheekbones and bearded jawline. She was all alone with him in his house. The stupidity level of this was off the charts. Even with the ridiculous level of tension that ebbed and flowed between them, she didn’t have the least bit of fear about walking down a darkened hallway to him.
What did that say about her?
Not even too much wine should make that possible.
He stood outside the third door down the hall. “Next one down is a guest bathroom.”
