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“You won’t stop staring?”
He shrugged. “I can’t.”
“Because you feel bad for me?”
“Because my driver is beautiful.”
“Oh my god,” she cried, choosing to laugh at his words, to not take them seriously, because taking them seriously would fuck her up. “You’re a terrible flirt.”
“I’m great at it, actually. But I agree to your outrageous demands. I will play at your picnic.”
“I knew you’d see it my way. Punch the new address into my phone,” she said, eyes back on the road. Her hands at ten and two. Under total control.
The highway, and the way home, and the farm and the inn, her family, her daughter, they were all to the left.
The navigation told her to turn right, away from everything familiar. Into the unknown.
And weirdly, she was excited.
Chapter Thirteen
Micah
Jesus Christ, man, you gotta tell her what you know about her.
At the very least he needed to stop pretending he didn’t know anything about her. The truth was going to come out that they’d met when they were kids and that he’d read that New York Times article and he was going to look like an asshole and she was going to be pissed that he’d lied.
The silence in the car pounded with opportunity for him to tell the fucking truth.
A little bit, you saved my life. Twice. And I’ve spent the last month looking you up on facebook and staring at that picture of you in the yellow sweater. I am consumed by you and you don’t know it.
“You comfortable?” she asked, reaching forward for the vent, turning it away from her.
“Fine,” he said.
“So, how are rehearsals going?” she asked. “Is it like riding a bike?”
“In a lot of ways, yes,” he said. “But we’ve had a lot of time off and our bass player got pretty sick, so right now it’s like riding a bike with two flat tires.”
She glanced over at him, smiling, like he was just so clever.
And that was why he didn’t tell her. Because he liked the way she looked at him.
And he really fucking liked looking at her.
She drove with both hands on the wheel, but the hem of her skirt was hiked halfway up her thigh, and he was mesmerized by the freckles on her knees.
And last night, in front of her door, he’d wanted to kiss her. Suck that fragile skin on her neck. The pretty pink bow of her upper lip. He wanted to wrap his hands in her hair, make her gasp. Stroke her until she calmed down. Until she was used to him. Until she was rising to meet his touch, turning toward him for more. He wanted to stroke her until she came, trembling under his hand.
He wanted this beautiful woman undone. Her mysteries revealed.
And if he told her that would never happen.
Jesus. I’m an asshole.
The sun was setting hard in the west and the shadows across the highway were long. Golden-hour light, and it hit her cheeks and her eyes, turning that deep green to something light and golden.
After that nap, and some coffee, maybe it was the pretty light but there was something different about her. Or maybe he was just growing used to her, seeing past the first layer of cute and a little damaged. To all that subtle strength and devious humor.
Or maybe what he was seeing was the reality of her, past what he’d built up in his head after reading that article.
It was tricky, seeing and meeting and spending time with a muse. Who didn’t know she was a muse.
She’d turned the radio to a pop station, that was playing the top requested songs of the week.
“Coming in for the first week since it’s release and going straight to the top of chart – This is Forgiveness by Band of Outlaws.”
“Hey!” She said. “That’s you!”
The steady pound of the drums. And then the bass. Like a dirge at the beginning, gathering steam and strength, until it was a late-night kitchen dance party by the end. It was going to be a blast playing that song live. He imagined every concert starting with that song only to explode into one of their big up-tempo hits, like Back Roads or Nothing Left to Lose.
This is what happens next. How we get from here to there. I could hold a grudge but it would hold me down.
He watched her as the words came through the speakers. She wouldn’t recognize this part, but the…
She suddenly turned the radio way down. “You must get tired of hearing that song,” she said. “Do you?”
There was something tweaked about her. Something ramped and he tilted his head. “You don’t like that song?” he asked.
“No,” she said but she was lying. “I love it. I love all your songs. I’m a fan.”
“But not that one. You don’t have to lie. You’re allowed not to like a song.”
