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Hm, twelve grand versus one night with Van Claybourne?
But for some strange reason, there was no decision to make because she just didn’t feel attraction. It was like walking into the gym and seeing a bunch of strong, powerful physiques. She could appreciate the men’s bodies, but she didn’t get aroused.
Except this one belongs to Van.
And yet…nothing.
How weird is that?
“Okay, rock star. Let’s get this concoction going and soothe those vocal cords.” They had an electric kettle, so she filled it with water and found a big jar of honey and a lemon. When she opened the cabinet to find another mug, she noticed a large gift box. “Oh, wait. Is this it?” She started to pull it down when he stepped in front of her, his bare, warm chest brushing over her arm.
She stopped what she was doing, curious to see if she felt a spark…but she felt nothing. Not even a single goosebump.
Weird.
“That’s not tea.” He tried to push the box back, but it tipped, and she caught a glimpse of photographs.
“Did you take those?”
He didn’t answer, and for the first time, he looked uncomfortable.
Why would he be embarrassed to have an outlet like that? The water started to boil, so she poured honey into the mug. “I didn’t think you’d have much downtime during a tour.”
“We don’t.” His tone had her casting him a glance over her shoulder. He seemed…down?
And then she remembered the fabulous wildlife photographs on his walls at home. “I think it’s cool that you have so many artistic outlets. Have you ever shown your work?”
“Nope.” He closed the box and shut the cabinet.
“So, it’s just fun for you. I have a friend who’s a full-time writer, and she knits. I’m talking miles of scarves she never wears. But she says it gets her mind off the story, and that’s when the magic happens, when she’s not thinking. Same for you?”
He bristled with unease. “Yeah. Sure.”
Quit talking about it. It’s none of your business. “Maybe when you retire, you can show in galleries.”
“Why would I retire?” He tried to keep his persona in place, but she could hear just a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “I’m living the dream.” His flat tone suggested otherwise.
The thing is…he’s not walking away. He’s not changing the subject.
Did he want to talk about it? Maybe he needed an outsider to just listen. “Okay, so when you do finally retire, what will you do?”
“Not a damn thing.” He chuckled without much joy.
“Oh, God, I’m so not like that. I’m always doing something.”
“Me, too.” He gave a suggestive shrug of his eyebrows, but his attempt to play the role of debauched rocker wasn’t working.
“My mom used to say that everyone needs to find her good work. I haven’t found mine.” Poetry didn’t count. “But I’ll die trying.”
“What was her good work?”
Pain blew through her like a gust of cold wind. You’d think after twelve years, I’d be over her loss. “Me.”
“She was a stay-at-home mom?”
Della nodded. “And a damn good one.” She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “I miss her every day.” She thought back to his first album. “In fact, it’s your lyrics—” Right then, it struck her. “Oh, my God, don’t tell me the cover of Bucket of Blue is your art?”
Color seeped into his cheeks.
