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“I had no idea.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I actually framed it and hung it on my wall. That’s how much I liked it. Why didn’t you give yourself credit? I thought it was done by a famous photographer, so I looked everywhere for a name but couldn’t find anything.”
“You framed it?”
“I totally did. It wasn’t just beautiful. It stirred up so many feelings. Van, you have a gift.” The water came to a boil, and she turned back to the counter to pour it. Slicing the lemon she said, “Is that what you do when you’re not touring? Take pictures?”
“Sure, but it’s hard to take it seriously. If we’re not touring, we’re in the studio. It’s not easy to be a rock star.”
That was the most genuine thing he’d said so far. “But you love it? Rock and roll?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She handed him his mug. “You’re a terrible liar. You know that, right?”
“I can’t remember the last time anyone bothered to ask me what I want.” He hunched a shoulder, giving her a shy grin. “But there’s a lot more at stake than what I like. A lot of people make their livelihoods from Van Claybourne.”
“This is one of those moments where I should drop something really profound to make you see the light, but I’m not a motivational speaker. I’m a girl from a small town in Arizona who fights to survive like everyone else on the planet, but there’s one thing I know for sure. My mom died when I was fourteen—”
His features tightened in surprise and compassion.
“She was a singer and had big plans to move to New York and be a Broadway star, but she got pregnant really young and decided the price of achieving her dreams would be too high for her family. She chose to be the best mom and wife she could be and then, once I went to college, she’d go back to singing.” Della pressed a hand to her aching heart. “She died two years before I graduated high school.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t have a single regret. I’ll bet she loved being your mom.”
The grief she’d thought she’d gotten over bubbled up from a deep, hidden well, and she couldn’t do much but blink back tears. “That was a nice try, buddy, but we’re talking about you.”
He grinned.
“Look, I’m not telling you to quit the band and run off to Tahiti to become a reclusive artist who cuts off his ear.”
“I think you might be mixing up artists. And I’m a photographer, not a painter.”
Smiling, she ignored him. “I’m just saying we’ve got one shot at this life. If we’re not pursuing our passions, if we’re not living our authentic lives, then I don’t know the point. And all those people who depend on the paycheck? They’ll get other jobs. Just like everybody else who loses a job. It happens every day. Plants close down, and restaurants go bankrupt. They’ll recover.”
He held her gaze, and she was positive she saw the real man for the first time. He looked vulnerable, scared, and confused. But she only caught a glimpse before the window slammed shut, and he slipped right back into his rock star persona. “Thanks for the tea…and the food for thought.” He raised his mug before sauntering back to the master bedroom.
She stood there, basking in the cloud of pheromones he’d left behind, the view of those back muscles, the broad shoulders, and the glossy hair that looked so sexily messy…
And felt nothing.
She didn’t know how it was possible, but she wasn’t attracted to Van Claybourne.
What a bummer.
Della stood at the counter, finishing her coffee and looking over the day’s to-do list to see what could be done digitally and what required her to be out and about. Somewhere between radio station visits, interviews, and soundcheck, she had to find a store that sold Throat Cure Tea. Unless…did delivery services come to buses? She didn’t see why not.
“You’re not dressed?” Van asked.
She whipped around, surprised to see him so quickly after he’d retreated to his room. He stood before her in jeans, a white T-shirt, and black Converse, his hair damp from a shower. She’d assumed there was only one bathroom on the bus, but apparently the master bedrooms had their own.
“No?” You just saw me ten minutes ago.
“Martin told me he sent you the calendar this morning.” He tipped his wrist to read the big, expensive watch wrapped around it. “We need to go. I’ve found an herbalist who’s got something she swears is even better than Throat Cure Tea.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Van Claybourne?” she teased. How had the lazy-eyed rock star turned into this sharp, powerful man-with-a-plan? “I don’t know what I put in that tea, but I should make myself a cup.” She quickly dumped out the rest of her coffee and set her mug in the sink. “Okay. Let me grab a shower, and I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
He tipped his head with a look of disbelief.
“I know. Hard to believe I can transform from this”—her hand swept the length of her pajama-clad body—“into the woman you met last night in a matter of minutes. But honestly, I was just born this way.” She breezed past him, a little worried that he was acting like a stranger. Either he was pissed at her for being nosy, or she’d somehow shamed him about not pursuing his art. She hadn’t meant to imply he was doing anything wrong.
It was just…if her mom’s death had taught her anything, it was to live every moment to its fullest. She’d have to apologize. She wasn’t trying to change him.
God, why did she have such a big mouth?
If she wasn’t careful, she might just get herself fired.
