Page 10 of His Muse

It would be such a Carmen thing to do—hallucinate a gorgeous man following me around. Mom always used to say I have an overactive imagination.

“Okay.” My pen taps against the notepad on my breakfast counter, and I scowl at the paper like it’s my worst enemy. Writing was never my strong suit. “Okay. Um. Here we go.”

I write the eternal words:Hi, Tudor.

God, this feels stupid. Because if he’s not out there then I’m going crazy, and if heisout there, he’ll probably take one look at the world’s most underwhelming note and walk the other way. Also, has my handwriting always been this loopy and weird?

Definitely overthinking it. I snatch the note off the breakfast bar and march across the living room. My parents’ old furnishings are still here, judging me silently, all faded bohemian comfort, and Mom’s fringed pink lamp that she bought at a flea market stares at me as if to say:Seriously? That’s your note?

The wind’s rough out on the deck, snatching at the paper in my hand, so I hop down the steps and pluck a heavy pebble from the beach. Climb back up and pin my note to the cracked floorboards.

I dust my hands on my jeans. Tuck my wind-blown hair behind my ears, then go back inside to wait.

There’s no knock in the night, but there are two new words on my note the next morning. Two beautiful, perfect words.

Hello, Carmen.

* * *

When Tudor Sinclair slides into a booth at The Cozy Kelp, I fumble my stack of menus so badly I nearly drop them.

“Easy,” Marnie says, flicking my hip with a dish towel as I pass her hostess stand. “I know he’s cute, but he’s still a customer.”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Sure. Well, I’ll take his booth,” I mumble before weaving between the tables and chairs. Each step I take toward the songwriter, my hands get damper where I clutch the menus, and when I reach him my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.

He’s so out of place. This diner is all faded seaside chic and family-friendly wipe-down menus. Decorative fishing nets on the walls are strung with plastic starfish and clams; a ship’s wheel hangs above the kitchen doorway and there are pirate themed coloring sheets for the kids.

Tudor Sinclair, on the other hand, is raw energy wrapped in a sculpted male body. He’s vivid ink and smoky eyes and a shirt that’s blacker than pitch, and half the diners keep glancing over, losing the thread of their conversations as they stare at him. He’s other-worldly.

Seriously.

Why me?

“Uh.” My throat is so tight when I finally speak, and I cough weakly. “Hey.”

Tudor stares at me, his familiar gaze boring into my eyes. I’m pinned in place, breathing hard and trembling in my apron.

After a long pause, I remember why I’m here and hold out a shaky menu.

Tudor’s mouth quirks as he takes it. “Thank you.”

There. The first words we’ve ever exchanged.Heyandthank you.Dramatic stuff. Except we watched each other all summer long, and now he’s in my hometown, running his appreciative gaze over my Cozy Kelp apron, so we clearly understand each other onsomelevel.

Lord, I hope we understand each other.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

Tudor’s eyes glitter. “I’m not here to eat, Carmen.”

Yeesh. I steal a glance at Marnie, and she raises an eyebrow from over at the hostess stand.

“Well, you’ll need to order something if you want to stay,” I say, channeling my inner hardass. I mean, he’s a famous songwriter. He’s good for it. “The coffee isn’t bad—”

“Then a coffee, please.” Tudor places the menu down and slides it back toward me with two fingers. He’s still staring at me hungrily, like he wants to absorb my essence by sight alone. “And five minutes of your time.”

Gah! “I’m on break soon, but I need to clear some tables first.”

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