Page 11 of His Muse

Tudor nods. “I’ll wait.”

I hurry away, scrubbing my damp palms on my apron. Of course he’ll wait. A man doesn’t stare at a girl all summer, follow her back to her hometown, then come to her workplace only to refuse to wait for a few minutes.

Iknowthat, and yet I keep stealing nervous glances at Tudor’s booth, watching him sip from his coffee as I rush between tables. My hands are shaking so badly the plates keep clattering together, but the lunchtime chatter and the hum of local radio hide my sins.

He won’t leave, will he? Oh, god. We’re so close.

Ireallydon’t want him to leave.

When I sink down in the booth beside him ten minutes later, I’m flustered and blushing. My black hair is scraped back in a short ponytail, and damp hairs curl against my neck.

“Nice apron.” Tudor slides along to give me more space.

I resist the urge to chase after him, gripping the edge of the table instead. “Um, thanks. Grease-stained blue is my color.”

There’s a beat. A long stretch of silence, while a bubble of anxiety swells in my chest and a headache pounds in my temples. What if we don’t have anything to say to each other? What if after all this, we don’t click and this was all for nothing?

What if he finds me boring?

Oh god, so manywhat ifs.

“I saw your note.”

I swallow hard and nod. “I saw yours.”

We lapse into silence again. I wrack my brain for something,anythingto say, but I can’t think with the songwriter this close.

He smells really good. Like soap and salt and something woodsy.

Tudor’s eyes are trained on my hands. He frowns as my knuckles go pale, the table creaking from where I’m clutching it so hard, and why am I being so weird? I’ve thought about this moment so many times in my head, but now I’m ruining everything.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Tudor says quietly. Hearing his voice in real life is such a rush, even when he’s saying the exact last thing I want to hear. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? The note last night and the music. You want me to leave?”

I blink at him, baffled. Um, no. I do not want that. Shaking my head slowly, I say: “I left the window open for you. I wanted you to come inside.”

Tudor’s muscled chest rises beneath his shirt, then falls on a slow exhale. He looks shocked. He looks bowled over.

Okay. Be brave.

Lips pressed together, I scoot along the bench, right up to his side. I don’t stop until our bodies are pressed together, the heat bleeding through our clothes, and his arm brushes the back of my neck.

Finally.My heart gives a big thump, and for the first time since coming home, that heavy, lonely feeling recedes.

“Carmen,” Tudor says quietly, and he’s still frowning at my hands clenched in my lap—but then he ducks his head quickly, breathing in the scent of my neck. He makes a low, soft noise, the tip of his nose tracing over my skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, so quiet that only I can hear.

Over at the hostess station, Marnie is bug-eyed.

The scrape of teeth against my neck makes me jump, and I reach out blindly, scrabbling at his thigh. It’s strong and muscled beneath his dark pants, and he twitches like he never expected my touch.

Where else was this leading? Where else could itevergo? If we circle each other silent and untouched for much longer, I’ll lose my freaking mind.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Carmen?” Tudor sounds pissed off, but not withme.He rubs his face against my neck, humming, crowding closer,closer,like he could flatten me against the leather seat of the booth and we still would be too far apart. Personally, I’m super ready for him to try. “You’re playing with fire. Do you realize that?”

“Yes.” It’s true, too. I know exactly what kind of man Tudor is: obsessive and wild. I know, and I don’t care.

No, scratch that: I know, and Iloveit.

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