Page 6 of His Muse

The wind buffets the side of my parents’ beach house. It’s rough out there today, the waves steel gray and choppy.

Tudor’s handsome face stares back at me from the screen.

Jeez. I gnaw on my bottom lip, heat creeping over my cheeks. It’s just a photo, but even that is enough to make my heart stutter. Smoky gray eyes bore into me, seeing right to my freakingsoul, and his mop of dark curls is wild. In this shot, Tudor’s wearing the same kind of outfit he wore all summer: a white button-down shirt with a narrow indigo tie, his shirtsleeves rolled to display the ink wrapped around his forearms.

I love the way he dresses. And I love those tattoos. Does he have more under his clothes? Probably, right?

Gah. I need help.

The songwriter doesn’t have social media, but there are videos of his music. Whole playlists of him plucking at an acoustic guitar, singing with that husky, soulful voice, each note reverberating deep in my body as I listen, spellbound, my lips parted.

I sit at that breakfast bar watching him until my ass goes numb, then search aimlessly online, trying to figure out where he lives.

And it finally hits me…

Jesus. I’m stalking my stalker.

“Oh my god.” I slam my laptop shut, icy cold spreading through my insides. How messed up is this? What iswrongwith me? Apparently it’s not bad enough that he stared at me all summer and some twisted part of me liked it, but now I’m returning the favor?

I need a job. Or a project. A freaking hobby.

Anything.

Anything but this twisted new obsession.

My bare feet thump against the floor as I slide off my stool. With summer ending, this town’s set to go into hibernation with all but the smallest handful of local cafes and shops boarding up their doors until the tourists come back next spring. I have enough saved to tide me over for a month or two, but I need to find work.

That’s it. That’ll distract me. Can’t obsess over a famous songwriter when I’m being run ragged waiting tables, can I?

The wind moans out on the beach, but I snag my purse from the back of my chair, jam my boots on my feet, and march through the house to the front door. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining. I need to get out right now.

If I stay here for another minute, I’ll fall deeper down the Tudor Sinclair rabbit hole. And if I think I’m lonely right now? Well, I’d hate to think how lonely I’d be down there.

* * *

“Carmen!”

This is the best and worst thing about small towns: everyone knows you. I’ve been coming to this diner since I was a toddler on my mom’s lap, and I swear the hostess Marnie has barely aged a day. She’s still got the same wiry gray hair and tortoiseshell glasses; she still cocks her ample hip and tuts in the same way.

“You took off, Carmen.” Marnie shakes her head, lips pursed, but her disapproval is all for show. Behind those glasses, her eyes twinkle. “Left us here for a whole summer while you ran off with a rock band, huh?”

No secrets in small towns, either.

“I’m back now,” I say, forcing a bright smile onto my face. Don’t get me wrong, IlikeMarnie, but the heaviness in my chest has gotten worse since coming home, and I’m finding it harder and harder to act like a normal person. “Any work going?”

Marnie glances out at the diner tables, her expression doubtful. The booths are half empty, with mostly locals taking up space and playing cards, but The Cozy Kelp is one of the few places that stays open in the low season.

Crap. I really need this job.

“I’ll work through the holidays,” I offer quickly. “And I’ll pick up extra shifts. Please, Marnie.”

The hostess clucks to herself, shaking her head, but when she looks at me again, I know I’ve won.

“Go on, then.” She rummages behind her welcome stand, the stack of menus wobbling, then drags out a blue apron with a love heart made of kelp embroidered on it. “You’ll start today, mind.”

“Sure. Thanks, Marnie.”

The hostess grunts. “There’s a stack of dishes in the kitchen. Start there.”

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