Page 9 of His Muse

I place one hand on the frame, my mouth twisting.

Though I hate any barrier between Carmen and I on principle, if I stand out here and let her catch a chill, I don’t deserve to be near her at all. The wood scrapes quietly as I pull it down to the sill.

Inside the darkened bedroom, the shape stirs in the bed.

I hold my breath.

She turns over and falls back to sleep.

It’s better this way, I tell myself, even as my instincts scream that I should be gettingcloserto her, not putting obstacles between us. If I ever hope to deserve this girl, if I ever want something normal with Carmen, I need to earn it.

After all, I’ve watched her and craved her. I’ve followed her footsteps, and I’ve woken up feverish and tense after dreaming of her more times than I can count.

It’s just a window. One measly pane of glass.

God knows I’d do anything for her—even shut myself out.

Six

Carmen

Tudor Sinclair is in my hometown.

Well. Okay. I am… let’s say eighty percent sure that the songwriter ishere, in this backwater town, still watching me from afar. Because my neck prickles sometimes when I’m working, and my footsteps echo some nights when I walk down the empty streets, and more than any of that… I canfeelhim.

I know it sounds nuts. But I spent a whole summer with Tudor Sinclair’s gaze fixed on me, and Iknowwhat it feels like to have him watch me. Down to my bones, I know how it feels.

It’s… warm. Exciting. It makes my nerves crackle to life and my heartbeat calm, and it makes my lower belly go all gooey and molten.

Tudor.

I left a window open for him last night, same as the last few days. This time, though, I woke up and found it closed, my bedroom warm and sunlit in the morning, a whole different micro-climate compared to the storm raging outside.

Who else would close my bedroom window? Who else would even get that near?

It’s him. And I’m so freaking glad.

Because I’ve had a long time to think about the songwriter and the way he stares at me; to weigh up the slightly twisted nature of our relationship this summer against the clammy loneliness I’ve felt since leaving him behind.

And… I don’t care if it’s wrong. Don’t care if it’s messed up.

Imisshim.

And I’m so tired of being lonely.

* * *

So, here’s my problem: how do I lure a kinda troubled songwriter into my beach house?

I’ve tried leaving my bedroom window open like a cat flap, but he doesn’t take that hint. And it’s not like I have his number to call him or whatever. We’ve stared at each other until our eyes have run dry, but we’ve never exchanged simple greetings.

Life is so strange.

But I’m determined, so next I try sitting out on my deck to watch the sunset, swigging from a beer with a second, unopened bottle at my side. The sun sinks below the horizon, and I sip away my whole drink, and Tudor’s beer is still next to me, unclaimed.

Even blasting Tudor’s music at full volume, his husky voice rolling across the sand, doesn’t seem to send a message. I play every track of his that I can find, and still he doesn’t come knocking.

Finally, I write him a note. And I feel like a dumbass as I do it, because what if I’m wrong? What if I’m sending all these desperate signals into the void, and everyone can see it except me? Are my neighbors gossiping about this meltdown?

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