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He gives me a sad smile. “For the best. You were on the road with Ax back then, and Gunner was still in prison. You had enough on your plate. I asked Jack and the guys not to tell you.” He slides the door open.
I halt again when it dawns on me. “All those fishing trips they went on?”
“They were here helping me and Nathan out,” he admits.
“Fuck, it feels like I’ve been sleepwalking,” I croak out.
“Babe, you were busy working in the studio and going out with your girlfriends. Forgetting all about me.” His voice is laced with hurt. “You had to leave my drunk ass behind. Took me years to give it all up.”
When I walk through the mahogany door entrance, my throat tightens up. The place is stunning. The hardwood floor, the dark red rug in front of a marble fireplace. Art hangs on the wall, mixed with pictures from his touring days. A couple of acoustic guitars stand in the corner of the room. And a bookcase covering the better part of the wall is filled with little trinkets he probably brought back from touring overseas.
“This is my office where I crash, until I find something permanent to settle down,” he says, walking into the room and turning the lights on, before closing the door behind me.
“This is amazing, Rone,” I say, taking in the space. The big windows reach the floor, and half of the roof consists of glass and steel beams. “It’s beautiful.”
“This is mostly Charlie,” he says. “Your Grandpa knows his stuff.” He walks into the stainless-steel kitchen. “CNN came by last week and did an interview with us about the distillery and the setup here. Think it’s going to air later this week. Care for some Earl Grey?”
“Sure.” I chuckle. “Grandpa hates that he needed to retire. Luckily he had his guitars to work on.” I’m grinning from ear to ear when he puts the kettle on.
“Why are you laughing?” Rone asks, humor in his eyes.
“I remember you always drinking tea after you went on a bender.” My smile falls, trailing a hand over his sofa, digesting everything he’s said and shown me. I look at the pictures of the distillery, and what I guess are architectural plans to extend the property. Two large desks are covered with papers and empty bottles of moonshine, all different sizes and colors.
“I know and I ain’t proud of that,” he mumbles, pouring the tea into two cups.
“You should be, if you gave it up,” I tell him.
He nods, handing me a cup and setting his on the table between us. He throws himself into the brown leather chair across from me.
“You should be proud of yourself.”
“A compliment? I didn’t think you had it in you?” He drapes his arm over the back of the chair. Fuck, he’s put on some serious muscle.
I take a sip from the tea. “One step at a time, right?”
He holds my gaze. “One step at a time.”
Silence hangs between us, but it’s not awkward. It’s something else I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s nice, having him here with me, and seeing glimpses of the old Rone.
He stands and walks over to the big fireplace before stacking a couple of logs and lighting them. The flames heat me up in an instant.
He sits opposite me again, tapping his fingers on his mug like he did when we were younger. I shake my head, smiling and feeling sad at the same time.
“What?” he asks, humor back in his voice.
I nod to his restless hand. “You always started tapping when you were nervous.”
“I did, didn’t I?” he says in a throaty rasp, his hair falling in front of his eyes when he shakes his head. I set down my mug and without thinking, brush his hair out of his eyes. He closes them like he’s in pain. I pull my hand back, and he grabs it. “Don’t pull away from me.”
“Navarone,” I whisper, casting my eyes down. “Don’t. I—” I hold my breath.
He leans in and tries to kiss me but I pull away from him at the last moment.
“Fuck.” His voice is husky. “I’m sorry.” Standing, he starts to pace in front of the fireplace.
“Navarone,” I whisper again, focusing on my hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened back in the motel room nine years ago, and I know I shouldn’t have come to your house after Axl’s show in LA. I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice faltering.
He stops and growls at me. “Stop apologizing,” he grits out, all angry. “I should be the one to say it. Over and fucking over again. But every time you’re with me, the only thing I think about is fucking you. And I know I said ‘no,’ because I can’t. Not because of the fucking AA, where they always preach about not fucking around until you know for sure you can let someone in, but I want to take it slow.”
