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“Get why people are obsessed with your music. You’re really good.”
He looks at me then, his expression shifting to incredulity. Laughs once, short and surprised and disbelieving. “Is this your newest tactic? Act like a fan so I can feel guilty about letting another person down?”
I shake my head. “No. And I’m notacting. I’m finished trying to talk you into re-signing. It’s your decision. This is me telling you what a lot of people would love to say to your face because I have the chance to and they don’t. I loved seeing you perform tonight, and I’m probably more shocked by that than you are. But I get what that executive saw. If you’d been there tonight as just a guy with a guitar and I was in A&R,Iwould have signed you.”
I’m expecting a smile or athanks. Maybe some teasing about me liking country music.
What I’mnotexpecting is for Kyle to drop my hand and storm inside the farmhouse, leaving me standing alone in the rain.
By the time I walk in the front door, he’s no longer in the living room.
I hear the fridge door slam shut, and then he’s looming in the doorway, a dark brown bottle gripped in the hand that was just wrapped around mine.
“Are youdrinking?” I ask, horrified.
Kyle’s sobriety is still a partial mystery to me. I’m assuming it’s because of what he just shared with me about his mom.
I’ve seen him in enough situations where alcohol is rampant that it’s obvious his abstinence is a conscious choice. The possibility he’s breaking his ban because Icomplimentedhim does not sit well with me at all. It feels like anything I say to him is the wrong thing. That I can’t win, even when I try to.
He moves his fingers so I can see the label.
It’s root beer.
“Oh,” I say, relieved.
He scoffs and heads upstairs.
I drink a glass of water in the kitchen and then follow slowly, totally confused.
His bedroom door is shut when I reach the top of the stairs, and I’m not sure whether I should knock.
Thishas nothing to do with the reason I’m here, the reason that’s rapidly coming to an end. If Kyle turned down a second offer, the chances that I’ll soon be told to return to New York are extremely high.
So, after a moment of indecision, I head straight into the bathroom, going through my typical night routine of cleansing my face and brushing my teeth. I pee, wash my hands, and then open the door.
He’s there. Waiting. Leaning against the opposite wall with his hands shoved into his jeans and his damp cotton shirt clinging to his chest.
Looking way better than he has any right to.
My stomach goes through an acrobatic routine as I watch his head lift to look at me. Even his frown is attractive. It’s an expression I’ve only seen aimed at me, so I’ve formed some fucked-up attachment to it.
Energy crackles between us, the hum steady and consuming.
I hesitate, still trying to figure out what’s going on.
We were good—great. He gave me his hat at the fair. Opened up on the drive home. And now, all of a sudden, it feels like I’m standing in the yard and he’s looming over me from the front porch all over again.
I decide to apologize because I don’t want to leave on poor terms and I’m not sure what else to say.
“Sorry if I took too long in the bath—”
Kyle pushes away from the wall, advancing on me like a predator stalking prey.
There’s no sign of the passivity that used to define our encounters in his expression, back when he was clearly ignoring me in the hopes I’d go away. It’s all intensity, just like when he was performing earlier.
I don’t step back even though my instincts are screaming at me to.
“What the hell are you doing here, Piper?”
