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“Working late.” Anna’s heels click as she walks across the room to join Skye at the bar.
“Mmm.” Skye crunches another bite and talks with her mouth full again. “This is Gideon Reece. My best friend Chloe’s brother.”
I look back when I hear the other woman snort.
“You’re Chloe’s brother?”
Why am I not surprised that she would know Chloe? Or love Chloe? Everyone loves Chloe Reece.
“Guilty.” I nod and leave them to their talk. For now, I put my keyboard on the bed and head back to my car. Neither woman pays me any attention, which is fine by me. I hear Jeff’s name again and wonder if he’s Anna’s husband. Boyfriend. Too bad. She looks a little more my type. The pencil skirt somehow makes her seem less talkative.
I carry my speakers up next, and that makes Skye sit up and notice. She watches me with a frown, her book now closed on the counter. Jayne Ann someone—probably an author my sister reads. Chloe dates a lot, but she has unrealistic ideas about romance from the silly books she reads all the time. Why would Skye be any different?
When I make my final trip up, Anna is gone, and Skye’s got her nose back in her book. Again, she closes it and watches me carry my guitar into the bedroom. I put it down next to the keyboard and stand for a second, surveying my stuff, and trying to decide how to organize it. Finally, I unzip the duffle bag I had dropped earlier next to my suitcase and pull out my guitar stand.
“Don’t most people put their guitars in guitar cases?”
Startled at how close her voice is, I almost jump, but thankfully I’m able to control myself. I look over my shoulder to find her standing in the doorway again, shoulder propped there like she plans to watch me unpack.
“Mine was stolen.” I put my stand in the corner opposite the door and then carefully put the guitar on it. It’s my acoustic, also battered and scarred. I love this guitar. Chloe picked it out for me when I was fourteen.
“Really?”
When I glance at her, our eyes meet. She looks shocked that someone would steal something.
“Working in a bar and someone swiped it.”
“In Cleveland?”
“Nashville.”
“You’re a country musician?” She sounds so horrified, I have to look at her again. I’m not. Not exclusively. And I’m more of a songwriter than I am a musician. But I don’t want to get into it with her, because I don’t want to talk to her more than I have to.
“You don’t like country music?” I straighten and stare her down.
“Eh.” She shivers like I suggested she eat liver and onions for dinner. “Is that what I’m gonna have to deal with while you’re here?”
It’s not, but I don’t mind making her squirm, so I let her believe it.
“Don’t you have carrots to eat, Bugs Bunny?”
I expect her to snap at me, angry with my rude attitude. She hesitates for a moment, like she’s wondering if she should be mad. But then her eyes light up, and she trills this sweet, cute laugh.
“I don’t fix dinner on the weekends,” she announces as she walks away.
“I’ll live,” I call after her. I don’t expect her to cook for me any day, so I’m not shattered by her cooking schedule. She’s wearing yoga pants and an over-sized t-shirt, an outfit so many women favor that I have never cared for. Until now. I don’t have a clue who this woman is, other than my sister’s best friend, but she looks damned good dressed that way.
