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“Do you only play bluegrass?”
She looks up at me, eyes narrowed. “You don’t like Bluegrass?”
I never listen to it, so I don’t really know. “I don’t have anything against it, I’m just curious about your range.”
She nods, relaxing, and switches into an alternative rock song seamlessly. I can’t help singing along.
She stops abruptly, fingers stilling on the strings, and stares at me. “You can sing.”
“I dabble.” I am the worst kind of liar.
“No,” she says. “You can really sing. You’re better than Asher.”
Now, I’m confused. “I’ve never heard Asher sing.”
She waves a hand. “He’s the lead singer for our band, but you have an amazing voice. You’d be perfect…” She trails off, a crease between her brows the only sign of her annoyance. “But you’re in hiding.”
“You have a band?”
“My sisters and I do. Our dad thought he could get rich touring us around the country.”
That sounds too close to home for comfort. “Did you?” I sound like a frog croaking. “Did you tour around the country?”
“We didn’t have a singer and Dad lost interest.”
She starts back up. “Keep singing.”
I move over to the couch and sit next to her because, dangerous as it is, I want to be near her. As she hits the chord that’s my cue, I sing. I don’t hold anything back and I don’t consider that maybe a part of me wants her to figure out who I am.
Surely, she’s heard one of my songs somewhere, at some point in her life.
If she figures it out, she takes the choice out of my hands and I know, left to my own devices, I’ll be walking down the aisle to her, still holding onto my secret.
The song ends, and we sit in silence. I’m assuming she’s as awed as I am by what we just created.
“Son of a bitch,” she says. “This is like the worst sick joke.”
I twist to face her, sure she’s discovered my secret. Apparently, I have no sense of self-preservation, because I lean in closer. “What is?”
“That you can sing like this and you’re out here hiding from the world. Our gig is in Vance Vale. Your aunt won’t go all the way out there, right? And how many people from Catalpa Creek would actually recognize you?”
All of them. “I spent every summer here growing up, Honey.” She has no idea how badly I wish I could do this for her. I reach up and brush back a strand of her ebony hair, pushing it behind her small ear, be-ringed with six silver earrings. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare and she leans toward me, her sweet scent filling my space. Her gaze drops to my lips, and she licks her own. I meet her halfway, pressing my lips gently against hers. She lets out a little gasp and I straighten.
“Sorry. Obviously I read that—”
She throws her arms around my neck and pulls me down. Her lips part as she presses them against mine.
The risk cost analysis in my brain has only gotten better over the years, because being famous makes everything riskier, but all I can think about as I slide my tongue between her lips is how sweet she tastes and how much this feels like drowning.
It’s the good kind of drowning. The kind of drowning that’s sinking into pleasure and sensation. I’m surrounded by her scent of roses and something that’s just her. Her soft hair brushes my cheeks as she kisses me with the same abandon and wildness I feel. Like she can’t get enough of me, like she wants to kiss me all day.
I nip the corner of her mouth and press my hands flat against her back, pulling her tight against me.
She moans, then pulls away, leaping off the couch.
I’m dazed as I look up to see her frowning, her brow creased.
