Page 21

She cocks her head. “It’s not?”

“No. At least, it hasn't been for a while.”

“So why’d you do it?”

I think about it, running my finger over the callous on my palm. “For the same reason I would have done it if I wasn’t me.”

“Just to feel good?”

I look into her steely eyes. “No, because I saw you, and it kinda made my stomach jump. You’re something… I like the way you are. Maybe I should’ve held off.”

She’s quiet for a while, and I wish I had better words. Again, if I had the chance to type everything out, I could write her a book on why I fell into bed. But because it’s coming from my lips, I’m at a loss for words.

“But you are Coen Taylor,” she says finally. “And I might live out here, in the middle of nowhere, but I know about people with your kind of jobs.”

I don’t have to ask what she means. I’ve seen it with my friends time and time again. Hell, it’s worse than she thinks it is from reading her grocery check-out magazines.

“Being on the road is hard,” I say finally. “That's why I’m out here in the first place. After a while, it starts to fuck with you.”

She sighs. “I always thought I’d like to travel somewhere that isn’t Wyoming or New York State.”

“Do you?”

She nods, picking at the blanket. “I’d be happy with anywhere. Don’t even need to go so far as places like Thailand, or Johannesburg, or any of the other places I used to read about. Hell, even places like where you lived, like Nashville, sound wild to me.”

“Nashville can be pretty wild,” I say, smiling.

She smiles back, but it’s a little sad. “Do you like it though?”

That’s hard to say. I’ve never really seen Nashville, not the way people with regular jobs have, where they get to visit the theaters or enjoy the restaurants at night. I’ve never lived in the suburbs or the city apartments. My career path wasn’t like that. I wrote a song not long after meeting Jamie, and he showed it to a producer at West Creek. They asked me to write a different one for an up and coming country musician named Dax Williams. That one, Western Midnight Blues, hit the top of the country music charts for two months straight.

I was booked for fifteen years, and it’s still going.

I never finished writing that first song.

Maybe I should.

“Yeah, I think I like Nashville.” I force the words out, unsure what my real thoughts are.

“You seem a little jaded.” Her voice is soft.

“Yeah,” I say.

She shifts, still holding the sheet over her body, moving to face me. “Do you like doing what you do?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh.” She pulls back.

“Sorry, it’s not that. I love it, can’t do without it. But I hate it because…it took my life away. Why anyone wants to be fucking famous is beyond me.”

She reaches out and touches my knee. Heat travels in her wake and, despite our conversation, I spark like a rusty lighter deep inside.

“I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “Champagne problems. Sorry.”

“No, I…I don’t understand, but I see what you’re saying. You had to ask and meet me to know things about me, but I just had to look you up online. You must miss being private.”