Chapter Twenty
Fox had always prided himself on not taking anything seriously.
The memory of his failed reinvention burned in the center of his chest like a cattle brand, so he’d spent years doubling down, leaning into an identity that perhaps burned him even worse, but at least he could be good at it. It was what everyone expected, and there wouldn’t be any more painful surprises.
And now he was going to open up wide, expose himself to all manner of outcomes he couldn’t control. Because he was in love with Hannah. Stupid, hot-under-the-collar, pulse-tripping love that crowded his chest and throbbed in his fingertips. Might as well face it, he’d started stumbling last summer, and now? Now he was flat on his ass with canaries taking laps around his head.
He loved her humor, her tenacity and bravery, the way she defended the people she loved like a soldier in battle. He loved the fact that she didn’t shy away from the tough subjects, even though they scared him in the moment. Her iron will, the way she closed her eyes and mouthed song lyrics like they were baptizing her. Her face, her body, her scent. She’d infiltrated him, become a part of him before he’d realized what was happening, and now . . .
He didn’t want her out. He wanted to stay locked in her goodness.
And Jesus Christ, he might as well be walking on a tightrope across the Grand Canyon. In his experience, the only thing that came from reaching past his capabilities was failure. Getting slapped down and sent back to the beginning. But as they’d sat in the recording studio, Hannah leaning into his side, as if she belonged to him—it had felt so damn good—he’d started to wonder again . . . what if. What if.
She was set to return to LA soon, so he needed to answer that question. Or he was going to wake up one morning and put her on a bus out of his life, and the very idea of that covered his skin in ice.
Driving up to the security gate and handing a twenty-dollar bill to the guard, he still didn’t have an ending to the what-if question. But he did have absolute faith in Hannah’s ability to draw it out of him, if he let her. If he truly dropped the last of his defenses, she’d guide him there. Because she was the most extraordinary, loving, intelligent being on earth, and he cared about her so much it sometimes stole his ability to think straight.
“Where are you taking me?” She split a look between him and the windshield, the greenery rolling past on either side, draped in twilight. “I love surprises. Piper threw me a surprise party when I turned twenty-one and I had to lock myself in the bathroom because my nonstop tears of joy were embarrassing everyone.”
Fox, having an easy time picturing that, smiled. “What is it that you love so much about them?”
She tugged the hem of her dress down, drawing his eye. “The fact that someone thought about me, I guess. Wanted me to feel special.” She bit her lip and glanced over at him from the corner of her eye. “I bet you hate them, don’t you?”
“No.” Normally he might have left it at that, but he wasn’t being charming or elusive or easy tonight. He was taking the words in the back of his mind and letting them out of his mouth. Starting now. And every time he balked, he’d think of putting Hannah on a bus. He might not have a solution in mind, since keeping her in Westport—just for him?—seemed like a stretch, but when he let Hannah know his thoughts, he always felt closer to her afterward, always felt better, so he couldn’t go wrong with that. “You’re a surprise, Hannah. How could I hate them?” He cleared his throat hard. “Even familiar . . . you’re a constant surprise.”
Silence ticked by slowly. “That’s a beautiful thing to say.”
More words were pressing up against the inside of his throat, wanting to get out, but the actual surprise was coming into view up ahead and he wanted to see her reaction. “Anyway. We’ll see if we can keep the crying to a minimum tonight.” He put the car into park several yards from the art installation, circling around the back bumper to open her door, offering his hand. “Come on, Freckles.”
Her smooth fingers slipped into his, a furrow forming between her brows as she took in the giant steel towers, Lake Washington spread out behind them. At this time of day, they were the only ones there, giving the attraction kind of a lonely, abandoned feeling. Ironic since he’d never felt less lonely in his life. Least of all while holding her hand. “What is this place?”
“It’s the Sound Garden,” said Fox, guiding her toward the water. “The towers were designed so that when the wind hits them, they play music.”
Fox studied Hannah’s face, watched it transform with wonder when she heard the first howling note travel through the towers, the haunting melody that somehow softened the air, thickening it like they were inside a snow globe, their surroundings moving slowly. The whitecaps, the clouds, even the shift of her hair all seemed to travel at a different, more languid pace.
Unlike Fox’s heart, which was beating out of his chest.
“Oh my God.” A fine sheen formed in her eyes. “I can’t believe this is just . . . here. And I knew nothing about it? Fox, it’s . . . incredible.” A loud whistle of sound whipped in the air, and she closed her eyes, laughing. “Thank you. Wow.”
He stared down at their linked fingers, and it gave him the strength he needed to leap. “I wanted to bring you here last summer. That weekend we went to the record convention. But I was afraid to suggest it.”
She opened her eyes and studied him. “Afraid? Why?”
Fox shrugged a shoulder. “You’d come to Westport for your sister. Such a selfless thing to do, working on the bar and living in that dusty little apartment and . . . you deserved a day just for you. I’d already spent so much time searching for that convention, finding something you might enjoy, though. I got worried that showing you the Sound Garden on top of the expo might make how I felt obvious. Might tip my hand.”
There was never a sight more beautiful than Hannah standing on the shore with the sunset making her glow, the wind teasing strands of hair across her mouth. “‘Tip your hand,’” she repeated with a blink.
Keep going. Confess every last word.
Think of Hannah getting on a bus back to LA.
“I had it bad for you. If the convention didn’t make it obvious, I thought for sure the Fleetwood Mac album would do it.” His voice stumbled. “I’ve got it so bad for you, Hannah. Really”—he blew out a breath—“really bad. I tried to keep you out of here.” He knocked his free fist against his chest. “But you won’t go. You’re never going to go. You just won’t.”
“Fox . . .” she murmured haltingly, her tone weaving in seamlessly with the howling of the towers. “Why is it bad?”
“God, Hannah. What if I’m not what you need? What if everyone knows it but you? What if you realize it’s true and I have you . . . then lose you? That would fucking kill me. I don’t know what to do—”
“I’ve got it really, really bad for you, too.”
The oxygen in his lungs evacuated in a rush, leaving his thundering heart in its wake. “If you’d gone out with Sergei, I would have fucking lost it, Freckles. You know that? I’d have begged you on my hands and knees not to go anywhere with him. I’ve been going crazy waiting for you to call my bluff—”