He looks bigger up close. With his sun-touched looks and broad-shouldered brawn, he reminds me that I need to be careful. I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is or what he might do. There are veins under the skin of his arms and hands that amplify the promise of his raw strength. If he wanted to, he could overpower me so easily. He could hold me down. He could pin me under his weight.
“I liked your song,” he says, watching me with lazy contemplation.
A fresh wave of heat rises to my cheeks. “You did?”
“Yeah.” His voice is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Rasped with notes of dark promise and hot lust.
“I … I didn’t think anyone was there. I’m sorry I broke into your house. We don’t have a piano and I … I’ve been using yours for a long time.”
“You can use it anytime you want.”
“Thanks.” That’s nice of him.
“You ever play for anyone?”
“What do you mean?”
“On stage.”
“No. But I will soon enough. Just as soon as I can get to Nashville.”
“Nashville.” He says it slowly as he strums C, not as a question.
“Yes.”
“What’s in Nashville?” There’s a thread of curiosity in his voice, like he’s dying to know.
I know what it’ll sound like. The endless procession of wannabes that flock to Nashville, hoping for a miracle, searching for their lucky break. Most of them will never find it. And even though I’m a little self-conscious about what I might look like to him—like one more dreamer in a vast sea of dreamers—I don’t care. So it comes out sounding sort of defiant. “My future.”
He hears it, and he smiles. “Sing me that song again.”
His accent has deepened, and so has mine. “No.”
“Go on.” He starts strumming my tune and he looks over at me from under the lush fall of his hair. He’s absolutely gorgeous.
It’s pretty interesting when you think about it, that a million lessons about temptation never taught me a thing. Now, I finally understand it.
Travis starts playing my song perfectly and it surprises me, that he knows the chords.
“How’d you learn it so quick?”
He smiles and barely shrugs but he doesn’t answer my question. “Go on.” He plays the opening chords again and I do it. I sing softly along with the tune as he strums it like he’s been playing it for years. As I sing, the music, like it always does, inhabits me in a way that takes over and makes me feel better than I do when I’m not singing. The notes weave themselves around the warm night air. It sounds good with him playing it and me singing along. His music, like mine, feels effortless. In this, we’re already kindred spirits.
When I’ve finished the song, I stop.
Travis is quiet for a few seconds. Then he sits back and lets his muscled arms cradle his guitar. I feel a weird sense of jealousy or something like it. I want to know what those arms feel like, warm and strong and carefully possessive. Slung casually with all their powerful promise, around me.
“You’re good,” he says.
“Thanks. You are too. Do you sing?”
His green eyes spangle. “A little. I wrote a song today. You want to hear it?”
“Okay.”
He starts playing a tune and as he sings along to it, I can’t believe how good he is. His voice is deep and again reminds me of something elusive. I can’t quite recall what it might be because I’m too lost in the lyrics as he’s singing them to me. About a Tennessee angel. I get this odd hunch that the song is about me—but it can’t be. He only saw me once, a few hours ago. I know for sure he must be singing about someone else. The song ends and the night feels empty without the husky sway of his voice.
“Wow. You’re so good,” I tell him, sort of awed by him, for a lot of different reasons.
“Thanks.”
“Have you ever thought about making a record?”
That lazy grin. He studies my expression for a few seconds with that searching curiosity again, like I’ve entertained him in some way. But he doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he asks, “What kind of music do you listen to? Who are your favorite artists?”
“Old school ones, mainly. I listen to my daddy’s old vinyl collection when I’m home. I don’t … well … it’s sort of embarrassing but I haven’t listened to much new music at all. I’ve been at boarding school and they never let us listen to anything except hymns.”
“Really? Shit.”
“Yeah. But I graduated yesterday so as soon as I can I’m going to listen to everything I can get my hands on and start building my playlist. My sister Rose said she’ll show me how. Once I get my phone, that is. I can hardly wait.”
A playful smile plays at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “You don’t have a phone?”
“No. Not my own. Not yet. But that’s the first thing I’m going to buy.”
“When are you going to Nashville?”
“As soon as I’ve earned enough to get myself a place in the city. Something small, it doesn’t matter. Then I’ll start auditioning. I’ve got a list of places to try.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. It all sounds more like wishful thinking than anything close to reality. But Travis blinks his thick lashes, watching me with smug amusement and … a beguiled, hot fascination. His gaze is on my parted lips as I speak. I bite my lip and he watches my teeth as they sink gently into tender flesh.
His mesmerizing allure and also his nearness is affecting me in crazy ways. I can feel that warm pulse again between my legs. My panties feel … wet. I try to fold my arms since my nipples are poking against the thin cotton of my nightie, but when I do this the short skirt rides further up my thighs.
“You got a list of places to audition, do you?”
“Yes.” As gorgeous as he is, his slightly-mocking arrogance riles me a little. A light petulance has crept into my tone. He can mock me all he wants. I’ll show him, just like I’ll show everybody else. “Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
His green gaze holds mine. “I want you to come and play my piano again. Tomorrow.”
It’s a very tempting offer. But my goal is rock solid. And it requires money. “I have to look for a job tomorrow. So I probably won’t have time. But thanks for bringing my bag back to me.”
“What kind of job?”
“Anything that pays real money.”
He contemplates me for a few seconds. “I’m looking to hire someone.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“To do what?”
Travis thinks about this for a few seconds as he watches my eyes. “To play my piano. It’s dusty. It needs some use.”
He might be teasing me. “That’s not a job.”
“It is. Have you seen how dusty that thing is?”
“You want … a cleaner?”
“Yeah. A piano cleaner. I was planning on playing it tomorrow afternoon but I’ve got somewhere I need to be in the morning. You could dust it off for me so it’s ready when I get back.”