I think about taking a swim before I go inside Travis’s house but I want to get started.
Dusting his piano.
For a hundred dollars an hour.
It’s ridiculous, but I’ve already decided I’m going to earn my money fair and square. I’m going to clean his house so well he won’t even recognize it. I’ll restore it to its former glory.
Travis has left the window wide open for me. I step through it.
There’s a note on the piano, held down with a bottle of whiskey that’s about two-thirds full.
Ruby,
Don’t worry about anything except the music. Write a new song. Practice the ones you’ve got. And be ready for that swim when I get back.
T
I decide to give myself a tour of the house. I’ve never looked around before because I didn’t want to trespass anymore than I already was.
I think about what might happen later. I remember what he said, about the swim. The way his eyes got all dark and intense. Just before he almost kissed me. You know you want to, darlin’. Just thinking about it brings a flush to my skin. The one I’m starting to get used to, whenever I think about Travis.
I’m wearing jean shorts and a pink tank top over Scarlett’s white bikini. Who knows, we might not even have time for swimming. Or he might have changed his mind.
The house is beautiful. Dusty but majestic. It’s about twice the size of our own house, and much fancier. Hazy sunlight filters in through bay windows that look out towards the pond and over the view of the hills. The wood floors are smooth and there’s a large stone fireplace. Up the curved staircase, there are four large bedrooms and three bathrooms. And up another flight of stairs, there’s a master bedroom with its own enormous master bathroom and even its own little balcony.
It’s dusty, like the rest of the house.
It doesn’t look like he slept up here.
I go to the French doors leading out onto the balcony and open them, stepping out.
Wow.
He’s got an amazing view. I can see the edge of the pond but not my house, which is obscured by the high roof. The view is westward, towards Nashville. “Here I come,” I whisper, without meaning to. It sounds foolish but I don’t care. I actually twirl around in the dazzling sun because I’m so happy. Now I’ll be able to save enough to rent a room and to buy a phone that’s good enough to record my songs on. Maybe I’ll even upload them straight onto one of those music apps Rose was telling me about. Those ones you can earn money on if people listen to your songs. Maybe I’ll get discovered and my hits will go viral, whatever that is. Maybe I really will be able to sing for a living. And travel all over the country on tour and see the whole world. I can taste the promise of my own success like sugar on my tongue.
I go back inside, into the master bathroom. Under the sink I find some cleaning supplies. I decide to start in this room. I’ll clean up his bedroom so he can sleep here tonight. I don’t want him changing his mind about hiring me.
The house has everything. A linen closet full of sheets. Towels. A washing machine and a dryer. So I clean the bedding and make his bed. I disinfect the bathroom and vacuum the hardwood floors.
I stand back to admire my work. The place looks good. More than good. It’s the nicest bedroom I’ve ever seen.
Then I go downstairs to the piano.
I read his note again, picking up the whiskey bottle. It occurs to me that he would have drunk out of it. I don’t see a glass anywhere. Slowly, I unscrew the lid. His mouth might have touched it.
I touch my tongue to the rim. And I take a sip. Just to see what it tastes like. It burns all the way down and makes me cough. But the burn turns warm and mellow. I take another sip.
Then I put the lid back on and set it on the piano.
I dust the surface of it until the wood gleams. But I’m too hyped up to sit and play. It’s so hot. I go into the kitchen, which is huge with granite counters, fancy new appliances and another set of French doors that lead out to a cute outdoor dining area. I open the French doors to let in the light breeze. And I let myself fantasize about what it would be like to live in a house like this.
The kitchen is just as dusty as the rest of the house. I might as well do some cleaning in here, too, in case he wants to cook something. So I pour some soap into a bucket and fill it with hot water. I can’t find a mop but there’s a large sponge so I throw that into the bucket too.
A radio is sitting on the counter. I turn it on and crank it up.
And what to do you know, the song comes on. That song. The one about the wild, wild girl and the hot summer night.
It’s obviously a hit if it’s being played so much. You can see why. It’s catchy and soulful, touching that rare sweet spot between originality, talent and commercial perfection. And that voice. That husked croon that hits me right where I live. I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with the soapy sponge. Strands of my hair have come loose from my ponytail. And damn this bikini. I’m practically falling out of my tank top. My short shorts feel too tight. The bikini bottom has bunched up and is rubbing against me in a way that feels sort of … good. I’m sweating and getting all worked up over this damn song again. I don’t just feel hot, I feel hot. Like all my new urges are on overdrive.
And as I listen more closely to the song, I realize it: the voice sounds familiar. That dark, sexy rasp.
But no. It couldn’t be. It’s a big wide world out there. Just because one guy sang me a song doesn’t mean he’s the only one in the world who’s got a deep, husky voice.
As I work and the beginnings of a sensuous rise tease me, I hum along to the tune.
I’m not the only one.
That’s when I realize Travis is standing there, singing softly along with me, watching me. I didn’t hear him come in. He’s leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest, all six-foot-something of sweaty, sun-burnished muscle, inked with a few artful designs, smoldering emerald-bright eyes and messily-smoothed hair. His masculinity sort of gleams and oozes, enveloping me in its invisible haze. He’s wearing a pair of shorts.
And nothing else.
God. He’s so big and muscular.
I freeze but I can feel my heartbeat, not just in my chest. Between my legs. I can feel his presence right there. Where I’m warm and wet. Where the sweetness aches.
“Hey, Ruby.”
I stand up and smooth my clothes self-consciously, realizing how I must look. “Hey, Travis.”
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning your house, like I said I would.”
“You’re supposed to be working on your music.”
“I will. I just … I had some energy to burn.”
“Is that right?” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
God.
I feel like I’m about to melt into a puddle right here in front of him. My whole body feels supple and hot, simmering with that honeyed heat. I notice it then: a huge, bulky, swollen ridge inside his shorts.
Oh.
My heart’s racing. I lean against the coolness of the marble counter, holding onto it for support.
“I don’t want you cleaning anymore, all right?” He walks past me, close to me, as he goes to the fridge and opens it. “You want a drink?”