Page 11 of Heart Strings

“Did you drink all alone up at the cabin?” I press, pulling the sheets around me as worry sets deeper in my heart. This would explain why he’s been radio silent the entire day.

He nods, his eyes not meeting mine. “Yeah, wanted to be alone. But then... I started thinking and… missed you too much, Tink.” There’s a vulnerability in his voice that tugs at me.

I let out a sigh, shaking my head at the nickname that always sounded so right coming from him. “Okay, on your feet, Owens. We need to sober you up,” I say, more to myself than to him.

But as I pull him up, he uses the momentum to tug me back down, and I find myself lying on top of him, his arms encircling me with an unexpected strength.

My heart skips a beat, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of the warmth of his body, the firmness of his chest under my hands, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey.

“Connor, what are you doing?” I whisper, my heart racing now for an entirely different reason.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, right when I think he’s passed out, he whispers, his voice rough and soft at the same time, “I always wondered what it’d be like… to wake up with you.”

My cheeks flush with heat, and it’s like a thousand butterflies have taken flight in my stomach. His words, whether he means them or not, strike somewhere deep inside me, stirring something I’ve never dared to acknowledge.

“Connor, you’re drunk,” I murmur, trying to remind myself of that, to keep the sudden rush of emotions in check.

But he’s already drifting, his grip loosening. “Mm-hmm,” he hums, a contented sound that makes my heart ache in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.

“Connor,” I start, but his grip relaxes as sleep takes over.

I could push him away, could extricate myself from his arms and the situation, but I don’t. Instead, I lie there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath me.

What did he mean by that? Is it just the whiskey talking, or is there more to his words? My mind races with possibilities, with what-ifs and could-bes, but I push them away just as I push myself from his chest.

This is Connor, my best friend, and he’s hurting. That’s all that matters right now.

Then I just sit there, watching him, this man who’s been my friend for so long, who’s now showing me a side of him I’ve never seen before.

The moonlight casts shadows across his face, highlighting the furrow in his brow, the stubble on his jaw. He looks peaceful but troubled, and I wonder what demons he’s fighting in his drunken slumber.

I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, my fingers lingering longer than necessary. “You big idiot,” I whisper, my voice carrying a mix of affection and frustration.

Standing up, I fetch a glass of water and aspirin from the kitchen, put it on the nightstand, then I grab a blanket and take it to the couch with me. As much as I love Connor, we can’t sleep in the same bed.

Chapter 8

Connor

Iwake up feeling like my head’s been used as a kick drum during one of Leo’s solos—pounding and way too loud. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light and the unfamiliar surroundings.

This isn’t my cabin. The walls are a soft yellow, there’s a vanity cluttered with makeup and jewelry, and then it hits me—I’m in Gracie’s bed.

Panic and pain laces through the hangover as I sit up too quickly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Fuck,” I groan, my hand going to my pounding head. Why am I here?

“Gracie?” My voice is rough, barely above a whisper. No answer. I check the clock on the microwave as I stumble into the living room. It’s 10:30AM. Shit.

I run a hand through my hair, cursing myself. How did I end up here? What did I do?

Without another thought, I see my keys on the kitchen counter and make for the door, heading back to my cabin. The drive is a blur, my mind racing faster than the engine’s hum. Once there, I take the longest, hottest shower I can stand, trying to wash away the remnants of last night’s stupidity.

Freshly showered and dressed, I can’t shake the feeling of dread. I need to apologize to Gracie. But first, I need peace offerings—her favorites from Sophie’s café.

When I walk into The Sugar Drop, Sophie gives me a look that’s part amusement, part pity.

“Rough night, rockstar?” she teases as she hands over a bag filled with blueberry muffins and a to-go cup of the strongest coffee they’ve got.

“Don’t start,” I grumble, but I can’t help the grateful smile. “Just remind me never to slow dance with good ol’ Jack all alone.”

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