Page 33 of The Wanderer

The first of many.

The moment the thought popped into her head she spun on her heel and padded into the living room, where she'd set up one corner as a mini music room.

Logan wouldn't be around long. He'd made that perfectly clear. So that stupid stab of pain in the vicinity of her heart at the thought of him leaving couldn't be more unwelcome.

She knew the score. It's why she'd started up with him in the first place. He was exactly like the rest of her short term fixes for the loneliness that plagued her at times.

But the more time they spent together, the more he sucked her in with a hint of susceptibility beneath his iron facade. The bad boy with a soft centre. Irresistible.

With a sigh, she sat at her desk, picked up a pencil, and took out a clean sheaf. She already had the lyrics to this new song hovering at the edge of her consciousness.

Pierce my heart…make me ache…it's just the start…please don't take…

They made no sense in their current format but as the first strains of a haunting melody filled her head, she started writing. Slowly at first, mixing quavers and semi-quavers, alternating tempo. C-C-D-E-B-B-C. As she jotted the notes, the words started to coalesce and she wrote the first few stanzas in total free-flow. She loved this part of the creative process, letting everything pour out of her, words and music, in a frenzied burst she could refine later.

She had no idea how long it took but it seemed like the blink of an eye when she completed the first song and moved onto the second. And the third. And the fourth. By the time her fingers cramped from clutching the pencil so tight, she'd written four songs that leapt off the page. Her fingers itched to play and she swivelled on her seat towards the keyboard next to her desk.

Not wanting to wake Logan, she plugged in her headphones and let her fingers take over, gliding across the keys, getting a feel for the new songs. As each song flowed into the next, effortless and real, Hope knew she'd stumbled onto something special, something almost magical. She'd never been this inspired, had never experienced the sheer joy of getting her songs right the first time.

She usually scribbled down a few notes and words then took a break before returning to her writing when inspiration struck. She'd never written four songs in a row and certainly hadn't played them like this: like her fingers were one step ahead of her brain.

She could attribute her newfound creativity to any number of things: the stars aligning, her musical talent finally coming to the fore, the mild winter. But she knew the real reason behind this flawless creative streak; and he currently resided in the middle of her bed.

Swiping her hand across gritty eyes from studying sheet music too long, she headed for the sofa and curled into a corner. A sudden chill overcame her at the realisation her creative happiness may depend on a guy who'd leave sooner rather than later, and she reached for the cashmere throw on the back of the sofa and drew it around her.

This couldn't be good.

Flowers inspired her. Melbourne's artistic laneways inspired her. Watching loved-up couples inspired her. Long walks through the Royal Botanic Gardens and strolling through the museum and listening to jazz on the banks of the Yarra River inspired her.

A rugged, sexy, construction king destined to break her heart shouldn't.

The moment she thought he had the power to break her heart, Hope stifled a groan. Resting her forehead on her knees, she tried a meditation technique she'd learned at yoga to wipe her mind and blank all thoughts of Logan.

It didn't work. The thought had lodged front and centre in her impressionable brain and she couldn't shake it no matter how many low level chants she internalised.

She'd never depended on anyone for her happiness. Her parents were the typical upper class refined English gentry. Children were raised by a well-paid, well-educated nanny, and only seen at mealtimes, where she'd mind her manners and respond when spoken to.

She'd never known any different until she hit her teens and started escaping to the local village to hang out at pubs with Harry. Back then, books made her happy. Music made her happier. People, not so much. Then she’d met Willem and had never known joy like it. Which made it all the harder when he hurt her.

She’d been a loner since and it had served her well.

Until now.

What was it about Logan Holmes that had her so wound up?

She should go to him and wipe away this uncharacteristic dwelling on emotions with a rousing bout of sex.

Instead, she tugged the cashmere blanket tighter around her, slid down the sofa, and rested her head on a cushion. She needed time to mull this latest realisation, because if she woke him now on the pretext of having sex, he'd probably take one look at her face and know there was something going on.

She'd wake him in the morning, and by then she would've eradicated the odd ache in her chest, ready to get physical with the guy who'd rocked her world without trying.

Chapter Seventeen

Logan had no idea how long he'd been asleep but his eyelids felt gritty and his mouth dry when he woke. Worse, when he glanced to his side, Hope wasn't tucked next to him and he lay on top of her fancy coverlet, not under it.

What the fuck? He pushed into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed, swiping a hand over his face to wake up. He blinked several times in the semi-darkness, trying to remember how he ended up in Hope's bedroom—not having sex.

He remembered strolling the laneways, confessing about his dad, a mind-numbing blowjob, then coming back here and…crashing. She'd taken a shower, he'd rested his eyes. And she hadn't woken him.

---