Page 27 of Forbidden Lyrics

Rolling up my proverbial sleeves, I get right to work.

Once the plates, utensils, and cups are loaded into the giant dishwasher, it rumbles to life as I stare at the pots and pans still littering the otherwise empty sink.

Man, that’s a lot of dishes.

Grateful I’m wearing a tank top so my sleeves don’t get wet, I flip on the faucet and sprinkle the dirty pots and pans with dish soap. Bubbles form a few seconds later, leaving the liquid frothy as the scent of lemons wafts through the air. The water is hot as I dip my hands in, scrubbing at the dirty dishes like my life depends on it. But it’s almost peaceful. The quiet. The repetition. The feeling of accomplishment as I slowly move the pots from the dirty pile to the clean one. It’s organized. Simple. Something I can cross off my list, which feels oddly satisfying. Soon, I’m lost in the monotony and start singing the song that’s been stuck in my head since I heard Gibson singing it in his room all those nights ago.

“Dark skies and lonely nights

Your hazel eyes still haunt my mind.

But you’re not mine, babe.

Never gonna be mine, babe.”

I close my eyes and let the lyrics wash over me as I rinse the soap from one of the skillets beneath the trickling water.

“‘Cause you were meant to shine.

But what shakes me to my core

Is we’ll never be more.

Never be more. Never be––”

My note is cut short as a soft creak alerts me that I’m no longer alone. My head snaps toward the exit where a familiar silhouette greets me. I gasp. The nearly clean skillet slips through my fingers and splashes soapy water all over the front of my shirt.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath. Flicking off the faucet, I dry my hands on a paper towel and dab it against my soaked shirt as I try to calm the heck down. But my effort to slow my racing heart is useless. It’s too late. The adrenaline is already charging full speed ahead through my veins.

Gibson just caught me singing his song. His song. Can someone die from embarrassment? Because I’m about to curl into a ball and throw in the towel. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe the trickling water was enough to drown out my voice. Maybe he hasn’t been standing there long enough to recognize the lyrics or the fact that I’d changed them, making them my own.

And maybe I really am a fool.

When I realize I’m fidgeting, I clear my throat and face my audience fully, refusing to give Gibson my back. It feels dangerous somehow. Like he might strike at any second, even though I know he would never hurt me. Not after he saved me from the bratty customer the other day. Still. When you’re caged in with a lion––no matter how domesticated he may appear––you can feel his power, and it isn’t something you take lightly.

“I’m sorry,” I start. “I got in early and figured that someone should probably clean the glasses––”

“You changed the lyrics,” Gibbs rasps with his shoulder pressed against the door jamb and his arms crossed over his broad chest. As if he has all the time in the world and was enjoying the show.

I bite my lip and try again. “I’m sorry––”

“For what? For changing shitty lyrics?”

“They’re not crappy lyrics,” I argue.

Like a lion on the hunt, he stalks closer, his muscles bunching and flexing beneath his black T-shirt and dark jeans that hang low on his hips.

“I like yours better,” he notes.

“I don’t.”

“Then why’d you change them?”

“B-because.”

His mouth ticks up on one side as he inches closer, crowding me against the kitchen counter. “That’s not an answer.”

“Um.” Why does he smell so good? “It’s just that…I guess I wasn’t personally connecting with the lyrics. How can I know what the smell of her skin clinging to mine smells like?”

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