Page 12 of After All

But again, she stays in my arms as the next song starts. She hasn’t looked at me since we started dancing. I know because I can’t take my eyes off of her.

Her comment earlier about not being the typical woman that hangs around bands… I laughed to keep from hauling her into my arms and whispering everything I’d do to her body.

She might have tolerated my fingers trailing across her shoulders before I knew she didn’t always like that. But I doubt she’d take as kindly to me bending to her ear, grabbing her ass in both hands, and practically growling like a feral beast about how I wanted to see every inch of her body just so I could tell her how inexplicably wrong she sees herself.

I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a woman.

Have I wanted plenty? Sure.

Have I been with a decent percentage of the ones I wanted? Sure.

Being a musician is a draw, and it certainly makes it easier to make connections with people.

The problem?

The connection has never felt real. Not like this one.

We dance for another two songs before the house lights flicker overhead. She lifts her head and finds me looking down at her intently.

“Carter?” she asks.

I offer a low, rumbly hum as a response, one that sounds like the E-string on my bass.

“I think Charlie and the guys are about to start their set.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess we should make our way back to our seats. Settle in for the show.” She says the words, but she doesn’t let me go. So, I don’t either.

I chuckle. “How many concerts do you go to where the crowd is settled in?”

Narrowing her eyes, she surprises me yet again and quips back, “Are you picking on me, Carter?”

My grin grows until my eyes crinkle at the corners. “Maybe I am. What would you do about it, anyway?”

“Probably silently psychoanalyze you and figure out who hurt you enough that you needed to ‘do therapy’ by writing songs.”

Chapter 8

Amelie

He stops on a dime, so I do too. He collects the hand that rests on his shoulder, and he laces his fingers through mine, and it barely rates. Mainly because of the look on his face.

Wide eyes, shocked and maybe a little scared, stare back at me. A slack jaw hangs open in disbelief. “Yeah, that’s a little too on the nose, lady. Let’s don’t do that anymore.”

I giggle at his tone. He’s trying desperately to have it come across as a joke, but I’ve heard it often enough when I make off-the-cuff statements about people’s psyches. Most of them don’t like my insight, and that’s okay, but it’s second nature for me. I can’t turn it off.

Believe me, if I could, I would.

“Yeah, I hear you. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

I sink into the same chair I sat in before and look around for Suzette. I find her at a pub-height table, in the middle of a conversation with two other women who look like they’re close to our age. She’s such a natural people-person. She can make a friend anywhere.

Tamping down the jealousy, I look at her until I catch her eye and wave, letting her know I’m back in my seat. She throws up a wave and a “just one second” finger, and I nod and melt a little further into the chair.

“Do you want a refill? On your wine?”

Carter’s fingers trail so lightly over the back of my hand, I barely feel it, and goosebumps rise on my arms. “Yes, please.”

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