Page 36 of Sweet Escape

I chuckle, shaking my head. The shit she says.

“Sorry. Can’t right now.” I glance at my watch. “Heading off to do a winery tour.”

She opens her mouth but I speak again, cutting her off.

“And the harvest begins next week, so all of my free time is wrapped up in covering these tours, in case you’re hoping to ambush me later.” I grin at her. “Or tomorrow. You seem like the type.”

At that she rolls her eyes, and as I stalk from the kitchen, I hear her call out from behind me.

“I’m definitely the type, Memphis! I’ll be seeing you soon!”

I shake my head, unable to wipe the stupid smile off my face.

How is it that I can be so exasperated by her and so enamored with her at the same time?

The truth is that there is a part of me that wants to know what Vivian has to say. But that’s only because a part of me hopes she’ll bulldoze through my decision to keep her at arm’s length. At ten-foot pole length. At football field length.

That we might end up hot and sweaty together again.

My neck goes hot at the memory of last night.

God, how it felt pumping inside her. The way her hands gripped my body, battling for control. Fuck, even just the tangle of our tongues.

If Vivian felt even half of what I did in that break room last night, I can only guess that’s what it is she wants to talk to me about.

And I don’t want to hear it.

Because it would be too easy to find myself giving in to that desire to be with her again.

Chapter Eight

Vivian

I shake my head and lean over the guitar I’m holding, erasing the notes at the end of the third staff, accidentally erasing the lines as well.

The fact that I came on this trip and didn’t bring any music sheets is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t remember the last time I wentanywherewithout a pad of staff paper, knowing that inspiration can come out of nowhere and in the least likely moments.

And inspiration has officially struck.

I woke in the middle of the night with a melody in my head and a chorus of lyrics, almost like I’d dreamed them into existence. I’d rolled out of bed and onto the floor, surely terrorizing the people in the room below mine, then ripped through my stuff before realizing I didn’t have what I needed.

So I haphazardly created my own music sheet, which has proven very frustrating all fucking day.

At some point I’ll need to visit the little music store next to the café and get some new staff paper, among other things. But apparently they’re closed on Mondays.

Rude.

There’s a kind of sizzle that happens at the base of my skull and along the back of my neck when I’ve truly tapped into a vein of creativegenius. Those spidey-senses are tingling through my entire body, bringing something to life that I haven’t felt in a long time.

It’s been years since I’ve felt like this, and I would be an absolute fool not to recognize the possible connection to the sexual magic that happened between Memphis and me last night.

It was . . . transcendent.

And I can’t ignore the muse when it arrives. Especially not when the future of my musical career rests on my ability to produce several more songs. Songs I need to record in ... I glance at the date on my phone ... exactly two weeks from today.

Which isn’t enough time, if I’m honest.

But I can put my nose down when I need to, which is what I’ve been doing.

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