Page 13 of No More Love Songs

He chuckles too. “Probably because I asked.”

I press my lips together until I can feel them wrinkle. “Yeah, but most people still know how to practice some polite restraint.”

“You don’t.” His tone is completely neutral when he says it. Like it’s fact and not some flaw he’s poking fun at. “I thought we just went over why that made your music so powerful.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t the radio. I’m spilling my guts to you in real life. Doesn’t that kind of kill some of the magic for you?” I try to make a joke. Truth is, the only reason it’s always been easy to pour my heart into my lyrics is because I’ve always held onto this tiny little lie that no one would really know I was singing about myself. Whether people believed my words to be true or not, they could never prove it one way or the other. Sitting here with Kit, telling him my most confounding feelings in real time with no way to mask them or present them in some artistic form, doesn’t exactly leave room for that little lie.

“Not feeling like a glamorous country diva right now?” he teases back. But he gets serious again quickly. “To be honest, learning that you really are who you sing you are, adds another dimension to the magic.” He winks at me. It’s not cheesy or charming. It’s sweet. And comforting.

“I’m really glad today was the day you and Grayson were finally able to line up the timetable for us to work together,” I say before I can overthink it and hold it in.

Kit’s brow hooks in a curious fashion. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Any other time we would have just made music.” I bounce my shoulder slightly, turning out toward the window again. “I’m sure it would have been great, but I make music with a lot of great musicians.”

“Don’t hold back the charm now, Sky,” he grumbles dryly.

“I don’t do charm,” I go on in the same tone as before. “I do truth, remember? And the truth is, if you hadn’t been there this morning, if it had been another pianist, we would have recorded the song, finished the album and that would have been that.”

“You’re giving me too much credit,” he says quietly. Without looking I can’t tell if it’s because his focus is shifting more toward his driving than this conversation, or if he’s taking what I’m saying seriously enough to feel the impact of my meaning. “You would have listened to that song and heard the same thing I did. I just brought it to your attention sooner.”

“Maybe,” I concede to the possibility. “But I wouldn’t be here with you now. I’d just be lost with my mess and nowhere to go but under. Thanks to you, I’m not climbing onto a half-assed life raft because I’m scared of letting go of this huge piece of myself. I’m excited to see what I find in its place.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. I’m kind of glad he doesn’t.

With the break in conversation, I let my mind wander down all the trails only just starting to form and before long, I’m sound asleep, the last few days of no rest finally having caught up to me.

When I come to again, the truck has stopped and we’re parked in front of a huge, three-story log cabin with the most fabulous wrap-around porch and bright blue tin roof I suddenly can’t wait to call home for the next month.

“Welcome to Rock the Falls, Sleeping Beauty,” Kit mutters, a hint of his teasing still present.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, sitting up straighter to take in my surroundings. Tall trees fill in the view to either side of me, but ahead, just beyond the lodge, a lovely green valley sits nestled among the rocky walls of the mountains just beyond.

“Glad you like it.” He smiles as he opens the driver’s side door and climbs out.

I follow his lead and hurry to get out as well. As soon as I’m standing out in the glory of nature, I take the deepest breath I have in a long while. The air is crisp and clear and fresh, and my soul feels cleansed just on the exhale. “Do you have a hammock here?” I ask the first thought that pops into my head at the sight of the scenery. The rocking chairs lining the porch would do just fine, but a hammock would provide the perfect creative cocoon.

“We have several,” he says, laughing softly. Apparently, my over-the-top delight is amusing.

“Sorry, you probably get a lot of ridiculous city folks out here.” I don’t even consider myself one of them, but I can see where I might come across as someone who lives a life deprived of nature and simple pleasures.

“That’s not it,” he assures me, walking around to the bed of his truck to unload my bags. “Just cool to hear you so enthralled with the place. I mean, you’ve toured the world how many times? I can’t even wrap my brain around all the places you’ve probably been.”

“I have to admit, travel has been the major perk in my job.” I can’t seem to keep from smiling. It’s a nice feeling. “But I think it’s because I’ve been so lucky to experience so many incredible places and things and people that I learned to appreciate it every time I go somewhere new. Usually, it’s the most unexpected settings where the details will blow your mind if you just take the time to look.”

‘You know, I don’t think your search for love and romance have consumed you near as much as you think.” He nods for the lodge. “Come on, I’ll show you around and you can pick your room.”

“I get to pick?” I suppose that’s not so unusual for me under most circumstances, but somehow still completely unexpected here.

“I don’t see why not,” he says, taking the steps up to the front porch where he waits for me to catch up. “It’s Sunday afternoon, which means all the weekend getaway folks have checked out and the random passers-through we see during the week have yet to arrive. Place is pretty much empty, so every room is yours for the choosing.”

I reach his side on the porch and fall instantly in love. With the house. Not the man.

The way the wood creaks under my feet. The quiet squeaking of rocking chairs swaying when the breeze catches them just right. The hummingbird zipping around the hanging feeder a few feet down. The scent of fresh laundry coming from the tablecloths drying on a line pinned up at the corner. They’re a vibrant array of colors and shaped like flowers, and I imagine spend most of their time on the round tables scattered about on the porch mingling with the rocking chairs.

“Do you make your own sweet tea?” It’s the first thought that comes to mind at the scene before me, but Kit doesn’t seem to think it’s strange. Hell, the way things have been going between us, he may have been following right along, just reading my mind. He does seem awfully good at that, especially catching the thoughts buried below, the ones I can’t even make out for myself yet.

“I can’t believe you’d even ask. Of course, we make our own sweet tea. Sun brewed in the summer. Ari makes hand squeezed lemonade as well.”

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