Page 32 of No More Love Songs

CHAPTER NINE

SKYLAR

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By the time I makeit to bed my first night at the lodge, I’ve had to text my niece and nephew three different apps I learned about from Ari that I thought were way too cool to not share. I have a stomachache from eating too many s’mores (seven, I think but I tried to stop counting after four so I’m not sure) and I realize for the first time in a long time, I relish the feeling of a bed all to myself instead of feeling the empty space as a slight against me.

Come Monday morning things change a bit. A cool front is moving through, bringing the usually squelching summer heat to weather fit for the outdoors. With it, several more last-minute guests show up to fill the other rooms here at the lodge and book tours and lessons with Kit until his schedule is so full, I opt to tag along with groups instead of holding out for one-on-one sessions as originally planned.

In the end, I’m happy for the unexpected change and I’m pleased to find how many people here are willing to just accept me as another lodge guest and not my famous alter ego, Skylar Thomspon, reigning country queen of love songs. Even if a constant stream of undesired text messages continues to pop in to remind me that’s exactly who I’m expected to be again the second I leave here.

While I’m at Rock the Falls, I’m just Sky.

By Friday, I’ve made friends with a couple from Florida I met on my first official hike who are here through the weekend, and I’ve also gotten acquainted with Mavis due to having taken an interest in the kitchen since my first cooking lesson on Sunday.

No one has been available to teach me since, but I’ve been happy to improvise and grateful no one chose to ban me from the kitchen at any point.

“Whatcha got there?” Kit asks, coming up beside me at the butcher block island.

“A sandwich,” I say like it’s obvious. Because it is. I have a plate with two slices of bread, one stacked high with everything I could find in the fridge that looked good and the other slathered in hummus to make everything stick when I slap the top on. I know what I’m doing here.

“You think you’re putting that together? And then sticking the whole thing in your mouth?”

I shake my head up and down, giving him a look I’m certain conveys the pity I feel for him right now. “Clearly, you haven’t been around much this week. I’ll have you know, I’ve become a master of sandwich making. Sky the Sandwich Master, that’s what they call me now.”

“They?” His mouth keeps twitching like he’s trying not to laugh out loud at my expense.

“The people,” I go on, perfectly serious, “of the world.”

“Right.” He nods, barely containing his amusement at this point. “That’s who I thought you meant.”

I choose to ignore his mockery and move on to more important things. “Are you here for lunch? And by that, I mean, do you have time to have lunch? With me?”

“Miss me or something?” he teases, moving away from the counter and on to the fridge.

“Or something.” I’m about to ask for a favor. “I was hoping to talk you into working on a song with me. I had some new ideas last night and I was hoping to run them by you. I usually force Gray to do the brainstorming with me but in the interest of doing everything with a new perspective, I thought I’d attempt to sway you to be my musical guinea pig.” I watch while he peruses the contents of three different glass containers before he settles on one and goes for a fork from the dishrack next to the sink. “I have a whole speech. There’s pleading. Some groveling. Bribery if necessary but I think it delivers better over a meal, so.”

He joins me at the counter again, his lunch in hand. “Back deck?” It’s where we ate our last lunch together.

“It’s pretty packed out there. How about my balcony?” I offer.

“That works too.” He starts for the swinging door and holds it open for me. “Ari said you two have been having picnics in the hammock together. Is that where you’re making me eat too?”

“I figured you more for a sit on the railing guy,” I say, leading the way up the stairs. “But I’m happy to share the hammock too. If Ari and I can eat our elaborate ice cream sundaes without making a mess in there, I’m sure you and I can balance enough to manage our lunch.”

“I’ll go with the railing,” he confirms.

“Thought you might.” I grin smugly to myself. Totally called that one.

I let him into my room, and we head straight for the balcony. With the gorgeous weather, I haven’t bothered closing the doors much. Who needs air conditioning with that breeze sweeping through?

Once we’re both settled, I watch him poke around in his bowl with his fork, mixing up the contents.

“What did you end up deciding on?” I ask, curious to see his lunch choice, given how much time he spends in the kitchen and the magic skills he seems to have there.

He tilts his bowl toward me. “This quinoa dish I made the other night. Works cold as a sort of salad.” He shrugs, tipping it upright again.

“Huh.” I can’t deny I’m a little disappointed. Compared to the pasta dish we made together my first day here, his quinoa concoction looks pretty bland. “Not a lot of color in there.”

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