Page 97 of Hollow Heart

And he’d somehow tide me over with those scraps and make me feel like I didn’t deserve the trash he fed me.

Duncan’s thumb gently strokes my vein, and I exhale.

“How did you do it?” I ask, curling my fingers underneath his jaw. His facial hair against my palm is rough, and I grip his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “How did you walk away?”

Duncan’s gaze implores mine. “I watched my friend spiral out of control, and I didn’t... I didn’t do anything to stop him.” Duncan’s voice shakes, and I can see the tears on the verge of his confession.

“Then I found him. He slit his wrists, and—” Duncan closes his eyes and my heart breaks for him.

God, I can’t imagine.

When he opens his eyes, he looks at me softly. “I knew I loved music, and I loved my wife—we weren’t married yet, but I thought maybe?—”

Duncan sighs. “Marci always said, all you need is ten seconds to be brave. After ten seconds, it becomes the past, and all you have is the future.”

I swivel in my chair, knocking my knee into his as I remove my hand from his, stacking our plates together.

“Ten seconds? That’s it?” I ask as I slip down from the barstool, carrying the plates to the sink.

“Yeah. Whenever I’m freaking out, I take a deep breath, and count to ten.”

I turn to look at him, sitting there. Looking at me.

“You didn’t count to ten when your car died.”

Duncan smirks. “I fuck up, too, you know. No one is perfect.”

I have to disagree with him.

And just like that, he shrugs, changing the subject.

“I want to show you something,” he says, nodding for me to follow him.

When I dropped him and his kid off, I hadn’t really stayed long. Just long enough to attempt to play a song or two on the couch. Then I’d kissed him, and freaked him out and...

“Sure.”

I follow Duncan through the hall as he shows me the bathroom, the guest room, Bobby’s room, an open lounge, his bedroom, and lastly, his music studio and workshop.

In comparison to my two story design piece, his spacious ranch feels so much larger.

It’s full of color, and comfort.

And it’slivedin.

There are hoodies over the lounge couch, and dirty glasses on the kitchen counter, and a sink full of pots and pans.

There are clothes overflowing out of the hamper at the end of the hall.

The bed in his bedroom isn’t even made.

Duncan leans against the doorframe of his workshop, his signature sweat and Old Spice scent hitting me, and I don’t even hide the way I breathe it in.

“You’re going to be okay, you know,” he says softly, his breath hot on my neck.

I turn to lean into him. “With you, yeah. I think I am,” I reply as I lean up and kiss him.

He doesn’t falter or shrink back this time. Instead, he slides his fingers into my hair, pushing me against the doorframe with his body. His chest brushes against my hot pink Def Leopard tee, and it doesn’t take much for me to submit.

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