Page 92 of Wild Eyes
Except it’s West’s T-shirt.
But it has a faded black-and-white photo of me in a spotlight, holding a mic with my signature bandana tied around it, and wearing a pair of cut offs so short that the pocket liners peek out.
“He usually wears it but hasn’t lately.”
Probably because my eyes would have rolled out of my head like they are now.
“Huh,” I say dumbly. Because I don’t know what else to say. This man has done nothing but treat me like I’m the most normal person he’s ever met.
No one treats me like that.
Least of all people who are fans.
“Yeah, told you so. Anyway…” She tosses the shirt, and I watch it land in a heap on the floor on the far side of the bed. I have an urge to pick it up, but I’m not sure I want to touch it.
I’m not mad West didn’t tell me. In fact, I appreciate it. And yet…it feels a little like he withheld something from me. Something integral to how he sees me, how we interact. I’d heard him singing my song that first night, but I assumed it had just been stuck in his head.
I brush the nagging sensation aside and focus back on his daughter, who has now crawled under the covers, so she’s leaned back against the headboard at my side.
“Okay, Skylar. Your bear lesson beginsnow…”
She starts to talk.
She talks, and she talks, and she talks. Eventually she switches over to talking about nature in more general terms. She explains photosynthesis. She tells me all about how plants turn light and water and all these things from their immediate surroundings into energy—into life. And as I lie there with my eyes closed, the process strikes me as both remarkably simple and remarkably special.
I don’t know when the talking stops; all I know is that I’m not awake to experience it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WEST
I wakeup to the smell of bacon and the subtle thump of bass on a song I’d know anywhere.
I know it because it’s one of Skylar’s.
Skylar, who slept down the hall from me last night, with my daughter starfished beside her—or kind of on top.
When I peeked in after night check, the door was open, light spilling from inside.
I had the crazy idea that I’d check on her, only to find her passed out with my kid. A sight that made my heart skip a few beats. Rather than wake them, I just flicked off the bedside lamp and left, only slightly disappointed she hadn’t been alone.
I’m making any excuse to spend time around her at this point. We have dinner together daily. Grocery shop at the same time, because why take two cars to the same place? Also, charging a Tesla out here is a fucking nightmare. We bump into each other at the coffeepot in the kitchen when I take a midmorning break. After that, she follows me back to the barn, conversation flowing between us easily. She sits on the bleachers at ringside, writing while I ride.
I catch her staring at me sometimes. She blushes every time I do, but then she focuses so hard on the notepad in her lap that I get free rein to stare at her openly.
The lack of dark circles beneath her eyes. The subtle glow on her skin from time spent outdoors. The relaxed set to her plush mouth.
She’s always looked good to me.
But after weeks spent in Rose Hill, she looksbetter.
I rub my hands over my face and stretch. That’s when I hear voices coming from downstairs. But they aren’t talking.
They’re singing along.
I grin and give my head a shake, marveling at the way my kids have taken to her.
When I exchanged them with Mia at soccer last weekend, she poked me and said, “You fucking one-upper. All they talked about this week was Skylar Stone. I’ll never be the cool parent at this rate.”
