Page 19 of Stick Break
I glance at her again, then shift a little on the bench. “What do you usually do to relax?” I ask, even though we promised to keep things surface-level. I can’t help it. I want to know more. I want to know her.
She doesn’t answer right away, and for a second I wonder if I pushed too far. But then she tucks her hair behind her ear and says, “I write and play music.”
I blink, like I’m surprised by that. Actually maybe I am. I knew she sang, but I didn’t know she wrote music too. “That’s awesome. I have, like, negative music skills. I can’t play anything. My singing is strictly shower only, and you’re welcome,” I tease.
She laughs her eyes sparkling. “What’s your go to shower song?”
I smirk. “That’s classified.”
“Oh, so it’s embarrassing,” she says, clearly delighted. “Let me guess… something dramatic. Whitney Houston? Celine Dion?”
I gasp. “I’ll have you know I nail, ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ The acoustics in the bathroom are phenomenal.”
She grins and bumps her shoulder against mine. “Now I have to hear it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You volunteering to sit outside the door while I shower? That’s bold, Charley.” Jesus, I can’t think about her climbing into the shower with me. I do not need to be sporting a boner while fishing.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe I just want to know what kind of guy I’m stuck with for the week.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say, a little softer this time.
She holds my gaze, and for a second, the teasing fades into something quieter. Warmer. The air between us shifts.
Then she looks away, lips curving. “I think you’re full of something.”
“Hey,” I burst out.
She laughs. “Tell me, do you incorporate your ‘moves’ when you’re belting out Celine?”
I grin. “Be nice. You weren’t supposed to see that. My disco skills are also highly classified.”
She laughs, really laughs, and it’s the kind that makes your chest feel lighter just hearing it. I’d do a hundred more ridiculous dance moves if it meant I could hear that sound again.
“I guess I’ll have to get a bell after all,” she says, a teasing gleam in her eye. “A woman can only take so much of those moves.”
“Does that mean you like them, or hate them?”
“They’re not bad, Rip. I mean, I’ve seen worse.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me today,” I joke.
She grins, eyes on the water. “I can teach you to play. Least I can do after you introduced me to the relaxing world of fishing.”
I narrow my eyes, scanning through a mental inventory of the beach house. “Did you bring a guitar? Must’ve been a tight squeeze getting it through the window.”
She laughs, but there’s no real joy behind it. More of a hollow echo than a belly laugh. “Right. No. Didn’t bring it.”
Her smile fades, her rod twitching as she watches her bobber like it might reveal the secrets of the universe.
“What’s Rip short for?” she asks, casual but curious.
“Ripley.”
She turns slightly. “I like it. It suits you.”
“Charly suits you,” I say. So does Indie Rhodes, but that part stays behind my teeth.
“I’m named after my dad,” she says softly.
