Page 9 of Wingwoman
Turning on my sink, he rinsed the almond milk from his shirt. Then after wringing out the excess water, he handed it to me and I popped it into the dryer.
I cleared my throat as we both sat back down on the couch, the hum of the dryer providing background noise. His arms flexed as he threw one over the back of the sofa, leaning casually against the cushions and I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering down the tight muscles of his abs.
“So, Josh. Tell me a bit about what you’re looking for in a woman.”
A bemused smirk curved his lush mouth.
“Well, I have to be honest with you. I’m not looking for a date.”
That caught my attention. “You’re not?”
He shook his head. “No. You were right when you said I can get my own dates. And I do. Quite frequently, I might add.”
Okay. That wasn’t quite what I’d said. But I marked down the wordarrogantin my notes. Not that I expected anything less from a celebrity. “What are you doing here if you can get your own dates?”
“What I need goes beyond that. It’s much harder to find, more difficult to vet.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
The ambiguity of his statement had my mind racing. Swimming with all kinds of scenarios. A woman that wasn’t a date and was difficult to vet?
“What I’m looking for is more nuanced. She’d have to sign an NDA.”
Oh, wow. Was he one ofthosemen I read about in books? The sort of guy that had dungeons and whipped women and made them call him Master? I could find a woman who was into that. And it was just the sort of kinky shit I would totally expect a seemingly wholesome and famous cowboy to be secretly hiding.
I narrowed my eyes at him, sitting taller in the armchair. “Why don’t you just spit it out already, Josh?”
Momentary surprise lifted his face, but disappeared as quickly as it came on. “I need a muse.”
“A… muse?”
Well, that was a new one. I’d been asked to find a lot of different partners for a lot of different people… but never a muse.
“Yes. A muse. A woman who will inspire my next album.”
I uncrossed my legs, ignoring the way his gaze scraped over me, as tangible as if he, himself, had been dragging his fingertips over my skin. Even though my brain ignored it, my flesh responded, pebbling with goosebumps. I brushed my palms over my arms in an effort to rub away the gooseflesh like a fleck of dirt.
“Oh.” Well, that wasn’t as bad as I thought. “A muse.” I wrote it down next to the word arrogant and circled it with a scribbled question mark beside it.
I wasn’t really sure what was required from a muse. Much like a girlfriend, it probably differed depending on the man and woman. “So… tell me a bit about what you’re looking for in a… um, a muse.”
He cleared his throat and pulled one leg up over his knee, flashing me a seemingly shy smile. Those full lips curved, revealing a row of flawless white teeth. That same liquid feeling I had experienced in the bar when I first saw him overtook my body again, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to shiver in the deliciously tense chill that rocked through my core. My blood softened, rushing in quick, streaming pulses through my body.
The soft, early evening light streamed in through the open window, splashing a rosy hue across his tanned face. “Well,” his voice resonated smooth like the bow across the string of a violin. “According to Greek mythology, there were nine muses… all daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who was known as the personification of memories. The idea behind the nine muses was that each specialized in a different type of art, science, or history. But each one had a talent for helping the Gods of Olympia forget the evils of the world while not losing their past sorrows and identities. Their job wasn’t to numb the pain, but through their song and dance, help the Gods relive, relieve, and heal the tragedies of their past. I want that. I want someone who will inspire me. Not only make me forget for a while or numb the pains of my past, but a woman who will remind me what it is to be alive. Someone who can help me move on from tragedies… not just forget them.”
Wow. That was… gorgeous. I’d never before heard a musician quote Greek mythology before. And though I wasn’t one for country music, if he could express himself that beautifully by simply answering one of my questions? Maybe his music was worth giving a try.
I chewed the tip of my pen, biting a little too hard on the plastic. I had to stop thinking like a woman who was drawn to the man before me and start thinking like his employee. That’s what I was. Hiswingwoman. Not hiswoman. “That’s beautiful. Truly.” He beamed with the compliment. “But, um, it’s not exactlyhelpful.”
“How is that not helpful?” He tilted his head, his smile slipping, and those bright eyes wrinkled into a curious frown. “I want a woman beautiful enough to inspire my music. Smart enough to stimulate my mind. Wise enough to guide me. Patient enough to bear with me. Wild enough to free me, but tame enough to keep me from going over the edge.”
I swallowed my snort. “Oh, is that all?”
His eyes tightened at the corners. “If you’re not up to the challenge, I can find someone who is, Ms. Marcoux-Evans.”
“That’s just… a lot to expect out of one woman.”
He smiled. Just the tiniest smirk of the right corner of his mouth and that sexy dimple was back. “I expect a lot. But I give a lot, too. Mnemosyne’s daughters, the muses, each specialized in onlyonecomponent of inspiration. I want the real deal—Mnemosyne herself. The personification of memories.”
