Page 12 of Catch
With the sun coming up and my brain still trying to process the situation I’d found myself in, I decided it was time to make some coffee and call my captain. It had been a long time since I’d taken a sick day, but if there was ever a day to do it, the day I was playing host to a famous, runaway country singer was definitely the right time.
The coffee brewed while I made the quick call, then I poured myself a cup and settled the carafe back onto the warming plate. Before I could turn around, I heard the unmistakable creak of that one board near the kitchen entrance that never settled in.
I turned around, already knowing Loxley would be standing there. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how ridiculouslygorgeousshe looked in my oversized t-shirt. The thing practically swallowed her whole, but she somehow made it look like it should have been hers.
“Mornin’,” I croaked, like some kind of dying animal, then cleared my throat. "Coffee?"
"Oh my god, please!"
She padded barefoot across the kitchen like she owned the place, her movements graceful and a little too sexy for so early in the morning. She held her hands out, her fingers wiggling in impatience, waiting for me to pour her a cup. I was just about to ask if she wanted milk, or cream, when she grabbed the mug, took a sip of it black, and let out a moan.
“Sleep okay?”
Instead of answering me directly, she nodded and asked, “What time was it when we got here?”
“Oh, I think about six.”
“I went right to sleep, and just woke up, Officer Brooks. Can you believe that?”
The amazement on her face caught me off guard. Had she never slept for twelve hours before? I did that every weekend. Yet there she was, eyes wide with wonder over something as basic as sleep.
“It's Miles,” I reminded her, tilting my head with a grin, trying to keep things light.
“Miles,” she repeated, her voice soft. She took another sip of her coffee, her gaze lingering just a bit too long on my bare chest, then meeting my eyes again. “This coffee is amazing.”
Loxley was in her twenties, but right then, she seemed so much younger. It wasn’t just the oversized T-shirt she was swimming in, or the way her messy hair framed her face in a ball of morning chaos. It was the way she marveled at something so simple. The innocence of it felt almost painful to me.
"So what happened yesterday?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "What did I stumble on?"
Her smile faltered, a flicker of something almost guilty crossing her face. It made my stomach tighten. "I’m tired, Miles," she said, the words heavy and honest. "I did a radio interview, asked my manager if I could drive back to the bus, and before he got in the car, I just drove away. But I’m not a child. I can go where I want."
Her words were sharp, defensive, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me. I raised an eyebrow. “Not in someone else’s car,” I reminded her.
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting away from mine. “I’ll admit I didn’t think about that before you pulled me over,” she muttered. “I just needed to get away.”
“Get away from what?” I pressed, grabbing her empty mug and refilling it before leading her over to the small table by the bay window. “What would make you drive away from everything on a whim?”
She shrugged, but I could see it in her eyes. She knew the answer, she just wasn’t ready to say it. "You may not think so, but again, I’m a grown woman, capable of making my own decisions, and doing whatever I want."
"Yet you can’t answer my question and instead deflect with a defensive posture."
She shot me a look of frustration with weariness in her eyes. “I really was just tired,” she sighed after a moment, looking down at the coffee in her hands. Her fingers curled around the mug. “It makes me sound petulant and spoiled, but it’s the truth. I’m not proud of being so weak.”
"Weak?" I snorted, shaking my head. "Weak people don’t drive off in someone else’s car and say, ‘fuck it all.’”
She bit her lip, but I could see the corners of her mouth tilt, as if she were thinking about telling me more.
“Sam was on the phone, adding more dates to this tour," she said, her voice thick with frustration. "I’m supposed to be thankful and happy for this life, but as long as I’m on this tour, I don’t get a say in anything. I sing what they want, when they want, and then do everything else in between. I’m lonely, I’m tired, and I just want to write my own music and feel something other than dread.”
I could feel the truth settle between us. This woman,theLoxley Adams, wasn’t just a performer. She was a person, weighed down by expectations, and a life she didn’t feel she was hers anymore. To the world, she was living the dream, but in reality, she was being controlled.
“Where were you headed?” I asked quietly, trying to shift the focus. “What was your end goal? I’ll make sure you get there.”
She hesitated, and I could feel her reluctance again. “Harmony Haven,” she whispered, almost as if she were confessing. “It’s the last place I remember having a glimmer of hope, when I performed at the Music Festival. And I thought I might be inspired to write in a town called Harmony Haven.”
Harmony Haven. A place she associated with peace and creativity. I wanted it also to be where she felt safe.
I could have suggested anything. A hotel in town. A rental car. Hell, I could’ve driven her to the nearest airport and left her to figure it out. But instead, I nodded, my voice unexpectedly firm. “Then just stay here.”
