Page 27 of Songbird
I reach down and splash her back. “You’ll get over it.”
The next half an hour spans a hundred years.
Dakota lasts no more than half that time before she paddles up to the shore, then circles back to drop her sopping-wet hulk onto the dock beside me. She watches the water with a lolling tongue, and I pretend to be fascinated by the tree line on the far bank as I wait for Rosie to finish her swim. In reality, I’m in knots every time her magnificent ass pops out of the water or when she bounces high enough to reveal the wet, furled peaks of her incredible tits. I cool my jets by listing all the reasons I’m on the dock and not in the water with my hands tangled in her hair and her legs wrapped around my waist.
She’s practically a client. She just broke up with someone and she’s vulnerable. She belongs in a Los Angeles mansion, not a shack in Sonoma Valley, and she’s way too special for a simple guy like me. So many reasons to keep my hands to myself.
When the show is finally over, Rosie swims toward the ladder at the side of the dock and pulls herself out of the water with a gratified sigh. I’m waiting with the flannel held out to wrap her up and my eyes focused on a ribbon of white clouds just over her head.
“That was fantastic,” she says as she slips her arms into the sleeves.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself.” I frown at her chattering teeth. “Now how about a hot shower before you catch a cold?”
Rosie fastens the final button on her shirt and plants her hands on her hips, then hits me with a grin that takes my breath away.
She’s always been radiant—there’s a reason Rosie’s so successful; she’s gotit, whateveritis—but I’ve never seen her more beautiful than she is now. Soaked in river water. Wearing my old shirt. Happy. Untroubled. And smiling prettily enough to make my heart race.
“Fine,” she says, and just when I think I’ve scored an easy win, she drops her head to one side. “And after I shower, how about I make us an early dinner?”
I clear the groan from my throat. “Sounds… like a plan.”
“Great!”
Rosie spins on her heel and heads up to the cabin, and Dakota trails after her without a backward glance. As I lament the fact that my best friend has dropped me for a prettier prospect, a puddle of red lace catches my eye. This time I don’t try to mask my moan.
I consider leaving Rosie’s panties on the wooden planks, but then swipe them up and ball them in my fist as I follow her to the cabin. I’ll figure out a way to sneak them back into her belongings. Drop them in one of those shopping bags or something. It’ll be like this never happened. Because she mightbe brilliant, she might be beautiful, but Rosalie Thorne’s also fucking complicated. And I don’t do complicated.
nine
Rosie
Ifallasleepquicklythat night, but I wake some hours later with anxiety gnawing my stomach. The high of making so many cutthroat moves earlier is gone, replaced with a little voice that says if I wasn’t alone before, I certainly am now. And what’s it all worth?
All I’ve ever wanted is to make music. I never set out to be a pop icon or—what did Finn call me? The female force behind a billion-dollar brand. I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it without an industry baron like Chip in my corner. So what the hell am I fighting for?
I pick up Finn’s watch from the nightstand and sigh. It’s nearly one a.m. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
Staring up at the beamed ceiling, I slip my hand beneath my pillow to touch the notebook tucked underneath. The song I wrote today is different from the tracks on my last two records. Less pop and more country, and although I’m happy with the lyrics, my fingers itch to play it on an instrument. Switch up the bridge. Experiment with the key. See if I can give it a littlemore…something. I hum the melody to myself in the darkness, but I still can’t figure out what’s missing.
The loft is dimly lit by moonlight filtering through the windows, and as the song’s final refrain leaves my throat, I pull the covers up to my chin and tally my years of sleeplessness. It began the week my grandmother died, and I don’t need a therapist to explain why. I’d never lived alone before, and even though it’s silly to think an eighty-year-old could protect me, I felt her absence so deeply that the night became an empty place without her in my life.
I should have slept better when I moved in with Chip, but that didn’t happen, and at the time I didn’t understand why. Once we were sleeping together, I’d wait until he was dead to the world, then creep out from beneath the covers and spend hours in the kitchen sipping cocoa and playing solitaire with my grandmother’s cards, flipping them the way she taught me until I was exhausted enough to pass out when my head hit the pillow.
I struggled even worse on tour. Abandoned by Chip. Moving constantly between hotels. Physically worn out by my relentless schedule. I should have slept like a baby, but I was overworked and overtired. Too wound up to ever wind down.
I think back to the first night with Finn on my personal protection team. It was the second week of my six-month tour, and I was staying in the best hotel in Chicago. I ordered room service, wrapped myself in a terry robe, and curled up at the suite’s dining table with Gram’s cards. Finn hovered in a corner while I played, a silent guardian like all the others except thatIhired him. And I remember thinking how that made things different. In the dark, all alone, I wanted to talk to him when I never wanted to talk to the others.
“Are you thirsty?” I asked with a gesture at the pitcher of cocoa. “There’s plenty.”
“No,” he replied, deep and smooth. After a shadow of a pause, he added, “Thank you.”
It was the genuine tone of histhank youthat nudged me to ask, “Do you know how to play gin rummy?”
His hesitation was obvious this time, like he didn’t want to tell the truth but couldn’t bring himself to lie. “Yes.”
I scooped up the cards and shuffled, then dealt them to the empty seat across from me.
“Those are yours,” I told him as I got up to fetch a notepad and pencil. “Let’s go.”
