Page 36 of Sing You Home (Nashville Star 1)

Upstairs, Sal inspects two guest bedrooms and an office, finally settling inside the spacious master bedroom. The room’s clean and tidy, smelling of cedar and campfire, with a king-sized bed and a dresser. White linens, blush throw pillows, a large window that overlooks the backyard. The room looks comfortable and cozy. Sal longs for a nap on the bed. For unfettered sleep.

Moving to the dresser, Sal dances fingers across a framed wedding photo showing her and Luke on a beach, their eyes locked so intently on each other it’s clear their lips are next.

Breaking his watchful silence, Luke volunteers, “We got married in San Diego. Your hometown.” He smiles. “Fifty people. Fireworks.”

Sal stares at the photo, at the ocean. “I loved the water.”

Luke’s voice falls to a hush. “That’s right, darlin’. You did.”

How she craves a memory from that day. A slip of the ring, a taste of the cake—chocolate or vanilla—even the feel of Luke’s kiss, his mouth on hers.

Sal wonders if she stood on tiptoes to kiss him or if he came down to her level, a warm hand pressed on the small of her back.

Cheeks flushing, she steals a look at Luke as he arranges her luggage. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him. She can see he’s a good man. Intense. Protective. Handsome.

But what about their marriage? Were they good? As a couple? She’s been gone nine months. Sal thinks about that phone call she overheard on the bus. What if Luke had gotten over her death, was ready to live again, and now she’s back, torpedoing his brand-new life? He hasn’t moved to touch her, and Sal isn’t sure that’s what she even wants, but ...

What if that’s the reason he’s kept his distance? Because he’s moved on with someone else.

With a sigh, Sal opens the closet. Her gaze swivels around the contents: clothes, baskets, buttercup-yellow tennis shoes. She looks up at Luke curiously.

He steps around the bed and leans back against the dresser. “You were a runner.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Like exercise?”

He laughs, the first honest laugh she’s heard from him, and Sal’s heart speeds up. He has a nice laugh. One that’s easygoing and happy, one that has his deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I got you some things in case what’s in the closet doesn’t fit you.” Luke flips open the lid of the suitcase. He brings out of it a few changes of clothes—T-shirts, jeans, leggings, silk pajamas. Last, but not least, is a cell phone.

Sal stares up at him. “You got me a phone?” After a life with Roy, the gesture screams freedom. Kindness, too.

“I did.” Luke shows her how to call up the screen. “I plugged in the numbers you used the most. I’m number two, right behind the pizza place.”

Sal laughs.

Damn. He’s funny too. She’s a goner.

She smiles. “Thank you.” As she takes the phone from his hand, they brush fingertips, and Sal shivers. Every nerve ending is lit and electric, leaping to life at Luke’s touch, unspooling something in her that’s been dormant far too long.

That’s when the memory hits like an icy blast. A similar phone in her hand, the glow of light on her face, and a text, a cruel text that said, He doesn’t love you.

The phone slips from her hand.

Sal goes dizzy at the memory, and her knees nearly buckle, but Luke shoots an arm out to catch her.

The world blurs as he holds her up, helps her sit at the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of Sal, wrapping a large palm around her knee.

She leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes, disoriented, trying to capture the memory.

“You’re exhausted.” Luke reaches out, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. Sal can’t help it; she leans into his warm touch, his gentle hand.

But before she can get too comfortable, he’s drawing away. “How about you shower and I’ll fix some dinner?”

“That sounds great.”

Luke stands, hesitates before he exits. As if he hates to leave her. “You’ll be okay?”

Sal’s lips thin. She’s already sick of the are-you-okay, of the watchful and worried eyes.

---