Page 16 of Heart Beats

“You didn’t tell me that. Not that you’re obligated to tell me everything. Or anything. I don’t have expectations.”

I prop on one elbow and meet those bottomless brown eyes. “Get some expectations, angel. This isn’t an extended booty call. You’re not a stopover, you’re my destination.”

“You should put that in a song.”

“Musicians,” I say, smiling and shaking my head. “Always thinking about the next song.” I drop a kiss on her silky peach lips. One on the end of her nose. Then I meet her eyes again. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. I still don’t. I’ve got vocal nodules. They’re benign, and the doctor thinks they’ll heal naturally with a few weeks’ rest. He said to start with three, then reassess.”

She bolts upright, presses her palms to my chest, and pushes me onto my back. “I know what nodules are. You shouldn’t be talking. At all. No more talking, Marshall.”

A grin stretches across my face. I love when she usesmyname. Nobody else in my current life does, because I haven’t wanted anyone else to. I reach up, stroking her hair and cheek, running the pad of my thumb along her lower lip, currently curved in the opposite direction from mine. “Then how am I going to tell you I—”

Her index finger buttons my mouth before I can get the words out. “No. More. Talking. Zero. None.”

I give her a silent thumbs-up, then the cross-my-heart motion.

The stern edge melts from her expression, and she sighs. “You should have told me right away.”

That I love her? Yes. Now I’ll have to wait three weeks.

When the doctor told me I needed a break from the tour to heal, I was happy. Fucking ecstatic. To have three solid weeks with Maria felt like a win, not a potentially career-altering diagnosis.

Yeah, the doctor recommended I keep all vocal use to the absolute minimum, but I didn’t take him literally. It’s the constant, hardcore singing that caused the damage, not conversation.

I didn’t count on Maria being the enforcer, but I should have. She’s a musician, of course she’s educated about my condition. And she’s Maria, a person whose life runs primarily on black and white, with very little gray.

Not talking for weeks is going to make taking our relationship to the next level a challenge. I’ve never shied away from a challenge. Never failed to attain anything I set my sights on.

Maria and I don’t need words. We have other ways to communicate, and I plan to use them all to show her how I feel.

* * *

jagger

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop open when Maria’s guitar student clears his throat from the doorway.

“Hey, uh, Jagger… Are you still going to be here next week?” the gangly teenager asks.

I’ve been following orders about not talking, so I give him the thumbs-up.

“Awesome. Cool. See you then!” He gives me arock-ongesture, then disappears into the entryway and out the front door.

It’s common knowledge that I’m staying here, and after a week of commotion-filled days, things have settled down. Aside from occasionally signing autographs while I’m out leading a normal life, the town has accepted me as one of their own. A new experience for me, and I have no complaints.

The kid was Maria’s last lesson of the day, so I stow my stuff and get to work setting the table. Serving the meal onto plates. Pouring two glasses of her favorite wine. Anything and everything I can do to make her happy. And yeah, to weave myself into her life.

I’m lighting a couple of taper candles when guitar music drifts into the kitchen. It only takes a few notes for me to recognize the song. My pulse and cock rise as I cross to the living room. Maria is effortlessly sexy. Always. When she’s making music—fucking sexy as hell. Watching her playmymusic… I’m not sure my cock could get any harder.

“Were you waiting for me?” she asks, flattening her palm on the strings of a Martin acoustic.

I’d wait for her forever. And I’d tell her that if I were allowed to use words. I shake my head, rolling my hand in akeep-goingmotion.

“Steven—he’s the student who just left,” she says, settling her fingers into place on the fretboard. “He’s losing interest. I can tell he practices, but there’s no enthusiasm when he plays. It’s mechanical.”

My dick pushes against my fly when she strums the first chord ofRevolution—a song I wrote when I was around Steven’s age.

“He’s asked mea lotof questions about you during his lesson time.” One of her sexy fucking laughs floats through her smiling lips. “I thought… maybe if I surprise him with one of your songs for his next piece, he’ll find his passion.”

I have no idea about the kid, but I’ve damn sure found my passion, and her name is Maria.

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