Almost Married

He shifted closer to the door.

“It’s called, what’s my name? Crazy lady doesn’t count. And, for bonus points, why are you stalking my brother? The right answer means I don’t call the cops.” She gave him a serene smile that scared the shit out of him.

He couldn’t remember her name. He met so many people he couldn’t keep them straight, but he remembered that face with its blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and even sharper tongue. That snarling New Yawk City accent. “Where’re you from? Queens?”

“Brooklyn. Now answer the question.”

“I’m not stalking your brother.”

“Brrrap.” She made an obnoxious wrong buzzer sound. “See, when you hang out in front of Steph and Dave’s place every night, that’s called stalking.”

He scowled. “I’m just writing music.”

“Oh, very nice. And it’s Christina. That’s the last time I tell you that, so write it down if you have to. You still have my card?”

He shrugged.

She let out a huge sigh and dug another one out of her purse. “There. Last time you get one of those too.”

He looked at it. Christina Righetti Olsen, R.N. There was a big black X through Righetti and Olsen was written in by hand diagonally between the Righetti and the R.N. She probably killed her first husband. Then it said: Home Health Care When You Need It Most. Her number too.

“When do you need home health care the most?” he asked.

“Weekends and nights. It’s a side gig. I’m usually an oncology nurse at the hospital.”

His eyes widened at the thought of Christina as a nurse. He couldn’t imagine a less nurturing person to take care of sick people. He wouldn’t let her in the room if he was on his deathbed.

“So, let’s hear what you’ve got so far,” she said.

When he just stared at her, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re not really making music here, are ya?” She pulled out her cell. “I’ll call the cops. Dave says Steph won’t let him, but no one stops me.”

“Wait!”

She smiled sweetly.

He glared at her. “You always get in your brother’s business?”

She raised her brows. “I get in everyone’s business.”

He pulled his guitar from the back seat, tuned it, and sang her the song about Steph, “Missing Limb.” He always loved an audience, even if it was just one person. He finished and looked over at her.

“That blows,” she said.

He jerked back in surprise. Everyone loved his music.

She waved dismissively. “What else you got?”

“Who the hell asked you anyway?” he roared. That was the first song he’d written in a year, and she shot it down just like that. He’d like to hear her compose an original melody and the lyrics to go with it.

She cocked her head. “Your career’s in a slump. You know why?”

“Enlighten me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Because you’re still five years ago. You’re playing the same old hits. Or variations of them.”

“We just put out a new album last year.”

“Meh. Warmed-up leftovers.”

So furious he was almost shaking with it, he put his guitar back in its case. He wasn’t going to play one more note as long as she was in the car.

He had to force himself to unclench his jaw. “What do you know about music, Christina Olsen, R.N.? What the hell does a nurse know about music?”

She set her beer down in the cup holder and leveled him with a serious look. “I’ve been following your career since day one. I know your music very well. I love it. But it’s time you pushed yourself. Take some risks. Break out from the pack.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered.

“I’ve got your poster on my bedroom wall. Know why?”

Now he was on more familiar ground. He gave her his slow, sexy smile. “I’ve got an idea.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, you’re pretty, but it’s your eyes. They’ve got soul. They say to me, there’s something beautiful and deep waiting to come out. I want to hear the music from your soul.”

He scoffed. “That song I played was from my soul.”