* * *
No matter how long I stand at the window and watch him, I don’t think Blake’s going to look up and notice me.
And if I open the window and call out Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
I doubt he’s going to climb the trellis to get me.
He’s been sitting outside by the snowy fire pit for hours, well past sunset and into the dark of evening, moving only to crack open another beer from his six-pack or to top off the flames with a few fresh logs to keep it burning hot and bright.
I can’t stand seeing him down there. Brooding. Hurting. Alone.
Sure, I’m supposed to be heading out to put on another show with Ember at The Nest while he’s here, locked up inside his own head.
But I don’t think I could sing with my real heart if I knew Blake was beating himself up over things that aren’t his fault.
I don’t want to cancel on Ember, either, though.
So I guess I’ve only got one option.
I finish pinning my hair up in a little twist with lacquered sticks that give it just the perfect oomph of messy I like while keeping it out of my face. Then I pull on a sweater over my little strappy tank top with my favorite pair of jeans—this lucky thrift shop find, bell-bottoms that are tight in all the right places, loose enough to earn their name, and embroidered with flower appliques all over them.
Yes, they’re hokey, utterly kitschy, and totally me.
I pull on my winter boots, slide on my coat, sling my guitar over my shoulder, and head downstairs with hope bright in the back of my throat, like a quiet note waiting to burst into song.
Blake’s so lost in his trance he doesn’t even look up when I open the kitchen door and peek out back.
He’s brooding in the firelight, golden light flickering off the edges of his stark, handsome profile. It catches in glints on his hair to make it gleam like polished dark wood and streaks of snow.
This man.
Achingly gorgeous, even when he’s unaware he has an audience.
I never really think about how old he is. He just radiates this ageless vitality, even when he’s in pain.
But I can see the lines in his eyes tonight.
The strain.
The pain reflected in icy-blue depths. They capture and give back the light from the fire pit in sapphire fragments.
He’s living with the old ghosts tonight, I think. I can’t leave him to their mercy.
“Hey,” I say, smiling as I drift closer to his chair. Reaching down, I tap the empty beer can next to him. “Looks like you’re all tapped out for the night.”
He jerks slightly, waking up, even though his eyes are fully open. He looks up at me like he doesn’t recognize me, too wrapped up in the thoughts of the Blake he was before he ever met me. Then his gaze clears and he smiles faintly.
“Whole fridge shelf waiting for me inside if I want it.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” I fold my arms against the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulders to watch him with a smile. “I think you need a nice hot cup of coffee instead.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “Too lazy to brew up a pot.”
“Good thing they make it for you at The Nest,” I say with a grin, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “C’mon. You’re coming out with me.”
Blake makes an odd noise but doesn’t budge. “I am? You want my buzzed ass around that bad, darlin’?”
“Yep. I’m playing with Ember at The Nest again, and I want you to come.”
I sound firm, confident.
Honestly? I’m shaking in my boots.
This is halfway asking him out on a date.
It’s openly admitting I want him there when I’m pouring my heart out in song.
And he’s looking at me like he knows, his expression strange, brows knit together. He tilts his head and studies me in that gentle bear way he has.
Everything goes numb and warm inside.
He’s got this way of looking at people that says he really sees them, open and frank and honest.
It’s a little scary.
Like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to really see me, and now I’m in this man’s spotlight.
After a moment, his eyes soften, his boyish smile returning—still small, barely there, but warmer. “You gonna sing that song about the birds made for the sky again?”
I flush, the heat in my cheeks chasing back the cold.
“If that’s a request,” I whisper. “So…you’re coming? It’s a lot warmer at the café than it is out here.”
“Well…wouldn’t wanna get frostbite, would I?” he asks flatly, leaving me in suspense.
There’s something else to it, too.
That rolling, husky sweetness to his voice. Rich emotion that infuses every word to give them meaning, weight, life.
And all the words in my mouth dry up, leaving me silent as he chuckles and levers himself to his feet, bending over to pick up a pail of sand.