I wash my face, brush my teeth, then I wrap myself in a robe and march back into the bedroom, fully prepared to do the smart thing.
The right thing.
But then I take in the scene before me and draw up short, bare feet catching on the carpet.
A fire crackles in the fireplace (yes, there’s a fireplace in the bedroom), and the savory-sweet smell of burning wood is just starting to fill the room. Hank is in sweatpants, sitting on the floor in front of the fire.
A guitar rests in his lap, and he’s tucked a sharpened yellow No. 2 pencil behind his ear.
Early morning sunlight shines through the windows, lining the thick slopes of his bare shoulders and arms in a golden halo. He’s smiling, eyes bright.
The glow inside my chest is written all over him, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
“I’m a lot horny and a little hungover. Perfect mood to write some music.” Hank pats the carpet beside him. “Come, sit. I have a feeling you’ll be good at this.”
“Hank.”
“What?”
I glance at the windows. “I gave you one night. That’s it. One night—”
“To make memories. I know. And this morning, we’ll be making music. Not the same thing.”
“I’d argue it is.”
He reaches behind him and produces a styrofoam tray holding our coffees. “Don’t make me threaten to take away your latte. Didn’t you say it was the best you’ve had? Ever?”
Goddamn it, I did. Because it’s true—everything I’ve had at Blue Mountain Farm has been the best, from the coffee to the food to the people. The music and the wood-burning fires . . .
The sex.
The absolutely phenomenal, mind-blowing sex.
I’m sore enough to merit an Advil or two. But I guess my body left behind any sense of self-preservation in Nashville because I’m sitting on the floor beside Hank and crossing my legs, curling my hands around my iced latte while the left side of my body tingles from the growing heat of the fire.
I notice an open notebook on the mantel. Its pages are blank music sheets.
“You really write your own music?” I ask, drinking my coffee and wanting to die because it’s so fucking delicious.
“I used to. When I played pro, it was my way of winding down. Blocking out all the noise, you know? But I haven’t written much at all in the past few years. Inspiration’s been in short supply.” He looks at me over the plastic lid of his cup. “Then yesterday, the bug bit me. So let’s write.”
He sets down his coffee and puts his hands on his guitar. The sinews and muscles in his thick forearms ripple as he strums. He plays a few chords each of songs I recognize. Fleetwood Mac. Beyoncé. The Beatles.
He stops suddenly, forehead creased with thoughtful lines. Then he starts again, this time plucking out a tune I don’t recognize.
“I don’t know if wanting you makes me a saint or a sinner,” he begins.
Goose bumps break out along my arms and legs. His singing voice is lovely, deep and just a little twangy.
I feel myself sinking into the moment. I should get up already and get to those emails. But Hank’s presence pins me to this spot.
Hank stops singing but keeps playing.
“Your turn,” he says, nodding at me. “Gimme a line.”
“How do I—”
“Just something honest.” He strums. “Whatever comes to mind.”
My heart leaps to my throat. I blink, the words spilling out of my mouth. “Whatever the case, there won’t be a clear winner.”
Hank’s nod deepens. “My wandering eye’s suddenly fixed on you.”
“I just—” I think for a second, waiting for the beat. “I just don’t know if I can see this through.”
“Yes! That’s perfect. Hang on, lemme write this down.” Hank grabs the pencil from behind his ear and scribbles some notes—literal music notes—on the blank page. He jots down the lyrics underneath them.
“You’re heaven and earth,” he continues. “I wanna make it work.”
I blink at the sudden heat in my eyes. “You’re the stars and the moon. You make me wanna twerk.”
Hank bursts out laughing, and Lord, if the sound doesn’t make my heart leap again. As dangerous as this little music-making game is, it’s also really fun. Saying the truth aloud, even through the lens of song lyrics, makes me feel free.
“Just kidding,” I say. “How about you’re the stars and moon. You bring up old hurt.”
“Dig up old hurt.” He scratches out a word and writes another. “Great. Okay. What about a chorus about making a mess? Being messy? Like honey, I’m a mess, I’m a mess for you.”
“Honey, we’re a mess, but it’s the sweetest kind of blue.”
“We’re a mess?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And the blue. Is that blue as in—”
“The ache. You know the one you feel here.” I move my hand in a circle over my torso. “You feel it all, the excitement and the fear and the want, and it’s like this sweet, awful torture. Basically how you feel when you watch Bridgerton.”