Chapter 5
Amelie
“What. The. Actual. Fuck?” Suzette stares at me like she’s never seen me before.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Suze. I’m flabbergasted. Flummoxed, really.”
“You touched him. Voluntarily.”
“That’s not even the half of it,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head in disbelief.
“What do you mean?”
“When he first walked up to me, he brushed his fingers against my back and rested his hand on my shoulder, and I?—”
“You what?!”
My eyes may never close again from sheer shock, and I’m not sure how to articulate what I’m thinking and feeling. “I…didn’t hate it.”
I whisper the last three words, and Suzette’s eyes blink like they’re connected to a metronome, in perfect rhythm, seven or eight times.
“Wow…” she responds quietly.
If anyone heard our conversation, they’d probably think we were making a mountain out of a molehill, but the truth remains that my reaction is entirely surprising. Carter sinks into the chair he just vacated moments before and transfers a stemless wine glass into my hand.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” I sip nervously from the glass, making sure I don’t spill any on my sweater. “You said you use words for a living. Are you a writer?”
“Yeah. I write for my guys and sometimes with Charlie,” he says as he points to the stage with the same hand that holds his cocktail.
“You know Charlie?” I ask. “He’s my cousin.”
“I know. He told me you were here and asked me to come introduce myself.”
Oh my god, how mortifying! Charlie sent him over here? He didn’t come on his own? He probably doesn’t even want to be over here.
Oblivious to my embarrassment, he continues. “We met a few years back, and he’s taken a lot of time with me over the past year, helping me get into bigger writing workshops.”
I smile at that. Charlie is nothing if not a teacher and helper at heart. I always thought he’d teach music if the professional gig hadn’t turned out to be anything.
It turned out to be something, alright.
A big something.
“Oh. You’re a songwriter.”
“Among other things.”
“Well, that one thing seems really interesting.”
“It can be.”
The way his lips press against the crystal lowball glass makes me wonder how they’d feel against my skin, and if I’d been standing when that thought skipped across my mind like a rock on a river, my knees might have buckled.
He continues. “The moments when you hear a melody you created come to life are magical. Wholly and undeniably perfect.”
Nodding, I’m not sure how to respond, and with the rapid-fire thoughts rushing around in my head, I’m afraid to speak for fear of what’ll come out of my mouth.
“What do you do?”
“I’m currently doing a fellowship at Vanderbilt. I’m a psychiatrist at the hospital.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That might be the sexiest thing about you.”
I sputter, nearly choking on an ill-timed sip of wine.
“Well, the sexiest thing I know about, anyway.” His eyes scan my face and trail over the rest of me before meeting mine again.
My brain quite literally screams at me to look away, turn away, stop talking to him. He’s being too forward, too flirty, and I don’t like it.
Not usually.
Add to that how my eyes refuse to obey the command from my brain. They can’t drink up enough of him, and they haven’t even left his face. Not really. I might have watched him as he walked to the bar earlier.
Maybe a little.
Okay, the whole way.
I compose myself. Finally swallowing the wine without choking, I hold a hand up, my palm facing him, before I speak. “I’m sorry. I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to me that way before. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Now, that is a shame.” His response is nearly a whisper, grumbly and growly close to my ear.
“What is?”
“You deserve to be told how gorgeous you are. How sexy you are. How beautiful that brain is.”
I stare at the man beside me. Hell, by now, it’s like he’s wrapped around me, and I have absolutely no clue how to respond. So, of course, the most insipid thing I’ve ever said comes barreling out of my mouth. “How do you know how beautiful my brain is?”
“Well, for starters, a PhD is a big fucking deal. I have no clue what the statistics are for how many people have one, how many people finish one, or how many people attempt one, but it really doesn’t matter. You finished the highest level of study there is in academia. That’s badass.”
I clear my throat. “Well, I could bore you with those statistics, but I won’t. And you’re right. It’s a pretty outstanding feat, and a lot of work. And I’m a PhD and an MD.”
I’m working so hard on self-assessment and self-affirmation. It’s one thing of many that I realized I need from myself. People praise me for my achievements often enough that I feel like I’ve succeeded in my field, but knowing within myself that what I’ve accomplished is a massive feat becomes more and more important to me as I get older.
“Very, very impressive.” He places his nearly empty glass on the small table in front of us and slides to the edge of his seat, scanning my petite frame with his eyes before continuing. “Are you meeting someone here? Waiting for somebody to arrive?”
“No. I came to see Charlie and support the band.”
“Do you know them well? The rest of the guys you’re not related to?”
“Not really. They’re not exactly the people I hang out with.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I just… I’m not the kind of girl you see hanging around musicians.”
His eyes darken for a second, but clear just as quickly. “What kind of girl is that?”
“Tall, blonde, leggy, curvy… not nerdy.” I answer as directly and honestly as I can.
His face remains stone-like for one heartbeat, two, and then he surprises me… again. Laughter erupts from him, his head thrown back and his chest expanding and contracting with heavy breaths.
“Look, I know I’m not the typical groupie, but you don’t have to laugh at me.”
“Amelie. No, no. Please. You misunderstand. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you have no idea?—”
He stops abruptly, shaking his head.
“No idea about what?”
Another shake of his head precedes words that seemingly come out of nowhere.
“Charlie is a good guy. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here supporting him in a place that so obviously makes you uncomfortable. Derek is, too, and the other guys. There are plenty more musicians out there like him, too. Musicians with families and children and mortgages. Not drug problems and a revolving door of women. Ones who play because they can’t do anything else. They’ve tried, and they’ve failed to get the love of the rhythms and melodies out of their minds.”
Flabbergasted, my mouth drops as I listen. The conviction in his words, in his tone, penetrates to my gut. “You sound like you know from experience.”
I stare at him, wondering why he sounds so adamant about the topic. Did I cross a line? Strike a nerve? Before I can ask, he balances the back of his hand on my knee, palm open, waiting for me to slip my hand into his.
“Dance with me.”
It’s not a request, but it doesn’t feel like a command either. It’s almost like he’s resigned himself to the fact that we have to do it. Like it’s inevitable.
And in this moment, I completely agree.