Chapter 7
Carter
One song.
That’s all I’d ask from her.
I just want to hold her in my arms for one single song.
Four minutes.
It won’t be enough.
Not if this buzzing in my chest is any indication of the connection we share.
Not if the way her skin warms underneath my hands gives me ideas about other parts of her body bending and melding to my desires.
Dios mío, this woman is incredible.
A doctor. And not just any doctor, but one with a PhD and a medical license. Smart times two.
The last chorus of the song I don’t recognize plays, and I brace myself for her retreat. But she surprises me and stays in my arms as the house DJ seamlessly weaves one song into another.
This one I do know.
George Strait’s lilting voice came through the speakers, clear as a bell, singing about getting carried away by a woman… how nothing is ordinary when he’s with her.
I understand it… for the first time in a long time, I get it.
The reason men write songs about women.
My fingers itch for a pen and my notebook, but there’s no way I’m letting go of Amelie first.
The piano and fiddle fade, and again, I steel myself.
But again, she stays in my arms as the next song starts. She hasn’t looked at me since we started dancing. I know because I can’t take my eyes off of her.
Her comment earlier about not being the typical woman that hangs around bands… I laughed to keep from hauling her into my arms and whispering everything I’d do to her body.
She might have tolerated my fingers trailing across her shoulders before I knew she didn’t always like that. But I doubt she’d take as kindly to me bending to her ear, grabbing her ass in both hands, and practically growling like a feral beast about how I wanted to see every inch of her body just so I could tell her how inexplicably wrong she sees herself.
I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a woman.
Have I wanted plenty? Sure.
Have I been with a decent percentage of the ones I wanted? Sure.
Being a musician is a draw, and it certainly makes it easier to make connections with people.
The problem?
The connection has never felt real. Not like this one.
We dance for another two songs before the house lights flicker overhead. She lifts her head and finds me looking down at her intently.
“Carter?” she asks.
I offer a low, rumbly hum as a response, one that sounds like the E-string on my bass.
“I think Charlie and the guys are about to start their set.”
“Yeah.”
“Guess we should make our way back to our seats. Settle in for the show.” She says the words, but she doesn’t let me go. So, I don’t either.
I chuckle. “How many concerts do you go to where the crowd is settled in?”
Narrowing her eyes, she surprises me yet again and quips back, “Are you picking on me, Carter?”
My grin grows until my eyes crinkle at the corners. “Maybe I am. What would you do about it, anyway?”
“Probably silently psychoanalyze you and figure out who hurt you enough that you needed to ‘do therapy’ by writing songs.”