Epilogue WES
Epilogue
W ES
Three months later
The sound of a strumming guitar is what wakes me, and I smile into my pillow at the familiar melody. Murphy’s been working on this one song for weeks now, and I’m starting to enjoy the way it brings me gently out of sleep in the mornings.
I also enjoy the fact that she normally writes music wearing nothing but her panties.
That thought is enough to push me out of my warm cocoon. I roll over, push up onto my elbows, and peer over the edge of the bed. Sure enough, Murphy is sitting cross-legged on the floor with her guitar in her lap, a notebook open in front of her, and a pencil between her teeth.
She doesn’t realize I’m watching her—she rarely does when she’s as focused as she looks right now—and I take advantage, tracing my gaze over her bare skin. I wish the guitar wasn’t perfectly positioned to hide so much of her body, but I also like the tease of it. My morning wood begins to demand more attention as I imagine her dusky nipples pressed up against the back of the guitar.
“I can feel you watching me.” Her eyes flick up to mine as she stops strumming, but then she’s looking at the notebook and making a few marks.
Flipping my body around, I bring my head to the end of the bed and cross my arms, resting my chin against them.
“Here I was thinking I was being sneaky.”
She giggles, and the sound twists itself around my heart the way it always does.
“Not a chance in hell. I can always feel you watching me.”
It doesn’t surprise me that she senses my attention, because I feel the same way. There have been more than a few instances over the past several months we’ve been together that I’ll look up from what I’m doing—whether it’s chopping veggies in the kitchen to prep for the next meal service, or rinsing in the shower, or just sitting on the bench in the vineyard—because I know she’s there.
It’s like my heart and hers are magnets, and something inside me notices when she’s near. It’s wild, and I love everything about it.
“What do you think about ... this?” Her fingers return to the strings.
I’ve heard her play the chords so many times, I can tell she’s starting in the middle. I’m proven right when she sings the last line of the chorus before moving into what I’m guessing is the second verse. It’s a folky little number that she’s working on for a popular singer from the nineties who has decided to jump back into performing again.
Murphy’s words are soft and warm and she closes her eyes, her head falling back as she sings. I’m no music expert, but it’s easy to see how damn talented Murphy is. I’m entranced. Humble Roads is lucky as hell to have her writing for them and their artists.
I think they should sign her, but in the two or three times I’ve mentioned it since she started working with that Todd guy, Murphy just pats my hand and reminds me she’s happier with how things are now than she ever imagined. So much of her performance joy was actually in hearing her music, not about being onstage.
As long as my girl’s happy, I don’t care either way.
When she finishes, she presses her hand flat against the strings, her eyes finding mine.
“It’s really good.”
Her smile stretches wide. “Really?”
I nod. “I especially like that little yodeling thing you did at the end.”
“I wasn’t yodeling ,” she says, bursting into laughter.
“Well, I don’t know what it’s called. The part where your voice wobbled around a bunch.”
Murphy falls back slightly, leaning against the couch behind her.
“It’s called melismatic singing,” she finally answers, wiping her eyes. “But I can’t wait to tell Vivian you called it yodeling.”
I shrug. “Like I’m going to know what melatonin singing is.”
At that, Murphy lets out another laugh and then sets her guitar aside, doubling over in hysterics. I mispronounced it on purpose. I’ll do anything to hear her happy.
It doesn’t hurt that she’s sitting there topless, either. I bite my lip, watching her tits jiggle.
Eventually, her laughter fades. Murphy gets onto her knees, scoots toward me, and presses a kiss against my temple.
“I needed that this morning,” she tells me. “Thanks.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I accept thanks in other ways, you know.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes, then drops down so she’s sitting on her feet in front of me. “As lovely as that sounds, you have that meeting this morning.”
I groan at the reminder and shove my face into the crook of where my arms are folded in front of me. There’s no way I would forget, but it’s the last thing I want her to bring up when I’m in the middle of pitching some morning shenanigans.
“I remember,” I grumble. “Wish I didn’t.”
She hums, then rubs her hands gently along my shoulders and upper back.
“It’s a good thing,” she tells me, her voice soft and loving. “And you get to spend the day with Ash.”
Sighing, I nod. She’s right, but it doesn’t really make it any easier.
I push up and sit on the edge of the bed, begrudging that the cozy joy of ogling my girlfriend is over and the day has officially begun. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
After giving her a quick kiss, I head into the bathroom and flip on the water. Then I brace myself on the counter and stare down at the sink, mentally preparing for what lies ahead today.
My brother talked me into going to Al-Anon, some sort of AA meeting but for family members of people with substance abuse problems. Part of me gets it—I have my own issues because of my mother. It makes sense that talking about it would be helpful. But I’m not entirely sold on the group thing, and I only agreed to it because it’s important to Ash.
Now that the day is actually here, though, I’m wishing I was a whole lot more selfish. Or even that I was the type who could just text him a bullshit sorry I can’t make it text. Because it’s the absolute last thing I want to do.
I step under the water and let the scalding heat soak my tense muscles for a long moment, reminding myself that I’m doing the right thing. Then I make quick work of my shower routine and hop out, knowing that I don’t have too much time to laze around if I’m going to meet Ash in the city.
We’re making a day out of it. First the meeting, then lunch to chat. Afterward, we’re going to stop by the apartment he and Mira just moved into, and I’ll get a chance to meet her as well. Stupid meeting aside, I’m kind of looking forward to it.
When I step out of the bathroom, I find Murphy has—sadly—put on a shirt and moved to the kitchen. She’s humming that same melody as she pours herself a cup of coffee, and her ass sways along.
Her eyes find mine, and I know I don’t imagine it when they brighten at the sight of me. As if I didn’t just see her a few minutes ago. As if I don’t get to see her all the time.
Just like that, the stress about this meeting begins to abate. Not entirely, but enough that it’s not clouding my entire mind anymore.
The clouds have a hard time sticking around when the sun is out and shining.
That’s what Murphy is to me.
The sun.
Brightness.
A light in the darkness that the world can sometimes be.
And I love her for it.
For so many other things, too. But definitely for the way my soul feels lighter when she’s around.
I take the cup of coffee out of her hands and set it on the counter before tugging her close.
“I’m crazy about you. You know that, right?” I say, wrapping my arms around her, my heart buoying at the feel of her body pressed against mine.
I know it’s too soon, right now. We still have so many things to learn about each other. But someday, Murphy’s going to wear my ring on her finger. It’s a truth I know in the depths of my soul.
“Of course I do.” Her response is muffled where she’s tucked her face against my chest, and her arms tighten around me. “I love you more than anything.”
I lift her face so I can see her beautiful eyes and revel in that love. Then I drop my mouth down to hers, like I have so many times before.
Like I plan to do for the rest of my life.