Chapter Four #2
I hesitate because this is dangerous territory. The flute is part of Damon Blackwell’s world, part of the identity I keep separate from everything else. But sitting here with her, with those intelligent eyes watching me as if I’m actually worth listening to, I want to give her something real.
“I play,” I admit. “Flute.”
Her eyes go wide. “You play the flute?”
“Have since I was eight.”
“That’s…” She’s staring at me like she’s recalculating everything she thought she knew. “That’s incredibly cool. Do you play professionally?”
“Nah, just for fun now. For people who need it.” I think about Queenie, about the residents at Sunset Manor, about the way music can make someone who feels invisible feel seen again. “Music’s too important to give up just because someone tells you to.”
The way she’s looking at me right now, like I’ve said something profound instead of obvious, makes my heart do that stupid hammering shit again.
“I should start listening for fun again,” she says softly. “I’ve been thinking about it since… well, since that night.”
“You should. Fuck what anyone else thinks.”
The barista arrives with our muffins, breaking the moment, and Marley immediately reaches for hers with a look of anticipation. But then she stops, her hand hovering over the plate, and I see it, that flicker of shame. Of self-consciousness.
“Actually,” she says, pulling her hand back. “I shouldn’t. I’m trying to… you know.”
And just like that, I’m furious all over again.
Not at her.
Never at her.
At every person who’s ever made her feel as though she needs to be something else.
At that asshole ex who told her she wasn’t the right size.
At every shitty voice in her head that’s convinced her she doesn’t deserve a fucking muffin.
“Trying to what?” I ask, and my voice comes out harder than I intended.
She won’t meet my eyes, but she says, “Watch what I eat. Derek said—”
“I don’t give one single flying fuck what Derek said.”
Her head snaps up.
I lean forward, holding her gaze. “Marley. You’re beautiful exactly as you are.
Those curves?” I gesture vaguely at her, trying to be respectful but also desperately needing her to understand.
“They’re perfect. And any man who made you feel otherwise is a fucking idiot who doesn’t deserve a second of your time. ”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks down at the muffin like it holds the secrets of the universe.
“Eat the muffin,” I say, softer now. “Please. For me. Because watching you deny yourself something that makes you happy pisses me off more than you can imagine.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, slowly, she reaches out and breaks off a piece. She puts it in her mouth, and the small smile that curves her lips is worth every bit of awkwardness.
“Good?” I ask.
“So good,” she admits, and there’s something in her eyes that looks like relief. Like maybe permission. Like maybe she’s starting to believe that she’s allowed to exist in her own body without apology.
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute, and I let myself just watch her.
The way she savors each bite.
The way tension in her shoulders gradually eases.
The way the morning light catches in her hair and makes me want to reach across the table and touch it, run my fingers through it, grab a handful to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
“So,” she says finally, licking a crumb from her thumb in a way that’s absolutely sexy as hell and completely fucking destroys me. “How old are you? I realized the other night I never asked.”
Something cold slides through my stomach. “Why?”
She shrugs, casual. “Just curious. When we met, I assumed you were mid-thirties? You’ve got this young energy about you. But in the daylight, I can clearly see a little silver fox going on in your hair, which is really attractive, by the way.”
I take a breath. This is it. The moment where reality crashes into fantasy, and Marley realizes I’m too old, too damaged, too complicated.
“Forty-three,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” She studies me again, but not with disgust or disappointment—more like fascination. “You definitely don’t look it. I mean, you do with the bits of gray hair, but in a good way. Like… seasoned. Experienced.”
“Seasoned?” I can’t help but laugh. “That’s what we’re calling old now?”
“You’re not old!” She’s blushing again, and it’s adorable. “I just meant… you’ve lived, you know? There’s something about you that feels solid. Grounded.”
“How old are you?” I ask because fair is fair, and because I need to know if this age gap is a dealbreaker for her.
“Twenty-nine. Well, I will be thirty soon, so practically thirty.”
Fourteen years.
Not insurmountable, but not nothing either.
“That bother you?” I ask carefully. “The age difference?”
She considers this, taking another bite of the muffin. “Honestly? No. I’ve dated guys my age. They were…” she waves her hand dismissively, “… boys. You’re a man. There’s a difference.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean… look at Derek.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s heat there that makes my pulse kick up. “Plus, you bought me a burger and sang with me when I was at my lowest. That counts for a lot more than a birthday.”
I smile at her like a damn idiot, and I don’t care. Let the whole coffee shop see. Let them know that this incredible woman is sitting here with me, looking at me as if I’m her favorite person, and I’m the luckiest bastard in Las Vegas.
“Listen,” I say, pulling out my phone before I lose my nerve. “I know this might sound forward, but… if you ever need a ride. Like, an actual ride, not just Uber. You can call me directly. I’ll come get you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”
I’m offering her more than transportation, and we both know it. I’m offering her a lifeline. A connection. A promise that I’m not going to disappear into the night like some random she’ll never see again.
She takes my phone, and I watch her fingers move across the screen, adding her number and then calling herself so she has mine. When she hands it back, she’s saved herself as ‘Marley Wren’ with a little red heart emoji.
My chest does something complicated at the sight of that heart.
“For the record,” she says, saving my contact in her phone. “I’m putting you down as ‘Nitro the Nice Uber Guy.’ ”
I laugh, loud and genuine. “Fair enough.”
She glances at her phone and winces. “Shit. I really do need to get to work. Derek will be even more of an insufferable jerk if I’m late.”
“Fuck Derek,” I say automatically, and she laughs.
“Yeah. Fuck Derek. I feel like that’s our motto.”
With a slight chuckle, we stand, and there’s this awkward moment where neither of us quite knows how to end this. A handshake seems wrong. A hug seems presumptuous. But then she leans in and kisses my cheek, quick, soft, and over before I can even process it, but my entire world fucking tilts.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For the muffin. Fuck… for everything.”
“Anytime, Small Town.”
The nickname slips out without permission, and I brace myself for her to hate it, but instead, her eyes light up. “Small Town?” The recognition of the lyrics from when we sang in the Uber, hitting her.
“Just a small-town girl… you walked into my life in tears and still managed to sing. You’ve got fight in you.
You’ve got soul. And you’ve got no idea how unforgettable that makes you.
It’s not about size, Marley. It’s about heart.
You’ve got that small-town fire, the kind the world doesn’t see coming till it’s already lit them up. ”
“I love it,” she says quickly.
There’s something so honest about the way she says it, as if this small thing means more to her than I could possibly understand. And maybe it does. Perhaps this woman has spent so long being told she’s not enough that every gesture of affection feels like a revelation.
“Then Small Town it is.”
She smiles as she walks toward the door, and I’m still standing here like an idiot, watching her leave. She glances back once, giving me a little wave, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the Vegas morning.
I sit back down at the table, my coffee long cold, but, on the other hand, I feel the warmth of her lips on my cheek.
I can still see the way her eyes lit up when I called her beautiful.
I still hear the way she said my name as if it mattered.
And then my phone buzzes.
Marley: Thanks again for breakfast. You made my morning infinitely better. *Music Note Emoji*
I stare at the message, at that little music note emoji, and something shifts in my chest. Something that feels like hope and terror in equal measure.
Me: Mine too, Small Town. Be safe today.
Marley: Will do. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?
Me: Count on it.
And I mean it.
Because this isn’t over.
This ‘accidental meeting’ wasn’t accidental at all. It’s just the beginning.
I stand, leaving cash on the table for the muffins and the terrible coffee, and I walk out into the Vegas morning with her smile burned into my memory and her number in my phone.
Queenie was right.
Life is too short to wonder what if.
And Marley Wren, with her red hair, fractured heart, beautiful curves, generous spirit, music, and quirky glasses, is worth every risk.
Even if it scares the hell out of me.
Especially because it scares the hell out of me.
Because the things worth having are always the things that terrify us most.
And I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to see where this goes.
I pull out my cell and send a quick text to Ghost.
Me: Mission accomplished. Thanks for the intel.
His response is almost immediate.
Ghost: Told you it would work. You owe me a beer.
Me: You’re goddamn right I do.
I climb on my bike, and as I fire up the engine, I’m already planning my next move. The next accidental run-in. The next excuse to see Marley’s smile, hear her laugh, and make her believe, just a little bit more, that she deserves every good thing this world has to offer.
And I’m going to be the one to prove it to her.
One ‘accidental’ meeting at a time.