Chapter 19
GRACE
CRACKED
I’m starting to think TJ, no Tommy — shit, what do I call him now? Boss? Mr. Jacob? Definitely not Hot Daddy Boss. Whatever I’m calling him now, I’m pretty sure he is hiding from me.
I’ve barely seen him since last Wednesday night.
I’ve just gone straight from my van to his office when I’ve come into the house.
Even when he has been around, he quickly found a reason to leave and head to Sutton’s restaurant, or there was this awkward tension between us.
It’s not like I’ve had much free time anyway.
Ever since he was so quick to agree with my recommendations for charities, I’ve had this other idea I couldn’t get out of my head.
I know he wants to make a difference and he certainly has the budget to do it.
While I know he wants to stay anonymous with his giving, I think there’s a way for him to make so much more of an impact.
I’ve spent the last week and a half working on this proposal.
I’m probably crazy for obsessing over this on a Friday night. I know Josie is out with Collin and Walker tonight and I can only imagine the trouble those three have been getting into.
I’m just so inspired by this idea, I feel like I need to tell him. He was very clear that I could work whatever hours I want, so I’m going to do just that. I still can’t get the other night out of my head. And here I am walking through his house looking for him once again.
Obviously there was that kiss though. The sound of him moaning and rasping my name has been echoing around in my head so much that I’ve had to keep my earbuds in, constantly listening to music loud enough that I’m pretty sure I’ve sustained hearing loss.
Ugh, men who moan. Forget rent free, that moan has its own Presidential Suite in my brain.
Not helpful, Grace.
I need to remind myself that tonight, I’m here for business.
Or that’s what I tell myself as I walk down the hall to his studio, the room I’ve avoided since our kiss.
I haven’t found him anywhere else in the house but I spot the door cracked with a sliver of light creeping into the hall.
The image takes me back to the night of that kiss again.
I still don’t know why I left so quickly instead of staying to talk with him.
Maybe pride, maybe stubbornness, or maybe that’s just what I do — go with what feels ‘right’ in the moment.
And in that moment, I didn’t want to stick around to hear an explanation about why I wasn’t thinking straight or not actually feeling what I thought I was feeling or some other bullshit.
I wasn’t going to let him mansplain my own mind to me, not that I think he would, but I’m just used to men doing that.
That’s not the only thing that stuck with me though. I might have walked out of his studio confidently and quickly, but I didn’t make it that far. I stopped just outside, in the hallway, exactly where I’m standing now. I stayed and argued with myself about going back in to talk to him.
I was there long enough that I heard him start playing the guitar again, the same notes that he played earlier.
This time, there was a depth and vibrancy to them. They were more powerful and forceful, but there was something else that wasn’t there before, an unmistakeable, harsh, frustrated edge. I could practically feel the emotion in the cords.
Clearing my head, I take a deep breath and push open the door. To my surprise, the light is on but he’s not here. My curiosity takes over and I walk around the open studio, looking at all the little things I was too distracted to notice last time.
There’s black soundproofing foam on most of the walls, but there are open sections covered in memorabilia and photos of the band.
There also has to be at least a dozen electric guitars around the room and a few stacks of amplifiers and speakers.
It’s the two acoustic guitars in the corner, by the window, that I’m drawn to.
Standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows, I can just make out the lights from the groomers on the mountain, cleaning up the ski runs for tomorrow, in the distance. Maybe that’s how I’ll spend tomorrow morning.
From here, I also have a view of the backyard and looking across the patio, I see the hot tub and guesthouse. I can even make out the front of my van in the driveway. I wonder if this is where TJ was the other night when he noticed the light on in the guesthouse.
Finally, I look down at the guitar on the stand next to me, the real reason I came to this corner of the room.
I sit on the same stool as the other night in front of the guitar, running my fingertips down the well-worn neck, along the strings, feeling the tension in them, just like that tension I was so sure was between us.
Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s still there if he really is hiding from me.
I pick up the guitar, holding it in my lap. My eyes drift shut and my hands run across the curves of the smooth wood. Folding my fingers across the neck, I can practically feel TJ’s hand wrapped around mine, placing my fingers on the right strings.
I open my eyes, looking at the instrument when I spot something on the floor at the base of the guitar stand.
I reach down to grab the notebook, wondering if it’s the same one he was writing in the other night.
There are music notes, but no lyrics or words besides a few scribbled words in the margins.
“Really regret picking dance classes over music right now,” I mutter to myself, flipping through the notebook on my lap, resting the guitar against my side.
Going through the pages, I recognize the handwriting as TJ’s, matching it to the note he left me after installing the electric post. I notice the handwriting on the last half written page toward the back is the boldest, least faded bit. It must be recent, if not even new.
Did I really interrupt him in the middle of writing a new song?
I look back down at the page, running my finger over the little drawing of a rainbow in the bottom corner.
No. There’s no way.
I immediately shut the notebook, tossing it back on the floor where I found it. I know he’s been abundantly clear that I can make myself comfortable here and make use of his home, but this feels different. Reading that feels like a boundary that might be too far, even for me, to cross.
I settle for something that feels safer, picking the guitar back up and holding it in my lap. I look at it and feel my body heat, remembering his gravelly voice saying my name, his hot breath against my neck. Just thinking about it sends sparks of heat across my skin, making me restless.
“Looks good in your hands, Rainbow,” TJ’s deep voice rumbles from across the room.
I practically leap out of my skin, turning to see him here in person, not in my mind. My hands fly to my chest in a startled reaction. He smirks before his eyes fly to the same place mine go.
Shit. No, no, no.
I watch in horror as the guitar I was holding falls toward the ground, feeling like it’s unfolding in slow motion. I reach out trying to grab it, but I only make it worse, pushing it further away.
I wince when it hits the hardwood floor, making a mangled mess of sounds before it skids across the floor and stops. I fall to my knees and grab it, hoping that I didn’t just damage his guitar. This thing has to be almost priceless, in so many ways.
I feel him kneel beside me. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. We really need to get better about not sneaking up on each other so much.”
“Sure,” I say, hardly able to pay attention with my heart anxiously racing. “I’ll get right on that, Boss.”
I flip the guitar over in my hands and my heart sinks when I see the long, wide crack down the back, splitting the beautiful wood.
I groan. “Oh, TJ. I’m sorry, ” I say, running my finger along the crack, feeling the splintered edges. “I shouldn’t have been messing with it. I’m such an idiot.”
He leans closer to me and I feel the warmth of his body as he reaches around me, pulling the guitar from my grip.
Something about his presence sends alarm bells off in my body again.
As tall as I am, I’m not used to feeling small around another person but it’s hard for me to miss his imposing presence.
I look up to see him holding the guitar, a soft smile spreading across his face as his eyes follow the crack in the instrument.
He says nothing when he runs his finger along it, just the way I did.
He presses his palm against the dark, gorgeous walnut, like he’s soaking up the memories contained in it.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll get it fixed,” I say, looking for any reaction. I’d expect most men to get angry, if not even fly into rage. With him, there’s nothing. Just calmness. “Take it out of my pay. You already give me too much.”
The corners of his mouth continue to lift when he lets out a single, lighthearted laugh. Did he seriously just laugh?
Another one rumbles up his chest, leaving no doubt that he did in fact just laugh. Is he laughing at me?
Finally, he outright bursts into a fit of laughter, his shoulders rising and falling. Slowly, I start to nervously laugh with him.
At the sound of my laughter, he looks up from the guitar to me. Something about my expression must show my nerves because his smile fades. He sets the guitar down and reaches out toward me. He rests his thumb on my chin, tilting it up so I have to look him right in those endlessly deep blue eyes.
“It’s just a thing, Rainbow. It doesn’t matter. I can replace things. It’s the memories that count,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine while his thumb traces the bottom of my lip. “And believe me, this guitar has given me more than its fair share of memories.”
My lips part when I suck in a breath at the contact and those words. Is he just as stuck as me on the memory of that kiss?
His eyes fall to my lips and I see his nostrils flare and I know that he is.
“Did you get yourself all on the same page yet?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper. I feel the tension between us, the air humming with electricity.
“Rainbow,” he says, his voice radiating conflict and I already have my answer. “I—”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” I say, his eyes flaring up to mine and I can see the anguish in them. He looks like he’s about to say something until for some stupid reason, I bite down on his thumb. Both of our eyes drop down and then find each other’s again.
He quirks that pierced eyebrow at me and hums in confusion, looking at his thumb and back at me. I let go, realizing just how unhinged I probably seem right now.
I stand up to start walking out of this room, wondering what I’m reading wrong about this again.
“Goodnight, TJ,” I say, reaching the doorway and looking back to see him still kneeling by the guitar stand.
He runs his hand through his hair and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. I still see the mix of emotions swirling, but more than that, I see a look of compassion.
He finally shakes his head and smirks back at me. “Night, Rainbow. And I mean it, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not a big deal.”
I cannot sleep. When I left TJ’s house, I went straight to my van, which now thanks to him, is more than warm running on the electric heater with ample power. It was yet another reminder of how infuriating he is.
So now, I’m wandering around in the dark in his guesthouse, on my way to get a hot shower to try and relax.
Somehow, he’s always doing the right thing.
Being a great boss, being overly generous with his time and energy, not treating me like I’m some fragile doll that needs to be constantly watched and cared for.
The man gave me free roam of his house and guesthouse, but doesn’t push when I want to spend every night in my van like the feral little heathen that I am.
Then there’s the whole part about him smelling and looking like a damn snack that I literally just nibbled on.
He definitely has to think I’m unhinged after that.
But he’s been so compassionate too. I still can’t believe he didn’t even bat an eye when I broke his first guitar.
How did he not care? I know guys who would lose their shit over way less than that.
He just shrugged, smiled at me, and moved on.
His compassion doesn’t end with me either.
The amount that man has given to charity over the years is astounding.
Then there’s the decisiveness, which is the most maddening of them all. He’s been decisive with every suggestion I’ve made to him at work. He was the same way with running power for my van.
But when it comes to whatever is going on between us, he’s been the opposite, palpably conflicted about it.
I see that same, magnetic pull to spontaneity in him that fuels me to my core. That same lust for living life to the fullest. I just want him to let go and give in to it like I know he wants to.
I know there’s something here. Maybe he just needs a little more of a push than I thought.