Chapter Three
By the time I reach the outskirts of Nashville, the snow has given way to a steady rain. I try not to read too much into it—like it’s a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t be here and instead should have done with my week off what any normal person would do, like jetting off to Florida or somewhere the sun was at least shining.
But no. Stubborn, sentimental fool that I am, I can’t quite ditch the urge to find out more about the people who gave me away like a stray puppy, without so much as a backward glance or a reason why.
Over the past few days, I’ve gotten used to letting the tears just have their way with me. As the letter warned me, these dug-up feelings are hard, and deep, and they won’t be denied. For whatever reason, I’ve cried more in the last twenty-one hours than I have in the last twenty-one years.
Last night I booked myself into an Airbnb close to the center of the downtown area and googled a parking garage nearby. I don’t bother cranking up Siri just yet, though. It’s too rainy to walk around. I drive for a while instead, exploring central Nashville.
It has that squat brick feel of all central American cities, with the taller buildings clustered close to the river. The Batman Building with its distinctive double points rises over the others, casting a majestic feel over the scene.
I think about … them . The people who grew up in this place and who knew its landscape and skyline like the back of their hands. It would all seemed so familiar to them. Did they take in this same view as they made the decisions they made?
The Batman Building looks beautiful tonight. Oh, and by the way, I think we should give away that random baby we accidentally conceived to total strangers.
I promised myself I wouldn’t fixate on the things I can’t change. But now that I’m here, it’s hard not to think about them. How it all happened. The backstory of their mistake.
I imagine I can feel their echo. The molecules of air they stirred up when they once walked these same streets. Maybe they’re here today. Maybe that tall, dark-haired man with the black umbrella is him . His eyes might be blue-green. He might enjoy swimming and football, or once did, all those years ago. Maybe that older couple coming out of the hotel over there are the restaurant owner and the administrative assistant, retired now. I wonder if they knew about me, or ever gave a second thought to the loss of one of their own.
I drive around until the sun starts to set. The rain has settled in and the streets are shiny with the reflection of Nashville’s colorful lights.
Finding the parking garage, I pull in and park in a long-term spot. I’m thankful my carry-on bag is one of those plastic shell ones that’s waterproof. My coat, on the other hand, isn’t. But there’s not much I can do about that.
Using my phone to guide me, I walk toward the Airbnb. The rain wets my hair and my clothes but it’s not far. I walk past a few bars and I can hear live music.
I’m in Nashville.
It didn’t even occur to me until now that I’m in the country music capital of the world. I happen to be a fan, even though I don’t listen to it all that often. Maybe I’ll go visit the Grand Ole Opry while I’m here and do some sight-seeing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Immerse myself in some culture since I’ve come all this way.
I get to the address of my Airbnb. I check the app for instructions about where the key is or what to do when I arrive but there are no messages. I ring the buzzer.
Nothing.
I ring again. The rain is coming down harder now and I’m freezing and soaked to the skin.
No one answers.
Another sign, possibly, that I shouldn’t be here. Icing on the cake of my disappointment at this point. What the hell am I trying to do? Why am I here, frozen and wet on a random city street so far from home? On some wild goose chase for people who don’t want me . They didn’t want me then and they don’t want me now. Nothing about this place does, obviously.
I ring the buzzer again. Who doesn’t answer their freaking Airbnb? “Hello?” I say into the intercom. “Open the door. Come on . Please .” Shit. Again with the tears, which I haven’t been able to turn off since I read that damn letter. “I can’t believe this.”
I notice then that someone is standing behind me. Someone huge . My heart is beating fast and I start to turn. If the rest of my day has been anything to go by, I’m probably about to get mugged. Judging by the size of his silhouette against the rainy, neon backlight of the city night, I’ll be no match for him at all. I don’t care about my clothes so much, but if he steals my bag, I’ll lose my laptop. These are the panicked thoughts that are running through my brain as I look up at him. Please. I just want to write my book, I’m tempted to say. Or what if his intentions are darker—
He’s wearing a cowboy hat. And sunglasses, on this rainy night. Is he crazy? A drunk street person who’s down on his luck and borderline insane? Oh God, how stupid am I to have gotten myself into this—
He lifts his glasses.
Whoa.
His eyes are blue even in the colorfully-lit night, rimmed by long, dense lashes. These give him an edge of whimsical dreaminess that clashes with his rugged masculinity. It’s a strange thing to notice, alone with him like this on a mostly-deserted street. That he’s ... beautiful , in a hot, romantic, mystery-dark sort of a way.
He doesn’t look drunk. Or crazy. There’s something reassuring about him, in fact. Lightly concerned. Calm. And … seriously good-looking.
His face is stunningly handsome, in a rough, swarthy kind of way. The strong stripes of his eyebrows are barely furrowed with a beguiled curiosity. He has a square jaw and his neck is corded and tanned. There’s a glint of gold from a chain he’s wearing under his clothes. His hair, under his hat, is longish, hanging halfway to his shoulders. It’s dark but with lighter inflections, like he was blond as a child but the full grip of his virile masculinity has seasoned and defined him into … this. A big, sexy tomcat. I can’t help thinking it but you can’t not think it, it’s too forceful: here it is, alpha male perfection in the prime of its life. He might as well have it tattooed across his forehead.
I should be afraid of him. His size and the broad span of his shoulders promise a honed, powerful strength. But I’m not afraid. There’s a depth to him that’s strikingly magnetic. And the look behind his eyes is steadying me.
He makes a crazy first impression. I already feel drawn to him, like I want to know him. More than know him. Feel him.
My heart is hammering in my chest and my blood simmers with a primal excitement. His vibe isn’t threatening. Dangerous , maybe, but it’s a danger you want , not one you want to run from.
Okay, wow.
“Are you all right?” The deep, low husk to his voice causes the tiny hairs on my arms to lift. I feel his voice in my stomach, weirdly. He has one of those voices that’s confident and calming, like a very smooth whiskey.
“I’m fine.” Sort of. “This is supposed to be my Airbnb. But they’re not answering and the door is locked. It’s just the cherry on top of ... a week. Do you happen to know of any hotels nearby?” It’s pretty clear my hosts, if they could be called that, aren’t home. And now, I’m glad. Something about this guy’s look makes it obvious he’s from here. And if this is the type of person you randomly bump into on a rainy night in Music City, then maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.
“I’m heading to a bar right around the corner,” he says. “We could get you out of the rain and you could call somewhere to see what’s available.”
His voice. All layered bass notes and controlled-yet-stormy depth. Like something brooding and full of dark promise is simmering underneath the surface of his offer. The sound is … insanely alluring. I try to steer my thoughts away but they don’t want to be steered. I’m thinking about what that voice would sound like in the dark. What he might sound like when he growls and groans.
Stella. Get a grip.
The shape of his mouth is mesmerizing me. I have no idea why, but as I stare up at him, a low heat settles into the low pit of my stomach. And lower, where I become aware of a tingling, pulsing warmth.
Oh my God.
As we stand here locked in this intense little bubble of checking each other out, the skies literally open up. The rain is torrential, dripping off his hat. It’s almost funny how ridiculously soaked I am. “I guess I won’t be leaving a glowing review for this host,” I joke, because even though we’re standing on a dark street in the pouring rain, there’s something wildly reassuring about his existence. I found one! Even if he walks away and I never see him again, at least I’ll know that drop-dead gorgeous alpha men are real. Because here one is.
He takes off his long cowboy-style coat and gently drapes it around my shoulders. The coat is warm and comforting from his body heat. The gesture, along with a whiff of his scent, sends a shiver down my spine. Cinnamon, smoke, leather and something else, a spiced alpha-male elixir that mainlines straight to my core, where his flames lick me. He’d fight for you and maybe even care for you. He’d be dirty as all hell and so thorough it would take you to the brink of what you could handle. And it’s obvious that he would, you can see that as clear as day: he’d entirely ruin you for anyone else.
Help.
The thoughts running through my head are crazy, and my fascination digs deeper, like his appeal is not only getting under my skin but its effect is barbed with hot injections of pure, uncut lust. Holy shit. This is it. Lust at first sight. It’s happening.
“You’re getting wet,” he comments. He can tell? Oh. Right. The rain.
The rain starts to slow a little, but his shirt is now soaked. “And now you’re getting wet.”
He smiles—and wow , he’s gorgeous. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Movie star good looks that are tempered with a rough, animal sexuality. “How ‘bout that drink?”
“A drink sounds fantastic.” I’m not ready to let him go yet. I want to watch him and stare at him. He’s proving to me that my fictional fantasies might actually touch on real life sometimes too. And even though I have no thoughts about what might happen beyond this moment, his offer is too good to pass up.
“You’re legal, right?” he asks. “Just out of curiosity.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
A spark of dark-lit amusement makes his eyes even bluer as he offers me his arm. “You ready, then? It’s not far.”
I let my arm weave through his. There’s something immediately reassuring about his big, sturdy presence. I’m aware of a secret, slippery thrill. He’s huge. And hard. His muscular arm, under the layer of his shirt, feels like warm steel. The heat of his body leeches into me, imprinting me with a blooming frisson of anticipation.
“I’m Kade,” he says. Kade . The name fits him. Unexpected. Cowboyish. Strong.
“Stella.”
His slow smile is understated but deep and I laugh a little because I was so not expecting him to materialize out of the blue. There’s a relief to his presence. Because, somehow, he’s already my hero. For saving me from this lonely darkness. And for showing me that he’s real.