Chapter 18
Our First Date (Finally)
Beau
The hollow clunk of a car door slices through the morning stillness, yanking me from sleep.
I sit up, groggy, rubbing the heel of my hand across my eyes. Flannel pajama pants, worn-in soft T-shirt, hair sticking out all over the place from a deep sleep. None of it feels out of place. But that sound does.
Scenes from last night with Maisie rush to my mind.
Sweet memories, like the best of dreams. I can't wait to see her again and desperately wish I could hug and kiss her right now.
My desire momentarily distracts me the noise that woke me.
Until I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching my back and glance toward the window.
A sleek black rental car lurks like an unwelcome shadow in the gravel driveway just beyond the peaceful oasis of my porch and front yard.
The scent of fresh coffee curls through the air, pungent yet comforting, tugging me the rest of the way into consciousness.
My coffee pot hisses faintly in the background, finishing up its daily timed morning ritual.
I plod, sockless feet against the creaky floor, grab a mug from the rack, pour a cup, and step to the front door.
The door swings wide as I nudge it with my toes. The freshness of pine and morning mist in the air scatters, knifed through by a wall of perfume. The aroma slams into me, coating my tongue, stinging my eyes until tears bead and I’m forced to blink them back.
“Hello, Beau.”
It can’t be. Not her. Not now. And why?
“Sabrina?” I choke out with the husky scratchiness of early morning speech. Not the first word I wanted to come out of my mouth today.
But here she is on my porch. My ex. Sabi Vale.
Contemporary musical darling, an icon.
My past.
Except for being dressed very stylishly to match her fame, she looks exactly as I remember, and nothing like I want to see.
Lipstick bold as the reddest rose stains her lips.
Gucci sunglasses. A trench coat belted tight, heels clicking on my porch like punctuation as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.
The thought of a rose brings last night with Maisie roaring back again.
The memory almost surpasses my surprise and distaste at the sight before me.
“What are you doing here?” I close the door behind me. No way I’m letting her into my home.
Her smile lifts, but there are shards of glass underneath.
“Hello?! Hashtag Beyond The Chords.” Her voice lilts up in a sharp questioning statement as if I should have known.
“It’s viral. Some kid posted a video of you playing my song.
No name. No explanation. But I knew instantly.
My lawyer is drafting a cease-and-desist letter as we speak. ”
I take a sip of coffee to buy time. It doesn’t help.
“I was already in Portland for their morning show, so I thought a face-to-face chat would be appropriate.”
She steps closer to me without waiting for an invitation. “We need to talk.”
“Not sure what there is to say.”
“Oh, I think there’s plenty. Starting with copyright.”
I shrug.
“If you’re singing my song publicly, I have the right to protect my brand. My name.”
I arch a brow. “Your brand?”
She waves a manicured hand. “You know what I mean. You wrote that song for me. It’s tied to me. And I really don’t want to be forced to deal with this through a lengthy legal process.”
“You’re right. I wrote it,” I nearly snarl. “I wrote every word. Every chord. But not for you. You stole my song and conveniently forgot to credit me.”
“And I regret that now.” Her voice lowers, regret painted on like stage makeup over iron. The softness feels practiced, a performance more than sincerity.
Her tone shifts, softer. Calculated. “I’ve had so much time to think, Beau. Being on the road isn’t what I thought it would be. I’ve been...lonely.”
One boldly polished fingernail brushes my chest.
I jerk away, but she keeps going.
“You still write like that? That raw, aching honesty?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“Because I know now that we could create something special. Together.”
She taps my chin. “I’m talking about a deal: you come write for me again. And I put your name on my song.”
The bitterness rises in my throat, and I nearly choke on the taste of coffee, the revulsion harsh at the back of my tongue.
I step back until I’m flat against the closed door. “I don’t think so.”
Her eyes glimmer. “But I hear it now, Beau. I hear the love in those lyrics. What you gave me... it wasn’t just a song. It was your open heart. A promise to me. And maybe it still could be.”
Then she says it:
“I truly believe this was always meant to be our love song.”
The words seize me like a plunge into an icy river. Before I can respond, she tiptoes and leans in, eyes fluttering closed, lips stalking mine. I twist just in time for her lips to land on the corner of my mouth.
“No!” It’s a heart-splintering cry, bursting with shock and carrying across the drive as if she could stop the scene from afar.
In a flash, I see Maisie—and the situation through her eyes.
She’s a frozen pillar, clutching a brown paper bag to her chest.
And then it falls. A slow-motion drop to the ground as Maisie releases her tight-fisted grip. I drop my coffee mug, an echo of her reflexive action, reaching my arm out as if to somehow steady her.
Her face twists, disbelief warping into sorrow.
Sabrina lifts her face again, lips inches from mine.
I lurch away. “Sabrina, don’t you dare.”
Maisie turns her back to me.
“Maisie!” I shout, voice cracking as I leap down the steps. But she’s already walking quickly, stiffly, and purposefully away from me, the bag abandoned on the path.
“Maisie, wait!” I reach the spot where she stood seconds before, breath caught in my throat. Sabrina clears her throat behind me.
“You’ll regret this, Beau.” I turn, the fire in my chest finally catching.
“Do your best, Sabrina.” I spit my words at her. “You took my music. Twisted it. Claimed it. But what you stole from me—my lyrics, my trust—was mine alone to give away. You never had any right to it. Nothing of me belongs to you anymore. Now get away from me and don’t come back.”
Her eyes ignite and her mouth opens and closes as if trying to come up with an angry retort.
A sharp huff instead. The stomp of designer heels.
Then the car door slams, and her engine growls into gear.
Tires screech as she peels out of the driveway and out of my life.
Good.
But I don’t feel relief.
I feel panic.
Because somewhere down that same road is the only woman who matters. And she thinks I just broke her heart.
I scoop up the slightly crumpled mess of a bag without pause, my body already in motion. Sprinting after Maisie isn’t a choice. It’s instinct, love driving every barefoot step, praying I’m not too late to undo what she saw.
I dash down the gravel drive, bag clutched tight, feet stinging with every strike of rock. None of it matters. Because at the end of the lane, slumped on a fallen log, I find Maisie.
Her shoulders tremble in uneven bursts, hair curtaining her face.
She doesn’t look at me when I slow and crouch in front of her.
Her hands tremble in her lap, fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress like she’s holding back a scream.
Then her arms move to wrap tight around her middle, and she begins rocking—barely, but enough to betray the storm inside.
“Shhh...Maisie...sweetheart....it’s okay. I’ve got you.” I try to rub her shoulder, but she brushes my hand away.
When she finally lifts her head, it guts me. Her face is blotchy, eyes red and swollen, tears streaking down her cheeks. She’s a mess—in the middle of an absolute, full-throttle ugly cry. The kind that would terrify small children and even break waterproof mascara.
And somehow, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, Maze.” I reach out to wipe her cheeks, but she flinches.
Her glassy eyes search my face, flitting back and forth between my eyes like she’s trying to read a language she once knew by heart but no longer understands. She hesitates, lips parting and closing again, as if weighing whether her questions are worth the risk.
“Last night—” She chokes on the words, then hiccups, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You said... that you loved me. Said... I was the one.”
She turns away. I sense her struggling to look back at me as if seeing into my soul might confirm her reasons for doubting me. My heart is breaking that she could even think this for one second.
“You said you wanted to be my husband.” A strangled sob escapes.
“And then this morning—” Her breath stutters. “There’s. A. Woman.” She swallows. “On your porch.”
I shift and move into a kneeling position in front of her but not daring to touch or console her.
“And you. Your hair. Coffee. Your feet.” She’s rocking again. “Like you just got out of bed.”
I groan, jolted by the way her pitch sharpens, the pain in her voice rising from a whisper to a squeaky screech, like a violin string played too hard.
“She’s getting ready to leave.” Maisie’s rocking again.
“Like she stayed the night,” she finally snaps, her voice louder now, trembling with disbelief. “What was I supposed to think?”
The words stab me one after the other. I reach for my pockets, desperate to help her, to give her a tissue, something, anything. I turn them inside out, coming up empty except for my phone.
Maisie lets out a sound between a sob and a laugh. “You’re still in your pajamas.”
Something eases in my chest—not much, but enough to notice. Her voice isn’t edged this time. Not angry. Not broken. Just Maisie, seeing me the way she used to, if only for a second.
Relief pricks me that she’s still talking to me. I exhale deeply and give her a shaky grin. “Didn’t know I’d need my running gear to chase down the only woman I love this morning.” I brush gravel off the sole of my foot and wince.