Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Berk
A soft shade of pink has settled over Astrid’s cheeks since our drinks were served. She took a large gulp of hers almost immediately.
That brought a smile to my face.
She’s nervous.
I see it not only in the flush of her skin, but I can hear it in the slight tremor of her voice whenever she speaks.
She finally slides off her leather jacket to reveal the T-shirt underneath.
I divert my gaze because I’m not about to get caught staring at her tits.
“So you liked Lulu Jenkins,” she pauses briefly to suck in an audible breath. “Did you have a chance to listen to either of the other albums?”
I stayed up half the night listening to them.
I don’t know if it was because it was so damn relaxing or if I was searching for some hidden clues in the music or the lyrics. Astrid told me that those three albums topped her list of favorites, so I was hopeful that they’d give me a glimpse into the woman she is.
I suspect the drink in her hand will give me more insight than those albums have.
Astrid Rehn is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.
Her words aren’t slurred, but she’s inching closer to that.
“I listened to both,” I confess because I don’t give a shit if she knows that I was eager to see her to report back with my thoughts about the music.
“Both?” Her brow knits as she waves two fingers on her left hand in the air.
I reach for her hand, snatching it in mine before she knows what’s happening.
That lures a soft sound from her. It’s something akin to a tiny whimper with a gasp wrapped around it.
I like it.
I gently flip her hand over to reveal her wrist.
I draw my gaze back up to meet hers. “That tattoo. Tell me about it, Astrid.”
Her eyes wander over my face. “What tattoo?”
My top teeth grab hold of the corner of my bottom lip to ward off a smile. “Do you have more than one?”
With her gaze still pinned to mine, she shakes her head.
“Your tattoo looks like a bird in flight.”
“It is,” she whispers.
I look down so I can trace a fingertip over it.
That sends a shiver through her, which she punctuates with that breathy sound again.
Jesus, that sound is shooting straight to my dick.
“What’s the significance of it?” I ask in a low tone.
Her eyes search mine for something. Maybe it’s understanding or compassion. I possess an abundance of both, so I’ll offer her an out because the tattoo is none of my fucking business even though I want to know everything there is to know about her.
Before I can shift the subject back to music, she answers my question. “My mom’s name was Becky Byrd. The bird on my wrist is to honor her.”
Was.
That word. That one small fucking word that dictates a life that is being lived in the moment and one that has ended.
Her mom died.
I sense it from the way her eyes are darting around as if she’s looking for an anchor to ride out this wave of grief.
I’ve been there. I’ve searched endlessly for that anchor only to find it in my daughter’s eyes. I’m not drifting aimlessly in grief anymore, but it coasts through me sometimes when Stevie mentions her mom.
“It’s a beautiful tattoo,” I offer as I trace it again.
“Thank you.” A soft smile settles on her lips. “My mom was a singer too.”
There’s a renewed strength in her voice. Music must be her anchor.
“If you inherited your talent from her, I’m guessing she was an incredible singer.”
That widens her smile. “The best. She had a hit song a long time ago.”
I glance down. I’m still holding onto her wrist. She has yet to try and tug free of my grasp. “What’s the name of the song?”
She does one better.
She starts humming a tune that I recognize immediately.
“Sweet Night Sky,” I say in a low tone. “That’s the song, right?”
That stops her before she can reach the chorus. “You know it?”
I nod.
“My mom wrote it, performed it, and produced it.”
I finally feel her hand drift away from me.
She picks up the glass in front of her and finishes her drink. Her tongue swipes her bottom lip to grab a lingering drop. “That was a hell of a good drink.”
I huff out a laugh. “Nothing you say will convince me of that.”
Her cheeks blush pink again as she leans closer to me. “If I order another, you could try just one sip. I promise it won’t be as bad as you remember.”
I lean forward too until our lips are mere inches apart. “You can’t make that promise.”
“I can,” she says with reassurance woven into her tone. “People’s tastes change as they age. What you didn’t like when you were sixteen, you might really like now.”
I study her face before locking my gaze on her intense green eyes. “You might be right. What did you really like when you were sixteen, Astrid?”
Her eyes widen. “Kissing.”
Well, fuck.
I don’t know if that’s a confession, an invitation, or both. I do know that she’s bordering on tipsy, and if I take her sweet, lush mouth for a kiss, I won’t stop at just one.
As much as I want that, regret will soon follow.
When I kiss her, and I will, I want her fully aware of what’s happening. I don’t want her to have any regrets either.
She stares at me for a moment before she straightens in her chair. “On second thought, I think I’ll pass on another drink. I’m going to head home.”