Chapter 9
“The song sounds great, C. Are you calling that one ‘Out of the Friend Zone’?” Sophia says with a grin, standing at the door to my music studio.
We closed the café at four on the weekend, which gave me time today to come home, shower, and work on my music. When I could finally afford it, I turned half the basement into a glassed-in studio outfitted with recording and production equipment, a massive amplifier, and my collection of guitars.
“Not a bad title,” I say, continuing to strum in a mellow key.
“So, I’m right? You two looked really cozy, and Lexie was giving off woman-in-heat energy.”
“Jesus, Soph. I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Why not? I’m an adult.”
“You’re my little sister.”
“Who is also a sexual being.”
“I swear, Soph. Not another word.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re the one who taught me about the birds and bees, respecting my body, no means no, and all that.”
“Necessary lessons. I stand by respecting your body and consent, but that doesn’t mean I want to discuss either of our sex lives.”
“Well, in the last year, you haven’t had one to discuss.”
“Get out.” I toss a notebook at her, and she skirts away, laughing.
“Have fun tonight. Pack condoms. You taught me about safe sex, too.”
I get up and close my door, grumbling at the annoyance of little sisters.
But inside, I’m feeling a mix of things.
For weeks now, I’ve wanted to know what it would be like to peel back Lexie’s layers and reach the woman underneath.
I’ve fantasized about slipping through her defenses and stripping her down to pure impulse and raw emotion.
Last night, I’d gotten a sample, a taste.
There was nothing cautious about the way her mouth moved over mine or those low, throaty moans.
Or how her body trembled and called to me.
Our kiss lasted a minute, maybe less, but it was as remarkable and incandescent as a shooting star.
I saw the look in her eyes when she pulled back—glassy with arousal and just a little bit stunned, as if she hadn’t expected to let me get that close.
And still, it wasn’t close enough. I knew one kiss would only whet my desire and sharpen my need.
But it’s not just sex I want. I can keep that part in check.
It’s the emotional pull, the connection, that has me by the throat.
I’ve never felt this attached to someone so quickly.
Someone who is only here for another few weeks and may not even want a relationship.
I return to my guitar and the song in my head.
It doesn’t have lyrics or a title yet. I often create from a feeling.
This one starts off slow, as if holding back, then explodes with strength and power.
Lost in the music, the way I get when it’s firing on all cylinders, I work until the vibration of my phone pulls me out of my trance. It’s Lexie.
5:43 PM
Lex: I’m so sorry. Please forgive the late notice. I’m battling a terrible headache. Rain check?
My mood deflates. I wanted to see her badly, but I hate that she’s not feeling well.
5:44 PM
Chaz: Sucks to hear that, Blue. Can I get you anything?
I wait for the bubbles to appear. But there’s nothing.
6:12 PM
Chaz: I haven’t heard back from you. Just text to let me know you’re ok.
At almost seven, I try calling, but her phone goes straight to voicemail.
She’s sick, alone, and has gone radio silent.
I can’t ignore the pit in my stomach. Grabbing my jacket, I leave the house.
A light snowfall dusts the rooftops and blankets the street as I hurry to the cottage.
All the windows are dark, and her white Mercedes sits in the driveway, half-covered by the flurries.
I knock—politely at first, then louder when there’s no answer. “Lexie?” I call out, my voice carrying over the wind. It’s too quiet; the unease in my gut grows heavier. I’m about to use my spare key when I hear the shuffle of footsteps, followed by the door creaking open.
Framed by the glow of the streetlamp, she looks pale and fragile, her eyelids narrowed to slits, her brow creased in pain.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I got worried when you didn’t respond to my calls or texts.” I realize just how over-the-top that must sound.
“My phone’s been off. Sorry you worried.”
“It’s okay. Migraine?” I ask.
“Tension headache. I get them sometimes.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Hours ago. I’m probably due again.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Too much effort.”
“I’ll fix you something.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“And risk not being neighborly,” I cajole. “Do you realize the damage that would do to my reputation?”
She attempts a small smile, but it turns into a wince. “Sorry,” she mumbles, retreating inside. “I need to sit down.”
I follow her in, removing my boots and hanging up my jacket.
The house is dark, but I know my way around.
Making my way to the kitchen, I flick on the stove light.
The space is neat and orderly—like the way she carries herself, at least on the surface.
I pluck a juice glass from the dish rack and fill it with water.
“Where are your pills?” I ask, finding Lexie slumped on the couch.
“Coffee table.”
I tap my phone’s flashlight, keeping the glare away from her, and locate a prescription bottle. The headaches must be severe if she needs something stronger than over-the-counter meds. “How many?”
“Two. They work better when I take them right away, but I didn’t have them with me.”
I hand her the pills and water. She swallows them down, giving me back the glass and leaning against the cushion.
“Sorry, Chaz,” she murmurs. “I’m not very good company.”
“Stop apologizing, Lex. I don’t expect you to entertain me. Can you eat?”
“I don’t know.” She curls into herself as if to shrink away from the pain.
Thinking she needs something in her stomach, I go to the kitchen and quickly return with a slice of toast and a mug of chamomile, its lightly floral scent rising with the steam. “Try to eat,” I encourage.
She opens her eyes and takes a nibble, her face still drawn tight.
“What brought on the headache?” I ask, sitting on the cushion beside her.
“A call from my mother, but I really can’t talk about that right now.”
“Fair enough,” I say, surmising it was a guilt trip to pressure her into returning to a life she doesn’t want.
“Thank you for the toast, Chaz.” She manages another small bite before putting the plate down and sinking back against the couch. Cradling the warm mug between her palms, she sips on her tea, but the pain is so severe she can barely keep her eyes open.
“How about letting me give you a massage?”
Her head snaps up, and she winces from the sudden movement. “I . . . I . . . no, that’s okay.”
“Really, Lex?” I arch my eyebrow. “Give me some credit. If I were after sex, I wouldn’t make my move when you’re in pain and can’t enjoy it.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “I didn’t mean that.
I know you’d never take advantage. It’s just—” her fingers tap against the mug as she tries to explain.
“I just feel awkward having all that attention on me. Even at the spa, I can’t quite relax during a massage because I’m worried about their hands getting tired or if they’re bored.
Should I talk? Be silent? It’s a whole thing. ”
“You’ve got a lot going on up there.”
“I know.”
“Well, for the record, my hands won’t get tired, I won’t be bored, and you can talk or sleep—I’m good either way. You’d be doing me the favor,” I add, hoping to erase any lingering guilt. “I can’t stand seeing you in pain, and I want to help.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I say with conviction. “I want to take care of you, Lex.”
“You’re very good at it. Sorry for making this into a production.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Just let me work my magic.” I stand and crack my knuckles for show. “Prepare to be mystified by my healing hands.”
“I guess I can’t refuse such an amazing offer.”
“Nope, you really can’t,” I say, taking the mug and setting it aside. “Lie down on your stomach.”
She stretches out and slides into a prone position, adjusting her robe over her legs. It’s thick and fluffy, reaching her ankles, and her feet are covered in fuzzy socks—a woman who values comfort.
Carefully, I straddle her hips, one foot on the floor and my knee resting beside her on the couch. “I’m just going to place my leg here,” I explain, mindful of my size. I’m a big guy, always have been, and I don’t want her to feel overpowered. “Take a deep breath and release it.”
She obliges, but she tenses the second my hands touch her shoulders through the plush fleece. “Favorite photographer?” I ask, aiming to distract her.
“Vivian Maier,” she replies, still stiff as a board.
“Why her?” I probe, kneading my fingers into the curve where her neck and shoulder meet. “What do you like about her work?”
“I suppose it’s how she captured images in a way that felt raw and unfiltered. It was about truth, not perfection.”
“That’s what gives an image soul,” I agree, working at a particularly tight spot where she must carry her stress. “I see that in your photos.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I’d argue you don’t give yourself enough.”
“You might be right. I’ll have to think about that.”
“I get the impression you do a lot of thinking.”
“Too much,” she admits. “I can overthink just about anything or nothing at all.”
“You mean like a thought gets stuck in your head?”
“Sometimes it’s one thought, sometimes it’s many.”
“Can you explain it to me? I mean, what it’s like for you.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah, I do.” I’m interested in everything about her, but I get the sense she’s not used to a man wanting a deep dive into who she is.
“Umm. The best way I can describe it is to imagine having multiple TVs blaring inside your head—each on a different channel, and you can’t turn them down or shut them off.”
Jesus. “That must be overwhelming. How do you escape it then?”
“Headphones and music help to block some of the noise and distract my brain. But that’s not always feasible, like in social situations.”
“I can see that. What do you do then?”
“It’s going to sound weird.” She pauses. “I recall random facts that I’ve read. I know a ton of trivia. I find it fascinating, but it also comes in handy to quiet the chaos. It’s as if it gives my mind something simple to focus on.”
“That’s an interesting strategy. How’d you come up with that?”
“By accident. It was at my junior debutante ball—a stupid, antiquated event.” She tenses up again, and I concentrate on the knot beneath my hands.
“I was stuffed into a hideous gown that felt more like a cage. I could barely breathe. The taffeta was awful on my skin—I’m texture-sensitive.
I just wanted to tear it off. I begged my mother not to make me go.
But she wouldn’t hear of it. She lectured me on the importance of social obligations because appearances matter most to her. ”
Fuck, I hate everything about this story—the lack of concern for their daughter, the elitism—but I don’t interrupt, letting her talk while I keep working those bunched muscles.
“I remember stepping out onto the floor, shaking. My mind was racing with all the ways I could humiliate myself—trip on my dress and face plant, throw up on someone’s shoes—the thoughts went on and on, spiraling.
And then it came to me, something interesting I’d read: Flamingos are pink because of the carotenoids in the shrimp and algae they eat.
I started repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra—flamingos are pink because they eat shrimp.
It switched the panic to a low setting, which helped me make it through.
I know that must sound ridiculous, but it often works. ”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous; it sounds genius,” I say, impressed. “You’re good at finding ways to cope. Nothing wrong with that, Blue.”
“I guess not,” she concedes. “Better than having a meltdown.”
“Meltdowns have their place, too.”
“I suppose, but I’d rather not.”
That’s not a surprise considering how tightly she keeps herself contained, holding in all that pressure. It’s no wonder she’s here in search of some peace.
“Your turn to tell me something,” she says.
“I’m an open book. Ask away.”
“Hm.” She hums thoughtfully. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Going for the big one.”
“Is that all right?”
“It’s all good, Blue. Her name was Olivia. In fact, she used to get wicked migraines.”
“You gave her massages to help?” she gathers.
“I did.”
“And she let you get away?”
“Married a big-shot real estate broker in L.A.”
“I bet she secretly pines for you.”
“No doubt.” I grin, able to joke because I’m well past it.
“So, what happened with you two?”
“We wanted different things. Olivia was restless, chasing something more, something bigger than a life here. I had Soph to think about it. I couldn’t just take off. After two and a half years, she left. It was a blow, but as much as I loved her then, I knew she wasn’t the one.”
“Do you believe in that?” Lexie asks, her voice growing thick and drowsy—the meds kicking in.
“What?”
“Someone destined for you—your soulmate?”
I reflect on her question. “I think a soulmate is someone you have a deep, genuine connection with. Someone who fits so naturally in your life that you can’t imagine it without them.
Not because it’s destined, but because you choose to show up every day, fight for your relationship, even when it’s not easy, and love each other fiercely. ”
“That sounds wonderful,” she murmurs, her words trailing off into a long, wistful sigh. Her breathing slows, her body softly rising and falling.
“Sleep now, Lex.”
“Don’t leave.”
Her vulnerability and trust slip between my ribs and wrap around my heart. A man has to get very close before he can understand the essence of a woman like Lexie—each nuance as subtle and alluring as her scent.
“I won’t leave,” I say, spreading my fingers through her hair and gently massaging her scalp. “I’ll be right here.”
And that’s the hell of it, I realize. I want to be here, to hold her when she’s sad—encourage her when she has doubts.
I want to soothe her stress away, watch those lake-blue eyes go bright with laughter, and her pink lips curve with a smile.
I want to share her dreams, her joys, her pain.
I want to make her coffee every morning and climb into bed with her every night.
“Damn, Blue,” I whisper into the quiet darkness, pulling the soft blanket over her sleeping form. “Looks like I’ve fallen in love with you.”