Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
MILES
“Success!” I cheered, setting my fork down with a satisfied sigh.
“Very good job,” Loxley applauded. “Other than forgetting the sides, I’d say that was dang near perfect.”
“Hey, we had the sides last night,” I pointed my empty fork at her before placing it down. “Between last night and tonight, that was a complete meal.”
She threw her head back in laughter, the sound free and full, like I’d just told the funniest joke in the world. It wasn’t that I was that funny, she was just that carefree at that moment. And I liked seeing her like that.
We made quick work of the dishes, then wandered into the living room, each with a glass of wine in hand. As I sank into the couch, my gaze landed on the notebook sitting on the end table, next to the pens I’d gotten her.
“Come up with some lyrics today?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She tilted her head and smiled. Then, without warning, she started singing. "I was walkin’ down the street, lookin’ for a bite, when I saw a pork chop, and it felt so right."
I nearly choked on my wine. “Did you just make that up?”
“No!” she squealed indignantly. “I thought about pork chops all day. It was all I could think about.”
“Right!” I shook my head, still laughing at how ridiculous she was.
There was something about Loxley. Something bigger than the talent she showed the world.
From the moment she snapped at me over her speeding ticket, she’d been a bundle of fire and charm.
Sure, there were moments when she’d slip into something heavier, but then she’d bounce right back into being her bright and sassy self, singing about pork chops.
“Speaking of pork chops…” I said, shifting gears. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, which means I’ve got dinner with my grandparents. I’ll be heading straight there after work.”
“Wait!” She gasped, sitting up straighter. “Tomorrow is Sunday?”
I nodded, amused at the shock on her face.
I supposed it made sense because why would she know what day of the week it was?
Before I pulled her over, her days had been like Groundhog Day—the same endless cycle of work, expectations, and obligations.
Since then, she hadn’t turned her phone on or paid much attention to anything outside my four walls.
“Well, I’m gonna be just fine here, Officer,” she said, dramatically sipping her wine and giving me a salute. “I quite enjoy the peace and quiet that comes along with this little escapade I’m on. Who knew running away could be so liberating?”
“I think liberation is exactly why people run away.”
She waved me off like I was missing the point, making me chuckle. Then, as if an idea struck her, she grabbed her notebook, clicked her pen, and looked at me with sudden intensity.
“Don’t move.”
I barely had time to react before she started scribbling furiously, her eyes flicking up every few seconds to steal glances at me. Each time I caught her, her cheeks pinked slightly before she ducked her head, diving back into whatever had sparked her creativity.
I didn’t move a muscle.
There was something mesmerizing about watching her work. I could see the wheels turning, the tiny spark in her eyes as she pieced things together. She wasn’t just jotting words onto a page. She was crafting a melody that didn’t even need music to exist yet.
“Oh!” I jolted upright, excitement hitting me before I realized I interrupted the spell she was under.
“What?”
Holding up one finger, I set my wine down and jogged toward the back of the house. The third bedroom was technically my home gym, but the closet still held a graveyard of old hobbies and half-finished projects.
Buried behind a set of dumbbells, and a forgotten punching bag, was it. The guitar I once thought I’d learn to play.
Grabbing it, I ran back to the living room, holding it above my head like I’d just won the Lombardi Trophy. “I don’t know if it sounds good anymore, but this might help you.”
Her reaction wasn’t what I expected.
Loxley’s eyes widened, something like fear flickering across them as she started to shake her head.
For a split second, I thought, maybe she doesn’t know how to play.
Just because she was a musician didn’t mean she played instruments.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had never actually seen her with a guitar.
Not on TV. Not in the concert I went to.
“Can you—?”
“Of course I can,” she cut me off, standing to take the old six-string from my hands. “It’s just been so long since I’ve been allowed to.”
Allowed to.
Something about those words didn’t sit well with me, making my hands clench at my sides. It was just one more piece of proof that she needed to be here, that I was doing the right thing by helping her disappear.
Loxley strummed lightly, testing the tuning, humming a few soft notes. The sound was low, like something waking up from a deep sleep. Satisfied, she set it carefully against the couch and shook out her hands, like she was trying to bring warmth back into her fingers.
When she glanced back at me and found me watching her, she grinned and scooted closer. “You some kinda angel?”
I laughed. “Doubt it. Maybe you just decided to go eight miles per hour over the speed limit in the right jurisdiction.”
She scooted even closer. I leaned forward, reaching out without thinking, taking her hand.
“No other cop in any other town would pull someone over for doing eight over,” she scoffed, but she didn’t pull away. She let me intertwine my fingers with hers, and damn, I hadn’t realized just how badly I needed to touch her, until I did.
“I normally wouldn’t have either,” I admitted, my voice low. “But something told me there was trouble behind the wheel of that old Nissan.” My thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Turns out, I was right.”
She looked at our hands, smiling before lifting her gaze back to mine. “I don’t think I’m the only one causing trouble, Mr. Officer.”
Touché.
Instead of answering, I stood, keeping hold of her hand so she had no choice but to stand with me. She was at least a foot shorter, and for a second, she just looked up at me, quietly, like she was waiting for something.
And damn, I wanted to kiss her. It was what moments like that were designed for. But she didn’t need me pulling a stunt like that.
She wasn’t there to find a man to kiss her. She was there to find herself. And even though I’d seen her clearly from the start, she still needed time to catch up.
“I’m headed to bed,” I finally sighed, stepping back, breaking whatever tension was pulling us in. “Another day ahead of me searching for a kidnapped pop star.”
“Pop star?” she gasped, laughing. “I could never.”
“Rockstar?” I hedged.
“Maybe.”
“How about a southern songbird? Or a hillbilly hitmaker?”
“How about a good old-fashioned country girl who loves to sing?”
“Well, whatever we’re calling her, I have to pretend to look for her all day tomorrow, and it’s gonna be exhausting.”
“Poor thing,” she crooned dramatically as I backed toward my bedroom. “I’ll write a sad song about it.”