Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
RILEY
It isn’t until I’m in Addison’s car on the way to her house that I start to doubt myself. Even though she made the offer to let me stay with her, it wasn’t without her boss’s pushing, and I know I’m imposing. I don’t want her to feel like she’s taking her job home with her.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I say, risking a glance at her before focusing my gaze back out the windshield.
“Don’t be,” she tells me, not taking her eyes off the road.
“But if you had plans...”
As I trail off, she lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Believe me, I didn’t. I don’t do much other than relax on my days off.”
“You don’t have hobbies?” I ask. Hopefully, that doesn’t come off as rude, because I’m genuinely curious to find out her interests.
“Does cooking count?” she says wryly.
With a chuckle, I tell her, “No, considering how many hours you spend doing that at work, I don’t think so.”
She turns her head to send me a quick smile. “What about you? What are your hobbies?”
“Does playing music count?”
The genuine laughter I earn from this line lights me up inside.
And it’s interesting how all it takes is this one woman laughing at my joke to fill me with the same feeling I get when I’m onstage and thousands of people are cheering for my songs.
I’m not sure why that is, but it only makes me want to be around her even more.
Since I won’t be performing for crowds any time soon—or possibly ever again, if my career never recovers—I’ll take the bursts of dopamine wherever I can get them.
Her house is cute. It’s a small, yellow two-story with a wicker bench seat on the front porch. When she parks in the driveway, we both get out and go to get my stuff from the backseat.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to—” I start to say as she grabs my large duffle bag.
But she cuts me off with a firm, “I’ve got it,” and tells me to take my guitar.
I’m not sure which is ruder, letting her carry my bag like she’s a concierge or standing here arguing about it in her driveway. So I thank her and do what she says.
It was probably silly to bring my guitar, because I have no intention of playing it in her house. My plan is to disturb her as little as possible, to be so quiet and unobtrusive she might not notice I’m here. But I’m too attached to the instrument to leave it behind at the inn.
After unlocking her front door, Addison ushers me into the house.
The first thing I notice is the shelves of vinyl records covering almost an entire living room wall.
The only space not occupied by shelves is in the center, where a small wooden table sits with a record player on top.
On another wall is a decent-sized TV, a small bookshelf, and a very tall cat tree with a black and gray tabby curled up asleep in the top basket.
And against the front wall, below the windows, is a dark gray couch that looks far more comfortable than fashionable—a contrast to the furniture you find in most celebrity homes, my own included.
I’m dying to run over to the vinyl collection and find out Addison’s taste in music, but I’m not going to start being nosy the minute I get here.
“I’ll give you a tour, I guess,” she says, hefting the strap of my bag farther up on her shoulder. “Although there’s not much to see.”
I could already disagree with that, but I don’t, because I’m sure she’d like to put the bag down. “You can just show me where to leave my stuff,” I suggest, raising the guitar case I’m holding a few inches in the air, as if she needs an illustration of what I mean.
“Right. The bedrooms are upstairs.” She leads the way up the staircase, and I can’t help but take notice of the way her jean shorts hug her ass as she climbs ahead of me.
Once we’re on even footing again, my attention returns to the interior of the house, where it should be. On the second floor, there’s a short hallway, with one door on the left and two on the right.
Addison jerks her head toward the first door on the right as we pass it. “That’s the bathroom. Sorry, but it’s the only one, so we’ll have to share.”
“Please don’t apologize for that,” I beg her. “It’s so generous of you to let me stay here.”
She sort of grunts in response, then turns through the second doorway. “Here’s the spare room.” She carefully sets my bag on the floor at the foot of the bed, and I do the same with my guitar as I glance around.
The room is far smaller than my guest room at the inn, but I expected that. There isn’t much in here. A queen-sized bed, a dresser with a vanity mirror resting on top, and a small closet door. It’s all I need though.
“Thank you again,” I say, now that the two of us are empty-handed and just standing in this room facing each other awkwardly.
“You can stop thanking me, Strawberry,” she replies, gesturing for me to follow her back into the hallway.
“If it helps, you don’t have to think of it as a favor for you.
Think of it as a favor for Brenden, because that man does not handle stress well.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s perfectly capable of successfully running the inn.
But this isn’t the first time he’s come up with a. .. creative solution to a problem.”
She heads back downstairs, not offering any information about the room on the other side of the hall, which is obviously her own bedroom. I only get a mere glimpse through the open doorway as we walk by. I’m curious, of course, but I’d never try to poke my head in uninvited.
And I won’t start imagining any scenarios in which she would invite me into her room.
We walk by a small dining room downstairs, and then she brings me into the kitchen.
It’s clear that she’s in here a lot, probably cooking at home as much as she does at work.
Besides all the records in the living room, this room feels the most filled with stuff.
Appliances, cooking utensils, a large bowl of fruit and avocados, wall art, and magnets on the fridge.
“And that’s about it,” she says, arms half-extended as she twists around to indicate I’ve seen the whole house. “Do you want to go sit down?”
I assume she means in the living room, so I nod and go back there, with her following me this time. I sit at one end of the couch, my body sinking into the cushion immediately, leaving room for her to plop down at the other end.
And that’s when I realize I have no idea what to say to her now. We’ve spent a little bit of time talking while I’ve hung out around the inn. But the only real time we’ve spent together was the day we went to the bar. The day I couldn’t stop checking her out.
My instinct is to fill the silence by thanking her once more, but she already told me to stop doing that, so I just bite my lip and keep quiet.
She gestures at the sleeping cat. “I should have warned you about Freddie. You’re not allergic, or one of those assholes who hates cats, right?”
Happy she got the conversation started, I laugh and assure her that I don’t hate any animals.
“You’ve got an impressive record collection,” I comment, feeling a bit more at ease.
“Yeah, I’ve been buying vinyl since I was a teenager.”
Smiling, I say, “And you don’t consider that a hobby?”
She shrugs. “Sure, I guess it is. But it’s not like it’s something that truly takes up my time. I play music while I’m doing everything else.”
“Do you ever just sit and listen?”
“Only rarely.”
I think it would be nice to play something and simply sit here with her. Most of the time when I’m listening to music with other people, it’s work-related. Takes the enjoyment out of it.
I still want to know what kind of music she likes. I already know she doesn’t like mine, but I’m not holding that against her. My music taste is pretty broad, so I’m sure we’d be able to find a common ground somewhere.
“You can take a look at them,” she says, catching me eyeing the wall wistfully. “Feel free to play whatever you want. But I figured you might want to take a shower first, since you didn’t get one this morning.”
“Oh yeah, that’d be good.” I would like to feel clean, especially now that I’m here sharing space with her.
“And if you can give me some idea of what you’d like for dinner, I’ll run to the store if I need to.”
I remember Brenden implying that Addison would cook for me, but I shake my head. I don’t want her waiting on me the way she does at the inn. She’s not getting paid for this. And she’s already doing more than enough by letting me stay. I want to do something nice for her in return.
“How about I make you dinner instead?” I ask, which brings a very confused look to her face. “I’m not the greatest cook,” I admit, “but I can make a few decent things. And I’d really like to do it for you. But if you don’t want me messing around in your kitchen, I totally understand.”
“I’m not worried about the kitchen,” she says, still studying me with a puzzled expression. “But that’s definitely not necessary. I’m used to cooking for people. Do it pretty much every day.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know. And that’s why I thought it might be nice if you had someone cooking for you for a change.”
As we stare at each other, my heart is beating faster than normal. I only just came up with the idea, but now it feels very important to me that she lets me do this.
After a few moments, in which she must determine my offer is serious, she slowly nods, giving me a small smile. “Okay, that does sound nice. Thank you.”
Excitement has me grinning now. The layer of awkwardness that came with me being here feels like it’s already fallen away. Maybe we really can become friends.
I’d like that.
Although I have to remind myself that eventually I’ll be going back to Nashville. My career is there. My life. But that’s doesn’t mean I can’t make friends here.
And if it’s possible I might want more from this woman... well, I can ignore that. Because I would have no idea what I’m doing in that department. It’s less complicated, less scary, to be friends.