Chapter Nineteen
It was normal for me to count down the days until Friday, but this week seemed obsessively so. And now that Friday was here, and based on the sheer number of clothes strewn across my room, it was like I’d forgotten how to get dressed.
“My god. This is ridiculous,” I said, the frustration forming tiny droplets of sweat on my back. I took in the pair of dark wash Levi jeans, a fitted white crop top, and one of my favorite jackets staring back in my reflection through the full-length mirror.
The jacket had been a gift to myself. Maggie and I had stumbled upon the quaintest little thrift store on our drive back from Nashville one time and decided to stop. We rummaged for hours, and when I spotted it, I knew it was coming home with me. That was years ago, and it was still my favorite.
The cream jacket was etched with hand-drawn equestrian toile print in a deep navy that complemented the wash of my jeans. The brown corduroy collar laid nicely against my rich chocolate brown hair and always gave a chic but country vibe, and it was always the first thing I grabbed.
“I have no time. This will have to do,” I insisted to myself.
Why was I so concerned about my outfit this time around?
I’d spent plenty of time with Stetson, and this time would be no different.
At least that was what I kept telling myself.
But in the way back parts of my brain, I could hear Maggie’s words: “Quit trying to find excuses as to why you shouldn’t and instead look for all the reasons why you should. ”
I told her I’d think about it, and quite frankly that was all I’d done since Tuesday.
Since Stetson’s unannounced arrival in Quincey Falls, I’d been looking for all the reasons why I shouldn’t flirt with the idea of something more.
If I was being honest, I think it had less to do with Stetson and more to do with me, and all the past times that I’d been let down or, even worse, left.
But what was I going to do? Stay closed-off for the rest of my life and never let anyone else in?
That sounded miserable. I did think, however, that if Stetson weren’t in the position he was, this whole thing would be a helluva lot easier.
But then again, would it? Or was I just trying to find more excuses?
I hated to admit it, but I thought it was the latter.
“Damn you, Maggie,” I muffled under my breath as I spritzed my perfume all over, the lingering notes of vanilla establishing a sense of confidence. I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen counter before turning toward the door.
Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” was blaring through the barn as I stepped inside. The warm air mixed with Stapleton’s angelic voice wrapped my entire body in a hug that sent a sharp desire coursing through my veins.
“Anyone here? Stetson?” My voice was losing a little bit of confidence with every second that remained silent.
A sinking pit emerged at the bottom of my belly as the memory resurfaced of leaving here empty-handed last time.
I didn’t even think about texting him to make sure he was actually here. What if he decided not to—
“Mornin’.” Stetson’s voice was like a trigger to my increased heart rate, immediately forcing it into overdrive.
I swallowed hard, attempting to force the unnecessary nerves back down.
“Good morning,” I said, rotating my body around toward where his voice came from. “For a second, I thought maybe you decided to bail on me… again.” I smirked, the tone in my voice suggesting I was just messing with him.
“I would never keep a pretty woman waiting any longer than I had to, especially not one like this.” He dragged his pointer finger up and down. His confidence was something I’d admired but also found extremely infuriating at times because he somehow always knew exactly what to say.
Meanwhile, I was digging for every ounce of confidence I could find while attempting to be calm, cool, and collected.
My brain was running a million miles an hour, my stomach was teetering back and forth between excitement and nausea, and the growing ache to be touched by this man was proving to be a nuisance.
“Hm. Interesting.” I cocked my head to the side. “Well, now that you’ve kept me waiting long enough, think it’s time we got some actual information for this article I’m supposed to be writing?” I asked.
“I reckon we can do that.” He half smiled and walked toward the recording studio. “Step into my office.” He dragged the door open, his protruding biceps visible even under his black long-sleeved Henley, and stepped aside, allowing ample room for me to walk by.
I studied him as I moved closer to the recording studio. His black jeans were held in place by a black leather belt—not that they needed it; they were practically molded to every curve of his lower half. His black cowboy boots and black trucker hat completed the monochromatic outfit.
Never thought a man in all black would do it for me, but then again, I’d never seen Stetson in all black.
My brain’s automatic response was to close my eyes, bracing for impact as I walked past him and into the recording studio. Wait for it. Wait for it.
There it is.
The leathery, musky scent was absolutely intoxicating. It was one of those smells I could remember forever, the kind that hit your nose and made the hairs on the back of your neck spark to life. The kind that lingered even after the person was gone.
“Whew,” I mumbled under my breath. “How’s the writing going?” I asked, in hopes of refocusing my brain. I sat down on the couch, plopping my stuff right next to me.
“It’s going. I haven’t had as much time to focus on the album as I’d like, but sometimes there are more important things than making music,” he said, finding a seat in the chair just behind the soundboard.
I released the breath I’d been unknowingly holding on to.
Thank god, I thought. If there was any chance of me getting any actual work done, there needed to be at least five feet between the two of us at all times.
My brain was already fighting to replay the memory from the last time I sat on this couch, and it was taking everything in me not to let it win.
“Do you think that’s the only reason you’re struggling?” I asked.
“Woah there. I didn’t say I was struggling. I just said I haven’t had much time.”
I threw my hands in the air, signaling a white flag. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying that maybe it isn’t about the time, but more about the songs you’re trying to write.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
“You want these songs to be different, right?”
Nothing came out of his mouth, but a slight nod confirmed my question.
His body language depicted a relaxed but on-guard position with both legs squared out and his elbows propped on his thighs as he leaned forward in a large leather spinning chair. His right foot appeared to be nervously dancing on the floor, a steady but constant rhythm.
“If I was a bettin’ woman, I’d guess that these aren’t as easy to write as your previous songs.
Songs about drinking, partying, and cowgirls…
” I said, shooting him a come and get me look, because as much as I wanted to try to play professional—at least for now—I couldn’t help myself.
“Those are songs that are easy to write.”
He crossed his arms. “Is that so? Is that your way of telling me my other songs sucked?”
“No.” I laughed. “That’s not what I meant.
It’s just when you’re writing about things that lack emotional depth, that don’t give an inside look at all your vulnerable parts, it makes things a little easier, less personal.
Now you’ve decided you want to write songs that mean more, songs that show your fans who you are.
That means you have to be willing to write those songs, to share those parts of yourself, the parts that maybe you’ve kept hidden or guarded for most of your career. ”
I fidgeted with the ring on my right finger as I stared at Stetson, awaiting a response, but he stayed silent. Finally, I broke our gaze, shifting my eyes to my hands.
“You know, you’re probably one of the most insightful people I’ve ever met. From the first night I met you under the stars at Booker’s party, you’ve had a way of viewing the world differently. A way that somehow always seems to make sense.”
I shifted my body, sitting up taller with the boost from his compliment. I half expected some smart-ass response, but then again, he had a way of surprising me, showing me slivers of himself that I was so desperate to get to know.
“Thank you,” I responded. I swallowed, giving myself a chance to stop the words that were about to come out of my mouth, but instead, finding myself eager to say them.
“Take it from someone who has kept some big things to herself. Things that are heavy to carry on my own, but it’s scarier to think that sharing those things could change some people’s perspective on who they think I am.
” I breathed, dropping my gaze again because I was too afraid to look him in the eyes.
“Then to even consider revealing those things…” I paused, the thought itself sending my body into fight or flight mode. “It’s fucking terrifying.”
I felt a deep need to show him that being vulnerable may be scary, but it could also be freeing.
That he could open up to his audience, the same way he’d begun opening up to me, and it just might make him feel more heard than he’d ever felt.
And from what I knew about Stetson, he was begging for someone to listen, for someone to hear what he was trying to say.
My eyes were still glued to the floor, but I heard the wheels of the chair gliding closer. Then, I spotted his black cowboy boots only a few inches away.
His gentle hand reached under my chin, guiding my head up until our eyes locked. “Not that my opinion matters to you, but nothing you say could change my perspective of who I think you are.”