Chapter 12 #2
“Come see the bit that made me sign,” he said, and then he checked himself. “If you want.”
I wanted.
Opening a side door in the garage, he tugged me outside and through a stone courtyard, to a small brick outbuilding.
Flinging the door open, he hit the lights and I peered into a bright space with solid walls, thick rugs on the wood floors, and two wide windows that faced the sea.
The room was bare except for a couple of armchairs, and a long table covered in equipment still in boxes.
Cables. Mics. A small mixing board. Acoustic panels propped against the wall.
“You’re building a studio,” I said, my pulse picking up speed.
“I am,” he said. “A home one. Proper, but not flashy. Enough so we can record vocals and guitars and get good demos.”
“We?” I asked before I could stuff the word back in my mouth.
He took a breath. “I negotiated a contract,” he said.
“No tour required unless I decide I want one, and even then it would be short and slow. No press junkets. We do a few pieces with people we trust. The label gets songs. They don’t get my life.
I made that clear. The important bit, Skye …
” He put his hand on the table like he needed something solid under it.
“They want what we wrote. Our song. This new label loved it. They want more. I told them I would only do it if I could do it here. With you. On your schedule. When you want. If you want. You can keep running your inn. Always. This is not a trap. It’s a room with a door you can walk out of whenever you like.
But if you walk in, there’s work here with your name on it.
There’s also a man desperately in love with you, ready to put our future first.”
I listened. The words were simple but the meaning was significant. I picked up one of the still-wrapped microphones and turned it in my hands to have something to look at.
“You said no,” he added quietly. “I heard you. I left anyway because I needed to see if I could get the shape of this right. I came back because I think that I did.”
“Do they know you’re stubborn?” I asked.
“They offered me a press calendar that looked like a military exercise. I offered them a list that looked like a shopping trip,” he said. “We met in the middle.”
“What does ‘work with your name on it’ mean?”
“Writing credits. Production credit if you sit at the board and help me shape it, which you should, because you’re good at telling me when I’m being a show-off.
A share of the publishing on anything your words touch.
If we decide to put your voice on the record, you get what a featured artist gets.
If we don’t, you still get paid for the writing. ”
“Paid,” I repeated, because my brain sometimes needed a second lap.
“It’s proper money,” he said. “Not ‘here’s a voucher for crisps.’ Not ‘exposure.’ It doesn’t solve everything. But it helps when January at the inn is slow, and the boiler decides to break on the coldest day of the year.”
I set the mic down then put my hands on the back of a chair because my knees felt a little loose. “I told you no.”
“You did,” he said. His face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch either.
“And you came back with a different question.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the windows. I couldn’t see the sea, but I could feel it in my bones. I took a few deep breaths, my thoughts whirling furiously. He waited. Somewhere along the way he had learned some patience. His expression was tight, his eyes wary as he watched me.
“I didn’t want to get pulled back into your life,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t want to vanish into it.”
“Then don’t,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me into yours. Sometimes at a microphone. Sometimes in your kitchen with a cup of tea.”
“It still scares me,” I admitted.
“That’s fine,” he said. “We can be scared and still try.”
We stood there in a room full of boxes while a party formed in the house. I could hear Shannon corralling someone into wearing a hat and Esther cajoling Daniel to give her the microphone. The sound of the party made the decision easier, not harder.
“I can’t promise every week,” I said. “I can’t promise a marathon.”
“Understood. But, my wildfire, I also didn’t ask for one,” he said. “I asked you to walk in sometimes and help me make something honest.”
My wildfire. How I’ve missed him calling me that.
I nodded. My throat felt tight. “We can try.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it since the day he left. “Okay,” he said, and his voice went soft in the middle. “Okay.”
And then his lips were on mine, and we were sinking, sliding, into each other, chasing the chorus line on a song we’d yet to write.
But now, at least, I knew we had time to write it. Together.
We went back to the big room because if we stayed in the quiet any longer, I might jump him on the rug.
That was for later. If I knew anything about the Book Bitches, I knew we had limited time before one of them interrupted us to get the gossip.
Laughing, I dragged Noah across the courtyard and back inside where the party had built itself in our absence.
Coats piled on a bench. A long table strained under a mountain of food that looked like everyone in the village had emptied their fridges.
Paper crowns were being passed about. Rosie had built a “Resolution Tree” out of branches in a vase and people were hanging tags on it with lies and hopes.
Harper had set up a photo corner with a banner that read … New Year, Same Chaos.
For the first time in days, the ache in my chest eased. I didn’t know what the year would bring. I knew two things that mattered … I could keep my life. And I could let it grow.
“Happy New Year, Skye,” Noah said.
“Happy New Year,” I said back, and when I tilted my head up to accept his kiss, the party went wild.
“All right, folks, you saw it here first,” Esther crowed into the microphone. The opening strains of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On cued up, and I groaned into Noah’s kiss, and then we broke apart, both laughing.
“Never change, Esther,” I called, holding up a glass of champagne someone handed me. “Never change.”