Except he’s exactly the type I swore I’d never get involved with again. Another musician. Another man who lives on the road, in studios, in that world that chewed me up and spit me out. Jason was a session player, but Darian—Darian’s the real deal. Sold-out tours, platinum records, the whole package that comes with groupies and late nights and promises that dissolve when the tour bus rolls out.
My phone buzzes.
Give me thirty minutes.I’ll bring wine.
I stare at the message too long, my pulse doing that thing it does when his name appears on my screen. Thirty minutes to figure out what I’m doing. Thirty minutes to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Thirty minutes to decide if I’m really going to let another musician into my life, into Lily’s life.
He’s already in it.
Shaking away the voice in my head, reminding me that Darian is, in fact, in our lives, I pull the ingredients from the refrigerator without planning. Chicken breasts, cherry tomatoes, basil from the plant Jovie gave me that I’ve kept alive through sheer determination and Google searches about proper watering schedules.
My hands move through familiar motions—seasoning, chopping, arranging—while my mind races through worst-case scenarios. Him joining Levi’s tour, or his own because it’s only a matter of time until everyone realizes Darian Mercer, founding member and guitarist from Reverend Sister, is hiding out in Nashville, playing dive bars and open mic nights. Lily getting attached to someone who sees Nashville as just another stop. Me falling for someone who writes songs about women in every city.
The marinade needs time to work, so I mix olive oil with lemon juice and garlic, trying not to think about how Jason used to smell like other women’s perfume when he’d come home from “writing sessions.” Different musician, same story. Except Darian doesn’t lie about what he is. Doesn’t pretend the road isn’t his real home.
I remember finding Gage’s notebook once, filled with my melodies, my words, rewritten in his handwriting. “You inspire me,” he’d said when I confronted him. “Isn’t that what love is? Making each other better?”
Gage didn’t make me better. He made me resentful.
So did Jason.
That’s two musicians I let into my life, and now Darian’s the third.
“Third times a charm,” I mutter.
Twenty-five minutes. I check my reflection in the microwave door, then hate myself for caring. It’s just dinner. Just Darian. Just the man who’s been slowly dismantling every defense I’ve built without even seeming to try.
I change my shirt twice, settling on the black one that fits well without looking desperate. The one that doesn’t scream “single mother trying too hard.” Apply lip gloss, then wipe it off. Put it on again. Consider opening the wine I already have, then decide that might make me look either too eager or like I need alcohol to handle this.
The knock comes exactly thirty minutes later. Of course it does. Darian shows up when he says he will, follows through on what he promises.
So far.
I open the door to find him holding wine and a grocery bag, wearing jeans and a black henley that fits him well enough to make me reconsider every boundary I’ve set. His hair’s damp from a shower, and he smells clean, like soap and something cedar that makes me want to lean in and breathe deeper.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I step aside, trying to look casual. “What’s in the bag?”
“Dessert. Figured if we’re doing this, we should do it right.”
This. Such a small word for what’s happening between us.
He follows me to the kitchen, setting the wine down before unpacking ingredients—heavy cream, good chocolate, vanilla beans. “You started dinner without me.”
“I needed something to do with my hands.”
“I know the feeling.” He catches my eye, and something passes between us, acknowledgment of all the things our hands want to do.
We work side by side, finding rhythm immediately. He opens wine while I sauté garlic, the sound of it hitting hot oil filling the space between us. I season chicken while he whips cream, his forearms flexing with the motion in a way that’s distracting. Our bodies navigate the small space with careful awareness, brushing against each other in ways that feel both accidental and deliberate.
“Music?” he asks, nodding toward the speaker on the counter.
“You pick.”
He connects his phone, scrolling through options with the same focus he brings to everything. “Any preferences?”
“Something that won’t make me think too hard.”
