My breathing hitched when he slid his mirrored sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing that inescapable gaze. His eyes zeroed in on me, and Rayven’s words from before she left came to mind.
Too bad my cousin wasn’t with me. Because as much as I’d told her I would heed her advice, right then, staring up at Gabriel’s gaze, I wasn’t sure of my damn name. Let alone possess the common sense needed to slam the door in his face.
“Have you eaten dinner?” he asked as he leaned his long body against the doorframe.
My stomach muscles clenched. “Yes,” I said, happy that I could easily tell the truth.
“What’d you have?”
“Are you quizzing me?”
“Are you lying to me?” he countered.
“A bowl of soup with half of a chicken salad sandwich. Satisfied, or do you want to check the garbage can to make sure I’m not lying?”
He chuckled, and my goodness, the sound reminded me of the rolling thunder over the Texas hills. I could imagine that sound as the background for a song. But the moment was fleeting.
“Is that an invitation to come in?” he asked at the same time he entered.
“I guess it is,” I mumbled, closing the door behind him. “You know where the kitchen is if you want to check the trash can.”
“I don’t need to do that,” he said. “How’s the writing going?”
“Swell,” I said with enthusiasm. “It’s going great, actually.”
Gabe looked at me with a lifted brow before his gaze fell to the floor. I pinched my lips, hating myself for not cleaning up the crumpled papers.
I opened my mouth to defend the mess but thought better of it. The less I said, the better.
“Are you sure about that?” he finally asked.
“Sure about what?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“It looks to me as if you need a muse.”
“A what?” I asked.
“A muse. A force, or in this case a person …” Pausing, he pressed his hand to his chest. “Me, that you can use for inspiration.”
“I know the definition of muse,” I said tersely. “And I don’t need one.” I brushed past him and started picking up the balls of paper. “I just need to concentrate.”
“Which you’re having difficulty doing out here?” His voice followed me as I entered the kitchen.
I dumped the armful of paper into the wastebasket before answering his question.
“Yes.” But then I shook my head. “No, no. I’m not having any trouble at all.”
“We both know that’s some bullshit.”
Unwilling to let him win in this sparring match, I said, “I have two new songs ready to go.” For emphasis, I jutted my chin higher.
“Great.” He clapped and strolled out into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. “Let’s hear ’em.” Spreading a long arm over the back of the sofa, he made himself right at home.
He looked like a king, taking his place on his throne. The way his jeans stretched over his thighs and a slight amount of chest hair showing through the top of his V-neck were almost scandalous.
“I-I don’t play new music for just anybody.”
“I’m not just anybody,” he responded.
