He’d changed the lyrics.
“Skye, believe in us, I’m betting with all my heart tonight,
Skye, sing with me and I’ll be there to keep it right.
We’ll build our tomorrow, chord by chord, till it shines?—
Skye, say the word and I am yours for all of time.”
My mouth dropped open and then I was moving across the room, staying his hand on the guitar so the chord broke off, discordant and awkward. Noah’s eyes held mine.
“Do you mean it?” I asked, my throat tight.
“Every word. I love you, Skye. A part of me always has. But seeing you again? Making music together? It made me realize what was important in life. I was a fool then, but I don’t have to be a fool now. I’d like to think I’ve learned a few lessons on the road.” Noah’s lips quirked up again and my heart softened.
“Is this … is this your house?” I asked, my breath catching as he put the guitar down and stood, cupping my chin with his hand. Tilting my head up, he kissed me, long and deep, until I no longer noticed the cold of the garage and all I could think about was him. Then he broke the kiss and bent his forehead to mine, our breaths matching the same beat.
“Aye.”
“You bought a house,” I said. It came out halfway between accusation and admiration.
“Rented for a year with an option to buy,” he said. “It came up the week I left. Matt found the listing. I asked him to put a hold on it. I didn’t know if I’d have the nerve to ask you to come here otherwise.”
I had about a hundred questions. Instead, I didn’t ask any of them. “It’s beautiful.”
“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 whatwewrote. 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.Ifyou 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 themeaning 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.
