She pressed the Send button and packed up her laptop.What would Forest think?
With her backpack slung over her shoulder and her day bag clutched in her hand, she headed out.
Three days with a man with emerald eyes, a magnetic voice, and the ability to melt her from the inside promised so many things.
She shut the door to her brownstone and locked her practical half inside.
Chapter Eight
Skye ran right into Ash.Her stomach tightened as hope mingled with fear, but she’d made the decision to see where this thing with him would lead.
“Sorry.” She took a breath. “I guess I’m ready.”
He put her bags in the back, next to the guitar, and then opened the passenger door of the Jeep. He stole a peck on her cheek. “Get in.”
He walked around to the driver’s side. “Where’s this cabin of yours?”
“It’s not mine. My boss is letting me stay in it, and it’s near Roanoke, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
He whistled. “How far is that?”
“About three or four hours, depending on which way you go. Reconsidering?”
“Hell no. I wouldn’t give this trip up for the world.” He leaned back and turned the key. The moment the engine cranked over, music played through the speakers. He turned the volume down and then backed out of the driveway.
“Guess I have a few hours to get to know your life story,” he said.
“You don’t want to know my life story.”
“I do. We’ll start with the easy stuff first. How about favorite food? Or music?”
“Hmm. Food is hard. Music…I like what you’re playing.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “Awesome! A hard-rock gal. I took you for the soft, fluffy stuff.”
She made a face. “You can thank my brother for that. He buys all our music. We share playlists. Or rather, I listen to what he buys. I like Metallica, Slayer, Pantera, Seether—the list goes on.”
“Most of those formed decades ago. Any newer bands?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to find a true metal band anymore. I mean, most play their asses off and crush it, but they don’t have moving songs. I like bands who really blow it out of the water. When I listen, I want to feel inspired and pushed to be better at what I do. My brother is a big fan of Angel Fire, so I listen to more of their stuff than I otherwise would. I guess they’d be considered relatively new.”
“You like them?”
There was something more to his question, but she couldn’t figure it out.
The topic of music kept the conversation away from her life story. She struggled to remember how Forest had described music. “Like I said, I’m not a fan. Too busy with work. It’s the same with television. I hardly have time to watch anything, and I rarely see movies.”
The lines on his face eased.
She continued, “I recognize their sound. It’s the same with Seether or Metallica. I know when I’m listening to a particular band, but that’s where it stops.”
“Why metal bands and not soft pop?”
She laughed. “I love the energy of metal. Soft pop is okay, but it’s not inspiring. Metal bands write with heart and soul. They create a sound—something that stomps balls, makes you want to scream your head off, but doesn’t make you look like an idiot while doing it. There’s a melody there as well, to wrap your head around. Well-crafted songs like that are hard to come by.”
His fingers tapped the steering wheel in time to the rhythm of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets.” His expression relaxed into a peaceful smile. “I like how you describe music.”
She was repeating her brother’s words almost verbatim. He was the true music fan.
