I debate how much to tell him.That my father's untimely death caused my life to spin further and further out of control? My dreams to crash?
Instead of responding, I change the subject. "Were you rehearsing for an upcoming gig in the gazebo?"
"No," he says, tapping the brown leather notebook on the table. "Working on some new songs. My label hates them."
"Why?"
"Probably because my 'old sound' was a moneymaker. Predictable. Marketable."
"So they want more of the same?"
"Now you sound like my agent," he says. "All of them want me to write something new, but the same."
"And you?"
"I want to write and sing about the things people feel when they're alone late at night. Moments. Vibes."
The intensity in his voice makes my pulse quicken. This is the artist beneath the rockstar façade. Raw, hungry for something real.
"That won't get people on the dance floor," I say.
"Exactly my point," he says, leaning forward. "Songs are a vibration. Not always for your dancing. Sometimes they just..." He pauses, his dark eyes holding mine. "Sometimes they just touch your soul."
"I feel what you're trying to say."
"Yes," he says, his voice rough with something that might be relief. "You feel it."
The passion in his voice when he talks about his art sends heat spiraling through me.
We fall quiet. One candle that Mrs. Bellows lit when we started dinner flickers before burning out, casting us in more intimate shadows.
"I should get some sleep," I say, rising on unsteady legs. Whether from the Chartreuse or his proximity, I can't tell.
As I stand, Cameron's hand brushes mine on the table. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. When I look down at him, there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
He's looking at me in a way that makes my pulse race.
"Good night, Tara," he says, his voice low. His words unsaid.
Something between us has shifted.
The question is no longer whether something will happen.It's when.
CHAPTER 19
TARA
The first breakfast with Posey and Mrs. Bixby doesn't run smoothly. My early childhood education classes covered nutrition and developmental stages. But they didn't prepare me for the reality of navigating household hierarchies.
Mrs. Bixby has set the dining room table with elaborate formality: the Spode breakfast china, sterling silver, linen napkins, and crystal juice glasses.
Posey sits perfectly straight in her chair, hands folded, waiting patiently for her omelet to be served on the proper dishware.
Cameron appears in the doorway and stops dead when he sees the elaborate breakfast setup.
"What's all this?" he asks, gesturing at the formal table setting.
"Breakfast, sir," Mrs. Bixby replies crisply. "As the family has always taken it."
