Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against my temple. I liked when he did that, so I should add that to our agreement, too. The next time we opened up for negotiations, anyway.
"I meant to apologize about the hall closet. I got tired and?—"
"You are well within the agreed-upon timeframe," he said. "And even if you weren't, I won't complain about being able to find towels." He glanced at the guitar, then back at me. "Your song was?—"
"Just a song." I lifted the cup to my lips.
He sat next to me on the sofa. Not too close, but close enough that I could catch his scent and appreciate the way his lips moved under the beard.
I…uh…had many reasons for preferring the beard at this point. Most of them were inappropriate to bring up, but I'd also added keeping the facial hair to our agreement.
"You realize that, more than everyone I've ever met, you're always moving?" he asked.
When we sat together like this, he lounged back and crossed an ankle over his knee. But today, he didn't do that. No, he was all focused on me.
"Always moving?" I asked with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Walking in circles, sure."
"Don't do that." He shook his head, one of his fingers toying with the edge of my hair where it rested along my shoulder. "Don't put my wife down like that."
"Oh, come on, you've known me for less than a minute." I meant the words as a joke, but they didn't work. Actually, they seemed to touch a nerve because he pursed his lips and glanced away.
"The only person to determine if you're going forward or backward is you," Sloan said in all seriousness. "All movement is technically the same. Whether you run up the field or down, it's all part of the journey. That journey is taking you forward, either way."
"That all sounds very sage, but until you came into my life, I only found myself in the same spot over and over." It was the truth. Always a new tour, always in the background. Taking a paycheck and then onto the next.
"And now, you're moving forward."
"I'm living in Vegas at night," I said with a smile. I was, and it was amazing.
"Can I post this?" he asked, holding his phone for me to see. "On my socials this time?" He handed over his phone, open to the video recording app.
"You recorded me?" I asked, taking the phone, my hands a touch shaky because I wasn't certain I wanted to see what he'd filmed.
I was there, so I knew what had happened and how it went. I set the cup of coffee on the ottoman and stared at the still image of me on the screen with my guitar.
I didn't love the idea of telling him no. But I disliked the idea of him posting my flop of a song more.
"Just look," he suggested, nodding to the screen.
I pushed play.
The sun was shining behind me through the big windows, casting a golden glow over everything it touched as I sang the lyrics.
Funny that from this point of view—the view outside my head—they sounded amazing. The emotion came through so strongly, and the lyrics reverberated off the walls in a way that melded with the acoustic guitar, adding poignancy I hadn't realized was there.
"They don't sound like that in my head," I said, peering closer at the screen.
The fits and starts and pauses as I sorted the bridge actually made the song more intimate. I glanced at Sloan, and his eyes filled with pride and admiration.
"Okay,” I decided on the spot. “You can post, but…gah…maybe not?" I ran my hand over my hair. "I mean, I could do it again, and it could be better. Not so many stops and starts, you know?"
"Then it wouldn't be Vegas at night," he said.
Funny enough, I understood exactly what he meant. If I made it perfect, it would lose the perfection.
So, I nodded, bit my lip, and made myself say, "Post it."
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
