What is wrong with me? Yes, he’s big and gorgeous and kind. And his clothes smell amazing, but I’ve never been someone who swoons. Even when Matt asked for my number, I didn’t feel this giddy anticipation.
Not that Gibb has asked for my number. Or made it seem like he might want to. I take one more sniff and pop my head through the opening, tugging the sweatshirt down. I peer into the mirror to make sure I don’t have any more wayward forest debris anywhere when the frames on the wall behind me catch my attention. Are those awards?
I turn and hop over to get a better look at them. They’re some kind of round plaque in a frame. Like a gold record. I tip my head up and lean closer. They are gold records. I note the writing.Velvet Riot.
My mouth drops open. Matt was just talking about this band and the lead singer who disappeared. What was his name?
Gibson Hart. My blood rushes in my ears. Gibson… Gibb. Oh. My. God.
I reach for my phone, to look for a photo, only to realize it’s out in the living room.
With him. Possibly a rock star. I look at the next plaque. This one is silver, no, not silver. Platinum.Velvet Riot – Saints of Ruin.
There’s a knock at the door.“Poppy?”
I shriek and clap a hand over my mouth.
“Poppy are you okay?”
“Fi-fine.”Shit.What am I supposed to say to him? At least this explains my reaction to him. Gibson Hart has a voice like smoke and a smile that made twelve million women fall in love with him.
Including my friend Neveah. I remember her talking about one of his shows and apparently, she cried all the way through it because she was just so overwhelmed to be near him.
And her seats were nosebleeds.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
“Nope, I’m good. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call, hugging the sweatshirt around me. I look at the records again, trying to make sense of it. The guy who carried me through the woods doesn’t really look like a rock star. He’s big and gruff, with a beard and raises goats. What kind of rock star becomes a goat farmer?
Why would you leave that life to live on a mountain?
Maybe to find the kind of silence you would have to need badly enough to find a place like this and put up fences.
This is why Matt dragged me out here. I close my eyes, picturing the phone he tucked into his jacket and wouldn't let me see. I think about the rip on his sleeve and the look in his eyes when he'd come back to the clearing. He wasn’t worried, or sorry, just lit up with the certainty that he'd found something.
My stomach drops.
Or someone.
5
Gibb
Irealize about five seconds after she comes out of the washroom that she knows who I am. I mean, I don’t really hide it. There’s an entire music room here at the cabin, she just hasn’t seen it yet. I forgot about the records in the washroom though. It was kind of a joke at the time. When I left, I really left. My sister took over my place in L.A. and shipped a bunch of stuff to me, including a ton of Velvet Riot memorabilia. Most of it is still in boxes, but Gramps wouldn’t let me shove those records in the attic. He was always encouraging me and Mel to show off our achievements.
I’m pretty sure my Grammys are sitting under the frame holding the First Place Ribbon for my high school talent show.
He was adamant that being here didn’t mean I had run away from who I was, and he made me hang those damn gold and platinum records somewhere. So I hung them in the main floor washroom which was mainly reserved for guests, not that I had many of those.
Poppy avoids eye contact, hopping out on one foot and looking far better in my clothes than I should be noticing.
Then she stumbles, wincing and I reach her in about two strides, bending to lift her in my arms.
She gasps and her fingers curl into my shirt. “You can’t keep doing that.”
“I didn’t rescue you just to have you fall in my house.”
I walk her to the couch, hating how stiff she’s holding herself. “Are you hurt?”
