She bleats.
"This is a human bed, Stevie." I glance at the door. “It’s Gibb’s bed.”
She tilts her head, ears flopping, and looks at me with eyes that contain no concept of rejection.
Or at least that’s what I assume. Goat eyes are hard to read.
"Fine," I say. "But you can’t go anywhere near the pillows and if he comes in, I'm blaming you entirely."
I help her up. She circles twice and settles across my feet with profound satisfaction.
"You’re living your best life, aren’t you," I tell her.
She closes her eyes, and I flop back against the pillows.
Gibb appears in the doorway about thirty seconds later. He looks at Stevie. He looks at me. His expression goes through approximately four phases in quick succession before landing on something that is somewhere between stern and amused.
"How?" he asks.
"I genuinely don't know. She let herself in."
"That door has a handle. I closed it before I went downstairs."
"Didn’t seem to be an obstacle." I shrug.
He comes in and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and looks at the two of us, dropping his head to his chest. His shoulders shake and when he looks at me, he’s laughing. It’s not his sexy smirk, or his wry smile, but full-on cheek-busting laughter. It changes his whole face. If I thought he was gorgeous before, seeing him with his eyes bright, his head thrown back in laughter is absolutely devastating.
“Just move in already, why don’t you?”
My heart jolts but then he picks Stevie up, ignoring her small bleat of protest and carries her to the door. Maybe he was talking to her.
“I’m going to take her out to the barn and then I’ll be back to carry you downstairs.”
“My crutches?” I ask.
He slides me a glance.
“Hey, I have to get dressed,” I protest.
“I can help with that too,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Stay put.”
Getting dressed tookanother couple of hours because I am apparently a greedy, little girl who likes to scream, but now I’m downstairs, my hands wrapped around a mug, sipping on Gibb’s delicious coffee and eating another cinnamon roll.
“I didn’t go to rehab,” he says casually.
My head snaps up. “I wouldn’t care if you did. Lots of people need help,” I say.
He’s quiet for a minute, looking out the window. “It’s important that you know why I left.” His knuckles are white around the handle of his mug. “My band was trying to push me out.”
“What? But you were the star.”
“They didn’t like that. After Danny died, things got crazier. Everyone wanted more. More money, more fame, more drugs to chase oblivion or to reach some other level. And I just wanted Danny back.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I have done drugs, and drink and everything you read about. But Danny was the wake-up call I needed, but never wanted.” When he looks at me, tears shine in his eyes. “I lost my parents in a plane crash, but Danny got in the car that night to go get more drugs. He was so high he knew he couldn’t drive, but the guy he was with was so drunk, I don’t know how he managed to put the key in the ignition.” Gibb swallows and I put my mug down to pick up his hand.
“Anyway, I wasn’t there to stop them because I was fighting with my guitarist, who had sold a notebook of songs I’d written to some other band.” His head dips. “No one was there to stop them.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “But that wasn’t your fault.”
He shakes his head. “Afterwards, they just wanted to find a new drummer, but Danny and I had been together for a long time. I couldn’t just replace him and keep doing shows. I was breaking down every night. But we had a tour to finish.”
