RILEY
Itisn’tuntilI’min Addison’s car on the way to her house that I start to doubt myself. Even though she made the offer to let me stay with her, it wasn’t without her boss’s pushing, and I know I’m imposing. I don’t want her to feel like she’s taking her job home with her.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I say, risking a glance at her before focusing my gaze back out the windshield.
“Don’t be,” she tells me, not taking her eyes off the road.
“But if you had plans...”
As I trail off, she lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Believe me, I didn’t. I don’t do much other than relax on my days off.”
“You don’t have hobbies?” I ask. Hopefully, that doesn’t come off as rude, because I’m genuinely curious to find out her interests.
“Does cooking count?” she says wryly.
With a chuckle, I tell her, “No, considering how many hours you spend doing that at work, I don’t think so.”
She turns her head to send me a quick smile. “What about you? What are your hobbies?”
“Does playing music count?”
The genuine laughter I earn from this line lights me up inside. And it’sinteresting how all it takes is this one woman laughing at my joke to fill me with the same feeling I get when I’m onstage and thousands of people are cheering for my songs. I’m not sure why that is, but it only makes me want to be around her even more. Since I won’t be performing for crowds any time soon—or possibly ever again, if my career never recovers—I’ll take the bursts of dopamine wherever I can get them.
Her house is cute. It’s a small, yellow two-story with a wicker bench seat on the front porch. When she parks in the driveway, we both get out and go to get my stuff from the backseat.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to—” I start to say as she grabs my large duffle bag.
But she cuts me off with a firm, “I’ve got it,” and tells me to take my guitar.
I’m not sure which is ruder, letting her carry my bag like she’s a concierge or standing here arguing about it in her driveway. So I thank her and do what she says.
It was probably silly to bring my guitar, because I have no intention of playing it in her house. My plan is to disturb her as little as possible, to be so quiet and unobtrusive she might not notice I’m here. But I’m too attached to the instrument to leave it behind at the inn.
After unlocking her front door, Addison ushers me into the house. The first thing I notice is the shelves of vinyl records covering almost an entire living room wall. The only space not occupied by shelves is in the center, where a small wooden table sits with a record player on top. On another wall is a decent-sized TV, a small bookshelf, and a very tall cat tree with a black and gray tabby curled up asleep in the top basket. And against the front wall, below the windows, is a dark gray couch that looks far more comfortable than fashionable—a contrast to the furniture you find in most celebrity homes, my own included.
I’m dying to run over to the vinyl collection and find out Addison’s taste in music, but I’m not going to start being nosy the minute I get here.
“I’ll give you a tour, I guess,” she says, hefting the strap of my bag farther up on her shoulder. “Although there’s not much to see.”
I could already disagree with that, but I don’t, because I’m sure she’d like to put the bag down. “You can just show me where to leave my stuff,” I suggest, raising the guitar case I’m holding a few inches in the air, as if she needs an illustration of what I mean.
“Right. The bedrooms are upstairs.” She leads the way up the staircase, and I can’t help but take notice of the way her jean shorts hug her ass as she climbs ahead of me.
Once we’re on even footing again, my attention returns to the interior of the house, where it should be. On the second floor, there’s a short hallway, with one door on the left and two on the right.
Addison jerks her head toward the first door on the right as we pass it. “That’s the bathroom. Sorry, but it’s the only one, so we’ll have to share.”
“Please don’t apologize for that,” I beg her. “It’s so generous of you to let me stay here.”
She sort of grunts in response, then turns through the second doorway. “Here’s the spare room.” She carefully sets my bag on the floor at the foot of the bed, and I do the same with my guitar as I glance around.
The room is far smaller than my guest room at the inn, but I expected that. There isn’t much in here. A queen-sized bed, a dresser with a vanity mirror resting on top, and a small closet door. It’s all I need though.
“Thank you again,” I say, now that the two of us are empty-handed and just standing in this room facing each other awkwardly.
“You can stop thanking me, Strawberry,” she replies, gesturing for me to follow her back into the hallway. “If it helps, you don’t have to think of it as a favor for you. Think of it as a favor for Brenden, because that man does not handle stress well. Don’t get me wrong, he’s perfectly capable of successfully running the inn. But this isn’t the first time he’s come up with a...creativesolution to a problem.”
She heads back downstairs, not offering any information about theroom on the other side of the hall, which is obviously her own bedroom. I only get a mere glimpse through the open doorway as we walk by. I’m curious, of course, but I’d never try to poke my head in uninvited.
