I think about playing “I Will Find You.” Even if she’s heard Cody’s hit, I’m sure she doesn’t realize I wrote it for her. But it’s too much, too soon. She’s comfortable with me right now, and I don’t want to tip us out of this fragile equilibrium.
So I play “Lucky Me” in the arrangement I used in dive bars before it went viral. The cabin is small enough that I don’t need to worry about projecting, and like all Martins, the guitar has a honeyed tone that fills the room. Watching Sloane’s face, I’m hit with the realization that every performance I’ve ever given was practice for this one.
When the final note fades, Sloane’s eyes are bright in the lantern light, her lips slightly parted. “Welp. I see why the guitar works with the chicks.”
I laugh as our gazes hold and don’t bother to hide how much Iwant her. What’s the point when she has to see it all over my face? “There’s only one chick I care about.”
She blushes—God, that blush. It climbs her neck and spreads across her cheeks. My mind is consumed with thoughts of devouring her until every inch of her carries that flush. I launch into Johnny Cash—“Ring of Fire” and “Folsom Prison Blues”—then keep going, cherry-picking from the catalogs of artists who shaped me as a musician. Playing for the woman who’s changing me in ways I didn’t see coming.
Holding a guitar has always been where I feel most myself, and the fact that Sloane looks happy means more to me than any sold-out stadium or platinum record.
Eventually, she starts yawning, and I press my palm against the strings to quiet them. “It’s getting late.” In the low light from the lanterns, it feels as if we’re suspended in our own little wilderness oasis, the rest of the world blurred at the edges. “I bet you’ll sleep well tonight.”
She unfolds herself from the couch and stretches her arms overhead in a way that lifts the flannel just enough to show a sliver of skin at her hip, and I look away in an act of self-preservation. Then she crosses the small space, and my hands go still on the guitar neck.
“I bet I’d sleep better if you were in bed with me.”
My brain short-circuits for a full three seconds. Her expression says she’s done running from this thing between us, and suddenly, I can’t catch a full breath.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds like I just dragged it across gravel, and I don’t care. “Hell, yes.”
“I like your enthusiasm.” She flashes a wicked grin and picks up the lantern from the table.
I stand and set the Martin on the chair. “I like everything about you,” I answer as she takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
17
SLOANE
Takinga man’s hand and leading him to the bedroom is a first for me. I’m one hundred percent a follower in the sexy times department. After being dumped on a high-country highway, I decided putting myself out there for romance isn’t worth the risk.
But I also just hiked four days through bear country to gently stalk my (possibly former) favorite author, so my list of firsts has been expanding at an alarming rate.
The bedroom is microscopic with a sloped ceiling and a small window looking out to the pitch-black darkness. There’s nothing five-star about the lumpy full-size mattress or the faded blue comforter where I spent hours curled into the fetal position earlier.
But I know the soft sheets hold another smell beneath the faint mustiness—an expensive floral perfume. Like lotion you get at some fancy spa, or in a goodie bag from a swanky influencer party. I’d bet money it’s left over from Kristen Quinn sleeping in this bed, because the scent is exactly how I imagine she smells—extravagant and slightly self-indulgent. Definitely above my pay grade.
For a second, I think about telling him I want to switchbedrooms. But no. It’s just the two of us. And we’re going to make this space our own.
He tugs on my hand and turns me to face him. I reach for the hem of his fleece, and he yanks it over his head like he was born to obey my every wish. Yeah, I’m definitely here for that.
The lantern I placed on the nightstand bathes his chest in golden light, and holy shit. I already know his body from the long lean of his torso to the trail of dark hair down his stomach, but that doesn’t make it less devastating. Oh, no. My heart goes wild, and the heavy weight of desire makes it hard to breathe, which is embarrassing and also completely his fault.
This feels different than those first nights in Nashville when I hadn’t even told him my real name. Or how we came together last night in the tent, rushed and bumbling. He knows the real me now—parts of myself I haven’t revealed to anyone in possibly forever—and I’m choosing to let him get even closer.
I’d like to brush it off. Pretend I don’t know what it means. But I do. It means I’m falling for him, and it’s happening without knowing or caring if I’ve got a soft place to land.
Talk about an adventure. Opening myself up to this man on all levels might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
He frowns, reading my hesitation as something other than complete emotional overwhelm of the best kind. “We don’t have to—” he starts.
I shut him up by going up on my toes to kiss him.
He angles his head and pulls me in closer, one rough hand snaking up under my flannel to unhook my bra with a deftness that should probably annoy me. Except, it feels like he’s been waiting for an excuse to handle me with this much certainty.
The flannel comes off, then the bra. Then it’s Jensen’s turn to pause, long enough to really look at me, and I resist the urge to cover myself. There are faint bruises on my hips from the pack and a post-chemo softness around my middle. And, most revealing, a port scar just above my right breast.
His gaze holds on that scar, and I let him see and acknowledge it, and everything it means. Because it’s part of me now. And as much as I want to reclaim the woman I used to be, I’m not going to deny everything that led me to this moment. Not anymore.
