“I just happened to be with him when your parents called to say they couldn’t make it because of the weather. They asked if he’d come check on you,” he said, taking his hat off and combing his fingers through his hair. “So, I told him I had some things I needed to chat with you about regarding the article and that I’d go instead.”
“Oh,” I managed to force out. Was whatever he had to talk to me about reallythatimportant, or was there a chance he wanted to be the one to check on me? “Thankfully, I’m thirty years old and have spent a Christmas alone…” I paused.
The realization hit me like freight train.
Actually, I hadn’t spent a single Christmas alone. I’d grown up celebrating with my parents, and then as I got older, it was always Zane and me, occasionally with my parents too, but never by myself. This was the first Christmas I’d ever been by myself.
The heat rushed to my cheeks.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyebrows scrunching together.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m good. I’m going to go put on some warmer clothes, and then we can chat about whatever it is that you’re so desperate to tell me.”
He nodded his head, and I escaped to my bedroom, throwing on some sweatpants and an old worn-out Tennessee Vols sweatshirt.
“All right,” I said, moseying back into the living room and plopping down on the couch. “What is so important that you had to drive through a snowstorm to talk to me about?” I patted the spot next to me. “Have a seat in my office.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
His casual but Southern style wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but he made it look like it was.
“Well, you see, I met this woman, and she said something to me that I haven’t been able to get off my mind. So, like most artists, I took to my words and decided to write a song about it, and despite being my own toughest critic, I think it’s damn good.”
I was registering his words in a delayed manner, and by the time he finished what he was saying, it took another few seconds before I finally processed what he’d said.
Doing my best to play it cool, I responded, “She sounds like a keeper.”
“Ha. That’s what worries me.” He rubbed his hand up and down his thigh, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “The song’s called ‘Choices.’”
Slowly, he moved his attention to me, looking up from underneath his hat, his anxious lips hungry for my reaction.
Was this man nervous? In the time that I’d spent with Stetson, never had I seen him like this. Like he was looking for validation.
My validation.
“‘Choices,’” I repeated. I couldn’t help but let the softest smile curl onto my face. “Do I get to hear this song of yours?”
“Yes, but it’s not completely finished. That’s why I’m here. I wanted your opinion on a couple of things.”
“I’m honored,” I said, shifting my legs into a crisscross applesauce position. “Stetson Walker wants my opinion?”
Stetson Walker was in my living room, asking me to help him finish a song he wrote because he was inspired by something I said. Saying that out loud was wild, but it didn’tfeelwild—not even a little bit. It just felt like two friends working on a project together.
“I think he wants whatever you’ll give him.” He flashed that country wide smile in my direction but didn’t give me a chance to respond. “I wasn’t sure if you would let me in. Let me go grab my guitar out of the truck, and I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” I said, my body still reeling from his previous comment.
What was his end game? Why was he putting forth so much effort? Was it simply because he wanted to sleep with me? Was I appealing because he’d never had to work this hard to get someone into his bed? Or was there a sliver of a chance that it was something else? Somethingmore?
I couldn’t let my brain go down that path. Not right now. I didn’t even know if I was ready for the answer, regardless of what it was.
I grabbed my phone from the coffee table, seeing multiple texts from Maggie.
Maggie:
Yeah. Do you not?
Maggie:
