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Kissing Paisley is like diving into a cold creek on a hot summer day. At first, there’s the shocking, tingly feeling that bubbles up over your skin as you disappear under the surface. Then that buoyant surge as you drag in your first breath of air after you rise, the thrill of the water rushing over you and the sweet relief from the stifling heat.

Paisley’s lips are soft and smooth. She leans into me, her hands wrapping around the back of my neck as she pulls me closer, her acoustic guitar nestled in her lap between us. I’m reluctant to pull away, even as my lungs burn for air. We both inhale at the same time, but unlike mine, her breath is shaky and uneven. Her dark eyelashes glisten with lingering tear droplets, and a line of uncertainty appears between her brows.

A gust of wind rattles the windowpane, followed by the plops of a few large raindrops as they smack against the glass. The loft grows dim beneath the dark November sky, making the space seem to shrink around us.

“What happens now?” Paisley asks in a ragged whisper.

“More kissing?” I brush my lips over the soft curve of her cheek.

“I’m serious,” she says on a sigh that seems to hold the weight of the world.

So am I.

If I had my druthers, I’d spend the rest of the day up here in this loft, kissing Paisley until our lips go numb and our eyes grow drowsy. I’m tempted to do just that.

But she’s right. We have to figure out what happens next.

I reach over and brush her hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger over the shell of her ear. The strain of the melody that I heard when her mouth first pressed against mine plays on a loop in my mind. It’s similar to a line that’s been running through my head for at least a week, but I couldn’t figure out where it was going. Now it’s clear as day.

I never understood the concept of a muse. I know there are plenty of artists who talk about a certain someone who’s the source of their inspiration, and I always thought it was bogus to rely on one person like that. I didn’t need a muse when I was with Six String Justice. I had my boys and we were making it happen. But now I’m wondering if I was looking at it all wrong. Maybe a muse isn’t the source of inspiration. Maybe a muse is like a magnifying glass, taking something that was always there inside you and helping you see it better.

“Look,” I say, locking eyes with her. “I’d like to continue working on my demo with you. I think we make a great team, and nothing that’s happened changes that for me. I can’t go back and fix what happened in May, but I promise I’ll do my very best to support you and make sure you feel seen from here on out. I like spending time with you, I like kissing you, and I’d really like to see where this thing between us goes. But it’s your call, Paisley. I want it all, but I’ll take what I can get. And if I have to settle for nothing, I’ll find a way to deal with that, too.”

Paisley chews on her bottom lip as she studies my face. Worry, hope, concern, and possibility all flicker in her eyes.

Rain patters steadily on the metal roof, and my heart beats just as fast as I wait for Paisley to decide. Her lips part and it takes all my self-control to hold back and not pull her into another sweet, irresistible kiss.

“We can’t lose focus on the music,” she finally says. She reaches out and fiddles with a tuning peg. “You need to deliver a demo in a few weeks, and this is a huge opportunity for me to get my songwriting career started.”

“Agreed,” I say.

“My family’s counting on me to help out on the farm, especially with the holidays coming up.”

“I’d never ask you to blow off your family or your commitments.” I thread my fingers through hers and give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I won’t be around later this week—I’m going to spend a few days with my granddad—but other than that, you can always put me to work when we aren’t writing music. I can help.”

Paisley clasps my hand tighter. “Are you sure about this us thing?” She worries her bottom lip.

I lift our intertwined hands to my mouth and brush a kiss over her knuckles. “Very, very sure. In fact,” I say, my mouth curving up into a sly smile, “I’m so sure about it, I could sing.”

And I can. Because I know the song now.

It all comes together like a musical epiphany. I drop her hand and reach for my guitar. As soon as the first note is strummed, I’m sure I’m onto something. I can feel it in the way the strings vibrate beneath my pick. In the way the rain on the roof adds a muted percussion background hum. In the way I don’t have to think about it, the music just flowing through me.

“The past is gone,

What’s done is done,

I never thought I could need someone like you, baby.”

Paisley’s eyes light up when she hears how the lyrics fit with the melody we’ve been noodling over for a while now. She straightens in her chair, sets her fingers on the fretboard of her guitar, and bobs her head gently to the rhythm. Soon, she starts accompanying me, the warm notes of her acoustic guitar filling in the gaps and rounding out the sharp, tinny sounds coming from my unplugged electric.

As I sing, she hums lines of country-style harmony as she tries to match my phrasing.

“Gotta look ahead,

Or we’ll fall behind,

You came up fast on my blind side, baby.”