I was dying. This wasn’t me being all drama queen or anything. This was me feeling the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. My head pounded, my mouth was dry (and tasted gross). I was cold and hot, and every inch of my body ached.
On top of all that? I was mortified. I’d been sick all over Boyd. Like, what the hell. And instead of going apeshit on me, he’d been…concerned, almost sweet. Boyd Appleton. The man I hated more than any other man on the planet.
Except I didn’t hate him. Not really. It was more of an intense dislike, coupled with a stupid attraction that wasn’t only inconvenient, it was absurd. Juvenile even. And now I was lying in the big bed, in the bedroom he’d slept in for days, wrapped in sheets that smelled like him and wishing I were home because I didn’t want to deal with any of this.
Not at half strength, anyway.
If I were home, I’d call my assistant, Ali, or my makeup guy, Alan, to come over and bring soup and hugs and meds and a big shot of B-12. Up until a few days ago, my sister Harmony would have been my go-to, but now I was pretty sure she’d tell me where to go. Straight to hell sounded about right. And my mother? She’d split as soon as Christmas in Aspen was done and over. Headed to Bora Bora with her latest boy toy. Not that I’d call her. She’d only make me sicker. The sad thing was that the two of them probably had no clue I was missing.
And I was missing. I’d been down and out for two days already, and I wasn’t feeling much better today. The chills had subsided, but I had no strength, and the damn headache was killing me. The snow had given way to straight-up ice, and the windows looked like four panes of crystal. This had to be one of the biggest winter storms ever. How in hell had I not known it was coming?
“Well, that would be because you’re not interested in anything other than yourself and how many likes your last Insta post generated.”
And now I was talking to myself. My therapist would have a field day with this.
The bedroom door cracked open, and I immediately turned to face the window, eyes squeezed shut, hoping for an Oscar-worthy performance of Sleeping Beauty.
“I brought you some soup, and this time, you’re going to eat it.”
I didn’t say a word because I was too much of a pussy and didn’t want to face him. Not when I was lucid, anyway. The floor creaked as he crossed the room, and I held my breath.
“Echo, I know you’re awake.”
I did not say a word. Or make a noise. In fact, I was trying to exhale slowly so he wouldn’t know he was right.
“Echo. I’m not leaving until you eat. Your dad will have my ass if something happens to you.”
Debatable, but I wasn’t up to arguing. “How did you know I was awake?”
“Your breathing is different when you’re asleep.”
I frowned and turned over. “How would you know that?”
Boyd set down a steaming bowl of soup on the table beside the bed and shrugged. “I sat here for two nights until your fever broke.”
“Oh.” Sounded lame, but it was all I had. Anything sitting inside my throat died as I looked up at him. Really looked at him.
He hadn’t shaved, so there was a good amount of scruff along his jaw and chin. His hair was messy in that way a girl likes, and the faded jeans and deep navy Henley did nothing but emphasize his wide shoulders, impressive abs, and a body honed by hard work. Knowing Boyd, it wasn’t all from the gym. I knew he owned a spread in Tennessee and that he liked to work the farm on his own. At least that was what TMZ had reported.
He was big and lean and muscular and so damn masculine, it wasn’t fair. There was a reason he’d been named one of the hottest men in the US of A.
I ran a hand through the tangle of hair around my shoulders and winced. I must look awful, and I’m sure I smelled worse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered. I had no clothes with me, and I…
Shit. I knew I was going to cry.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, struggling to sit up.
He bent forward like he was going to help me, but I batted at his hands. “Don’t touch me. I got this.” My tone was sharp and ugly, and Boyd backed away, hands in the air.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” A pause. “Just eat the damn soup.”
And then he was gone.
I took a few moments to lick my wounds, and then I ate the damn soup. Which was good. Beyond good. I wondered who made it. Was Boyd dating some secret Icelandic supermodel who spent hours in his kitchen, naked, cooking up a storm while yodeling Johnny Cash?
When I was done, I set the bowl onto the table and, exhausted, fell back onto the bed. I was beyond tired, and with hot soup warming my belly, I closed my eyes and eventually fell asleep.
I must have slept for hours, because when I woke up, it was dark. I could hear Boyd in the main room playing his guitar. The same melody he’d been playing since the day before. It was beautiful. A slow ride of sexy blues that made me think of the plantation. Made me think of the watering hole. Made me think of things I didn’t want to think about. My cheeks burned, and not because I was sick.
Actually, aside from the burning cheeks, I felt a lot better.
I hopped in the shower and, after rooting around Boyd’s stuff, found a white T-shirt that I knotted at my waist and a pair of red-and-black sleep pants. I rolled up the legs and tied them as tight as I could, but they still hung on the low side, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d trip over them. Whatever. It wasn’t as if I had much choice. There was no brush that I could see, so I used my fingers to untangle my hair as best I could and then stared at the door.
I couldn’t stay in this room forever, and why should I? This wasn’t Boyd’s cabin. Besides, what the hell did I have to be nervous about? We didn’t even like each other.
I squared my shoulders and yanked open the bedroom door. The main room was warm with the fire burning, but on the dark side with only a few candles lit. Boyd was on the sofa, guitar in his lap, long elegant fingers splayed across the frets. His eyes were closed, and he had no idea I was watching him. Shadows from the fire danced across his face, the planes of his cheeks and jawline shown off to perfection. He really was beautiful, and I couldn’t stop staring. It was like being at the zoo and somehow finding yourself inside the exotic cat pen. I was too close to perfection. Too close to something dangerous, and yet I couldn’t help myself.
He started to play, and I jumped, resting my hip against one of the overstuffed plaid chairs. He was still playing the same song he’d been playing for the last day or so. Even in my semi-delirious state, I’d listened, and now I recognized it. It was a slow piece, a haunting melody that for some reason brought tears to my eyes. There was no denying the guy had that elusive something that went beyond talent and the all-important “image” record companies clamored for. Boyd Appleton possessed the ability to make people feel. But more importantly, he made them care.
Boyd progressed from the verse to the pre-chorus and then chorus. Then back to the verse. He played the same progression a few times before launching into the bridge. Here he stopped and began playing different chords, as if unsure where to go.
I coughed. A full-on frog-in-the-throat kind of thing that left me shaking and mortified. Boyd’s eyes flew open, and he glanced my way, fingers frozen, surprise in his eyes. I cleared my throat and wished I could melt into the floor, because the only thing worse than Boyd catching me drooling over him like a dumb-ass teenager was the slow smile that slid across his face.
“What are you doing there?” His voice was low and more intimate than I’d like. It sent goose bumps skittering across my skin, and I shivered, replying with the first thing that popped into my head.
“You should go to a minor chord there. Like a D…” I cleared my throat and mumbled, “Or something.”
Boyd held my gaze for a long time and then, without breaking eye contact, played the section again, this time sliding to a D minor when he reached the end. He played it again and then nodded, setting his guitar down. It was an acoustic, a Gibson Hummingbird. I had one just like it.
“I didn’t know you played.” He got to his feet, and I wanted to disappear. Why did he still have such power over me?
“I play a little.” That was a lie, but it was a secret I held close to my chest. I tried to smile, but it faded as he came closer. Boyd stopped less than a whisper away from me. He smelled like soap and shampoo, and I knew if I looked close enough, I could count the thick lashes that, as a guy, he had no right to. Before I knew what he was doing, he reached for my hands and turned them over in his palms. He ran his thumb along the tips of my fingers, along the calluses from the strings and fretboard, and his eyebrows rose.
“Seems to me you play a lot.”
For a few seconds, we didn’t say anything, and when I finally got my shit together enough to speak, I sounded like Marilyn Monroe—with a frog in her throat. Which, I gotta say, was about as far away from sounding badass as you could get.
“Can I have my hands back?” I couldn’t look at him and gently tugged them from his grip. I took a step back, but the chair was in the way, and I couldn’t escape.
“How long you been playing?
I shrugged. “Awhile.”
“You write?” I couldn’t read his expression, and Lord knows I didn’t want to share anything with him, but I knew he wouldn’t give up until he was satisfied.
“Not really.”
He kind of smiled. “What does not really mean?”
“It means I don’t write for anyone other than myself.” Chin thrust forward, I pushed past him and walked into the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but I sure as hell needed something to do. I cranked open the fridge and stared at a bunch of stuff I’d never eat and pretended that it was the most fascinating thing ever. Who knew cheese and milk could be so damn exciting?
“You’ve been holding out.”
I jumped. He was so close, I felt the heat from his body and smelled that clean, fresh man scent that would make any girl’s lady parts sing. I glanced down. Shit. My nipples were as hard as rocks, and it sure as hell wasn’t because I was cold.
I inhaled a deep cleansing breath and realized I could do one of two things. I could grab that hunk of cheese I’d never eat and head back to the bedroom and solitary confinement.
Or, I could turn the hell around and own this moment.
A spark of something lit inside me—a feeling I hadn’t had in a long, long time. Slowly, I closed the fridge and turned around. That half smile still clung to his face, though it faltered a bit when he took a nice long turn and let his eyes move down my body. The white T-shirt didn’t hide much, and his gaze scorched across my breasts before landing back up where they belonged.
“Here,” he said, and handed me the Hummingbird.
Boyd didn’t say another word. He headed back to the living room and scooped another acoustic from its case on the floor.
He started playing the song, and after a few seconds, I joined him. This, I thought, is what owning a moment looks like. And not just any moment. This wasn’t the perfect Instagram post or red-carpet appearance. This wasn’t me changing my hair color and inspiring millions to do the same. This wasn’t me promoting some expensive new product I was paid millions to do—something I’d been damn proud of in the past. This right here could be a moment that mattered, and I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until I started playing.
I sat down across from Boyd Appleton, took a deep breath, and made the Hummingbird sing.