Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“I did.” His midnight-blue eyes glinted as he gave her a trace of a smile that deepened his utterly beguiling laugh lines. He had lines on the sides of his mouth as well, all of them giving him a weathered appeal, like he lived well in his skin.
The way his lush lips curled up in one corner, the square cut of his jaw, the stubble lining it, and his impossible nose that had been broken more than once—he’d played in some sketchy places before mine—all the perfect imperfections added to his allure. He had a way of looking down for a moment and then lifting only his eyes to you, laser-focused on your face. I saw Evelyn Ewing’s eyes flutter, heard her catch her breath, and was guessing by this point, she was holding on to his hand for actual balance. It happened all the time. Even when I’d seen the pictures of him before he went to rehab, even at his lowest, thinnest, face gaunt, missing the thirty pounds of muscle—that he’d now regained, given his powerful, athletic frame—he had always, always, remained luminous. The man was breathtaking, and nothing could diminish that.
I had been as enthralled as everyone else from the very beginning. The sultry sound of him, the mane of thick chestnut hair he was forever tucking behind his ears, carding his fingers through to brush back from his face, and simply the heat and raw sexuality of the man were overwhelming. Never had I wanted so desperately to keep someone.
He and his band, the Dregs, used to play from nine or ten—depending on how good or bad the arthouse musicians we used to have on earlier were—until closing every night. They would mix Dawson’s original music with covers, mostly ’60s and ’70s rock. I would freely admit, it had been perfect. This was the Quarter, so to end every night with an extended, raucous version of “On the Bayou” had been inspired. I understood as I looked at him now that I needed to find someone like him, the difference being that they would stay. And not for me. I was not looking to ever fall in love with another musician—that way lay madness. I was looking for someone with his charisma and versatility and talent.
“So what on earth are you doing here in the Quarter?” Evie asked him, still sounding shaky, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.
It made sense. It was hard to stand in front of a superstar and remain unaffected.
“I’m not touring anymore. Everything I own is in the back of my SUV.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he told her with a flirty, throaty rumble. “I have downsized my life.”
“Why?”
“Because eventually, you figure out what’s truly important.”
“Is that right?” Simone baited him.
“It is.”
She made a noise in the back of her throat that was all judgment.
“I’m working on a new album and I was just signed to Stig Malloy’s label, Salvage Records.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Evie gushed. “When will the album be out?”
“Not until next year.” His eyes flicked to mine, then back to her. “I’m still writing. That’s why I came back here where it all began. No better place to find my inspiration again.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “May I ask who your agent is now?”
“Sawyer Cox.”
“Oh.” She sounded unsure what to do with that.
“He’s Nick Madison’s manager, and Nick’s the one who introduced us once he was out of rehab the last time. Sawyer is good with me concentrating on only my album, nothing else, which is exactly where my head’s at so… it’s all smooth sailing now.” He gave her that sexy, brain-melting grin as he released her hand.
“Yes,” she barely got out.
“And I heard,” he said, moving toward Simone, who was trying to glare a hole through him, “that you needed a band.”
Her arms were crossed tight, her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was going to open her mouth and flames were going to shoot out. He would be incinerated on the spot.
Taking gentle hold of her biceps, he met her narrowed gaze with his own. “I can promise to fill the place starting tomorrow night, Sy,” he said, using the shortened version of her name that she had only ever tolerated from him. “The guys all came back with me. We all needed to come home.”
She stood there like a stone. I understood. I had sugarcoated our end, Dawson’s and mine, with everybody else. The rest of them only knew what I thought was fair and right. But Simone had sat at the bar with me after closing and seen how broken I was, and she’d made sure I didn’t drink all the tequila we had. She was the one who sat with me, in silence, watching old movies and eating too much pie. And she was the one who, after a time, didn’t let me sit at home anymore, but instead dragged me to brunch with friends, terrible art exhibitions at galleries Michael thought we all needed to update our immunizations for before we went in, and to bowling—so much bowling—and, of course, dancing to ’80s music every Thursday night. When she and Michael had bumped into me getting coffee with friends one night while they were out, you would have thought I’d given her a million dollars. She was so happy and relieved, glad to see me returned to the land of the living.