He threw down the piece of paper he’d collected from the door along with his keys onto the cluttered coffee table and let out a long breath. No napping. He needed to clean this place up.
Three hours later Warner fell onto the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. Six bags of trash had been taken to the dumpster. Four baskets of laundry had been carried to his truck so he could make a trip to the Laundromat.
His cupboards were now filled with clean dishes and he’d thrown out the rotten strawberries in his refrigerator and made a grocery list. Other than condiments, he had no food.
Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand he laughed at himself. He was a slob. Clara’s cluttered little bedroom was a haven compared to the hell hole he’d been living in. But maybe that needed to change.
Warner tapped his hand against his leg and a beat generated at his fingertips. The hell I’ve created…that would need to change.
He sat up and tapped the same beat on the coffee table. The hell we’ve created…it was time for a change.
The words danced in his head and beat now tapped his foot.
He stood and walked over to the newly dusted keyboard and began the workings of the song that now played in his head.
***
Clara sat at the kitchen table and bit into the sandwich she’d made for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock and she’d been calling Warner since she’d left the theater. He’d never answered.
She was setting herself up for disappointment. He had a wanderer’s soul and she was just a stop on his route to wherever he was going to land.
The house was too quiet. Tyler was gone and the basement was void of everything but the furniture that stayed. Christian was at Tori’s. It seemed as though she’d decided he was worth having over at night. And now Clara sat alone in her kitchen with a piece of bologna between bread and she was calling it dinner time. She was pathetic.
Well, it was only one night. She knew she shouldn’t feel bad for herself. Tomorrow night would start the final run of West Side Story. Her days as Maria were numbered. And then there was the gig Randy had set up for them, though it was going to have to be all Warner now. There was no way she could commit to performing with him.
As she bit into her sandwich there was a pounding on the front door. She yelped as she bit down on her cheek.
Who could possibly be at the door this late?
The pounding continued and Clara quickly stood, hurried to the cupboard, and reached for her gun. She’d hated Christian leaving it there, but now she was glad it was in reach.
“Clara, are you home?” She heard Warner’s voice call out.
Her adrenaline had kicked in and she laid the gun back on the shelf. Her hand was shaky and even holding it in her hand wasn’t safe.
She took a deep breath and hurried to the door.
As she pulled open the door she narrowed her eyes on him. He was a wreck. Were those the same clothes he’d had on when he left her off at the theater?
“What are you doing?”
His eyes were open and bright. “You have to listen to this.” He moved past her with his guitar in his hand, not even in its case.
Warner propped his foot up on the coffee table, raked his fingers through his already mussed up hair, and then he began to play.
Clara smiled as Warner dove into the song. The dark cords, his deep voice, the haunting lyrics of a love on the mend. The man was a musical genius.
The song and his voice echoed through the house which only moments earlier had been so quiet. This was where he’d been all day she realized. The creative mind had shut off from the world and this masterpiece had been written.
As the last chord of the song resonated through the air he finally looked up at her. His eyes were wide and he was waiting for her approval.
“You wrote that today didn’t you?” She asked.
He only nodded, his foot still propped up on the table. His guitar still balanced on his knee.
“Warner Wright, I think you’re a genius.”
“You do?”
Clara nodded. “That was one of the most amazing songs I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Let’s record it.”
Clara laughed. “Now?”
“Yeah. I have my computer in the truck.” He set his foot down and held the guitar by its neck.
“You don’t even know what time it is, do you?”
Warner scratched the back of his neck and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He winced. “Eww, sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late.” He tapped his finger on the screen of his phone and scrolled through the list of missed calls. “I didn’t even know you called me.”
“Obviously.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “You need a shower.”
He looked down at himself. “God, I am a slob. But my apartment is clean.” A line crept between his brows. “But all my clothes are dirty and in the back of my truck. I forgot to go to the Laundromat.”
Clara covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. This certainly was going to take some getting used to. The creative mind, she’d learned, was very disorganized.
“You have your laundry with you?”
He nodded.
“Go get it. I have a washer and dryer.”
“Right. Thanks.” He propped the guitar up against the couch, set his phone on the table, and fished his keys from his pocket. A folded up piece of yellow paper came with the keys and he set it on the table. Obviously it had been what he’d written the song on.
Clara watched him as he hurried out to his truck.
Oh, they had pegged her—her brothers and Darcy. Warner Wright was just her type.
As Warner carried in his laundry Clara buzzed around the kitchen.
“That’s the last one. I’ll pay you back for the use of the washer.”
She set a plate down on the table with a sandwich on it. “Eat. I’ll bet you haven’t done that all day either.”
His stomach growled as if on cue. “You’re right. I cleaned my apartment and wrote. As productive as I was—I wasn’t very productive at all.”
“Sit. I’m going to start that laundry and you’re going to relax.”
Warner sat down and picked up the sandwich. Bologna? Did people in real houses really eat that? He’d never been one for the strange meat, but it was cheap enough for him.
He bit into the sandwich and began to feel the drain of the day settle into his muscles.
The noise from the other room of Clara loading the wash machine twisted guilt in his belly. But the realization of the moment kicked in. Never in his life had a woman taken care of him. Clara had known him a week and there she was making him sandwiches, listening to his songs, washing his clothes.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. His grandmother never even washed his clothes. That had been his job.
No woman had ever listened to his songs with that same spark in their eye either.
Clara hadn’t been mad that he hadn’t answered her. It was as if she understood that he’d completely lost track of time—of everything.
She walked around the wall from the laundry room with one of his shirts. “You’re not going to actually wear this shirt again are you?”
She held up a T-shirt he’d had since—well he wasn’t sure since when. “Of course.”
Clara shook her head. “I assume it used to be black. It is a green-gray color now and full of holes. I’m throwing this away.”
Warner bit into his sandwich again. And just like that, the woman of his dreams was throwing away his bachelorhood.
The bite of his bologna lodged in his throat with his thought. He coughed to clear the blockage.
She was taking over his life and his clothes. Already she’d taken over his mind which was leading to his heart.
As she walked away with the shirt wadded up in her hand, he cleared his throat. He’d officially tumbled in love with her. Damn—that was fast.
When Warner
was finished with his sandwich he walked his plate to the sink. There were no other dishes in the sink. Clara’s bedroom, her most intimate space was cluttered with her individuality, but her home was tidy.
The dishwasher was running a load of dishes already. Now what?
He let out a chuckle. You wash the damn thing, he thought.
Warner opened the cupboard under the sink and took out the bottle of dish soap and a sponge. When the plate was clean, he held it over the sink and looked around for a towel. One hung from the handle of the oven. Sunday was stitched on it.
As he pulled it down and dried his dish he had to think hard. It wasn’t really Sunday was it? No…no he knew that for a fact.
Clara walked into the kitchen and stopped. She smiled easily and he liked that.
“Did you wash that plate? You could have just set it in the sink.”
“That didn’t seem right. I’ve been cleaning all day. Maybe I’m still in the cleaning mood.”
“If you say so.” She pulled out a chair from around the kitchen table and sat down. “I have a show tomorrow night.”
Warner tucked the towel back over the handle of the oven and looked at Clara for direction as where to put the plate. She pointed to a cupboard.
He had to admit there was a bit of alarm in his chest when he noticed a pink handled pistol sitting there.
Hoping he was discreet enough, he put the plate on the stack, closed the door quickly, and sat down across from Clara.
“Last four shows, right?”
“Yeah. Friday night. Matinee on Saturday. Saturday night and Sunday night.”
Warner nodded. “And the gig on Sunday.”
“I won’t be there.”
“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I’m trying to still wrap my head around that.”
She leaned in over her arms which rested on the table. “I want you to come and see me. My family is coming tomorrow night. I’d like you to be there.”
Heat rose in his body. The feeling was uncomfortable enough, but when he hadn’t showered all day it wasn’t good either. “And when you say your whole family you don’t just mean your mom and dad.”
“You catch on quick.” She laughed and sat back in her chair. “In fact, I think Darcy’s dad is here from Florida with a lady friend and he’s coming too.”
“Of course, because the Keller family isn’t big enough.”
That made her laugh hard. “Right.”
Was this a test? Would he pass if he refused? What was he thinking? He didn’t want to refuse. He wanted to be there.
“I’d love to come. Where do I buy a ticket?”
Clara’s eyes softened and so did her body. “God you are cute.” She stood up and walked to him. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “One will be at the box office waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, you march upstairs and get a shower. Christian has some lounge pants on the dryer you could wear until we get your clothes clean.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She cupped his chin in her hands and looked down at him. “And then I want to show you what I set up for us.”
Huh, he couldn’t even begin to imagine where that was leading, but anywhere with her was where he wanted to be.
Chapter Seven
Clara was the perfect hostess. She’d handed Warner a warm towel and a toiletry kit with a toothbrush and a razor.
“The snarky man in me wants to ask if you have overnight guests a lot. But the gentleman in me knows that’s not why you have these.” He held up the sealed bag she’d handed him.
“Christian throws those in his suitcase when he travels. He can’t remember to pack those items when he’s leaving, so the bags are easy. And he can’t remember to bring them home, so they are disposable.”
“Nice.”
“I’ll be downstairs.” She handed him a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt and walked out of the room.
By the time he made it downstairs, after his shower—and shave—the kitchen table was filled with his clean clothes. They were neatly folded into like piles and he could hear Clara starting the washer again.
She smiled when she saw him. “You look better.”
“Thanks.”
“No disrespect. I’ve seen Randy get that way too. He gets to working on songs and never surfaces for days.”
That twisted in his gut. But he thought to her brother’s expressions when he’d made a comment about Clara having a relationship with the man. Obviously they just worked together and there was no attraction. Warner was wise enough to be grateful for that.
“Are you ready to see what I set up?” Clara opened the door to the basement.
“Sure.” He walked across the cold kitchen floor toward her. She turned on the light to the stairs and headed to the basement.
At the end of the stairs there was another kitchen which he knew led to the apartment where her cousin had lived.
Clara turned on more lights and led him down the hall to the bedroom.
“John helped me put this together today,” she said as she turned on the light.
The bedroom had heavy moving blankets hung up on the walls. The bed had been disassembled and sat propped up against the wall. Two stools sat in the center of the room. A music stand sat in front of them, a towel draped over it.
“You built a recording studio?”
She smiled at him. “I don’t have any equipment, but…”
“I do,” he interrupted. “I mean I have what we need.” His voice had risen in pitch. A surge of adrenaline had bolted though him when he realized what she had done.
Sure, it was simple, in a room that wasn’t being used. But it was the thought. She had done this for him—for them. She’d included her family.
“I’m free tomorrow until two,” she added. “We could start recording…”
He couldn’t keep it in any longer. Warner grabbed her arm and pulled her to him with a thud.
She let out a grunt, but his mouth was on hers quickly.
There was no protest. Not that he’d expected any.
Clara wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss he had started.
Warner moved her until she was pressed up against the mattress which was leaning up against the wall.
The air in the room was growing thick. His was becoming heavy, the kiss more intense, his need—uncontrollable.
“Warner,” her voice was heavy on the air—thick with lust.
He moaned something that urged her to continue as he moved his lips to her neck.
“Let’s go upstairs.” She swallowed hard beneath his lips. “My room.” Her breath was being gulped in as she pulled her fingers through his hair. “I have protection up there.”
He was hearing her words, but he wasn’t believing them. Then again he was sure as hell going to take her up on it. Thank goodness she was practical too.
Warner pressed his over willing body close to her and she held him tight. “Are you sure about that?”
“Uh-huh.”
She escaped from beneath him and took his hand, pulling his out of the room and back up the stairs. They were a mess of tangled limbs as they tried to hurry through the kitchen and the living room, their mouths still attached.
They tried to skirt in front of the couch, but her foot caught the edge of the coffee table and she yelped a curse and fell to the couch below.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
She pulled her leg up, crossing her knees to look and laughed. “Yes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not. Give me a second and I’ll be fine. It just hurts.”
Warner nodded and watched her rub the pain from her foot. He looked down at the table where he’d dropped his keys and his cell phone. The yellow piece of paper he’d written the song on lay there crumbled up. He’d pulled it off his door and it was the closest thing he’d had when he needed to write on something. But now the front of it was face up.
EVIC was all he
could see.
He quickly reached for it and pulled it open.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” He tried to unwrinkle the message.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m evicted.”
“Evicted?” Clara jumped to her feet, obviously forgetting about the pain she had been in. “Why would they evict you?”
He looked the paper over. “Because they sold the damn building.” He read down further. “Oh no she didn’t!”
He reached for his phone.
“What are you talking about?” Clara took the paper out of his hand. “They sold to the P. M. L. group?”
He dialed the number and put it to his ear. “Patricia Morgan Little.”
“Oh!”
The phone rang in his ear and then her nasty and annoying voice mail took over the call. He pushed the end button and nearly threw down the phone—of course he had a better mind about it. He didn’t have three hundred dollars to replace a phone. And to top it all off, the bitch had kicked him out of his house.
“Warner, maybe I can have Zach look into this.”
“Why? This is how she works. She just a nasty…”
“Why would she do this to you?”
“Because this is how she works. She’s had four step children and she does crap like this all the time to all of us. And none of us are even involved in her life anymore.”
Clara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“What is she going to talk about on that stupid show of hers if she doesn’t have one of us to belittle and upset? This is a shock factor maneuver. She’s doing this to hurt us and then her ratings go up. She’s all about being the nasty bitch on that show and they pay her handsomely for it. She doesn’t care what people think of her.”
“Then you move in here.”
“Clara, you’re not making any sense.”
She fisted her hands on her hips and stood there glaring at him. “I’m making perfect sense. You move in here with me.”
“I’m sure your family would think differently of that.”
Her hands came up and she huffed out a breath. “I’m offering you a perfectly good place to live. No one can evict you from here. And you could record your music and get your songs out there. Isn’t that what you want?” She turned to walk out of the room and turned right back around. “I’ll tell you what. You can live here until you have a fancy tour bus and then you can live there. But I’m trying to help you out. I won’t just have someone I love thrown out on the streets and treated like this. That woman can go to hell for all I care.”
Love Songs Page 7
