MUSES AND MELODIES

by Yarros, Rebecca

  “Then you’re a fool.” I leaned in close, and my gaze dropped to her lips. Not for you, Nixon. It didn’t matter that she was kind, naïve, and unflinchingly sincere when it came to her emotions—I’d still end up shattering her because I was none of those things. “Stop trying to dig around in my head. You won’t like what you find. And, quite frankly, all you’ll accomplish is pissing me off.” I pushed off the wall, grabbed my guitar from the stand next to the couch, and headed toward the porch before I did something we’d both regret.

  * * *

  “So, what exactly does someone do at a Fall Festival?” I asked as we walked under the giant orange banner that had been strung across Main Street between lampposts. The road had been shut down just past their lone stoplight, and though there were a few booths lining the sidewalks, the majority of the foot traffic was headed toward the park where Main Street ended.

  “You play games, buy cakes, vote on the best-carved pumpkins,” Zoe answered as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

  It was more than six words, which made it the longest sentence she’d spoken to me in the last five days, beating out the previous record of what do you want for dinner?

  In that time, I’d managed to write two shitty choruses and an equally abysmal verse to three different, yet all horrible, songs. Having Zoe pissed at me wasn’t doing much for my creative flow, but I couldn’t blame my block on her either.

  That was entirely on me.

  I longed for vodka—not a shot, the whole fucking bottle. Instead of acting on it, I scanned over the gathering. “Is it always this packed?” The entire population of Legacy had to be here.

  “Usually. You didn’t have to come.”

  “I wanted to.” I shrugged. Actually, I’d wanted to see her smile and hoped that getting her out around other people might accomplish that since she sure as hell wasn’t smiling at me. It pricked my pride a little to admit, but now that we were here, I wasn’t sure I wanted her smiling at anyone else, though, which put me in a predicament.

  You have zero right to feel territorial.

  Turned out, there was some truth behind the whole “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” thing, because I wanted the smiling, funny, softer Zoe back.

  She heaped a dose of side-eye at me. “Right. Because this is your idea of fun. Spending a Friday night at a small-town festival, where the highlight of your evening will be spiced apple cider?”

  I noticed the spark in her eyes and grinned. “I happen to like cider and small towns. This one is growing on me.” Literally, if I didn’t quit it with the pancakes. “It gives me insight into why you’re so…” Naïve. Good-hearted. Genuine.

  She arched a brow in obvious challenge.

  “You.” Good one.

  She rolled her eyes as we crossed into the park. Booths lined various lantern-lit pathways that all led to a small amphitheater where a band was finishing up their set.

  “You didn’t mention live music.” I tugged my skull cap down further over my ears to ward off the chill. It got cold here fast once the sun went down behind those mountains. A baseball cap would have been better to keep a little anonymity, but I wasn’t willing to lose my ears over it. Besides, I wasn’t exactly covering the tats that ran up the back of my neck, and those weren’t common around here from what I’d seen.

  She looked toward the stage and froze.

  “Shannon?”

  Nothing. She didn’t even blink.

  “Zoe.”

  Her head whipped toward mine.

  “Who’s the band?” I took my best guess at what was freaking her out.

  “No one.” She shook her head and marched off toward a tent marked Cakes and Stakes.

  “Zoe!” I caught up to her quickly and lightly gripped her elbow. “What the hell?” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to chase a woman anywhere, let alone one who worked for me. Then again, I also couldn’t remember the last woman who’d been worth running after the way Zoe was.

  “It’s my ex,” she muttered, so low I had to lean down and ask her to repeat the answer. “My ex.”

  My brow knit as I glanced between the three scrawny figures on stage and Zoe. “Which one?” What kind of guy was her type? The drummer with the long hair? The bass guitarist with the goofy grin? The lead singer with the arrogant little smirk as he attempted—and failed—to tune his guitar?

  “Does it matter?” she ground out between mashed teeth.

  “The lead singer.”

  “You suck.” She ripped her elbow out of my grasp and strode toward the tent.

  “Really?” I took another look at the guy, then ran after Zoe. “That Joe Jonas-looking fucker is your ex? He can’t even tune his guitar. And since when are you into musicians?” That would have been nice to know at any point in our history.

  “Shut up and pick a cake,” she snapped as we entered the massive tent and were met with rows upon rows of displayed cakes, with at least a couple dozen people snaking their way down the aisles.

  “Zoe!” An older woman engulfed Zoe in a hug. “I heard you were back in town!”

  “It’s just for…” Zoe trailed off because she had no idea how long we’d be here.

  Knowing me, I’d probably be bored with the place in a week or two—hopefully long enough to spit out enough songs to keep Harvey off my ass.

  “We’re just glad to have you!” The woman pulled back and sent me a curious smile.

  “Mrs. Kendrick, this is Nixon Winters.” Zoe’s shoulders tensed.

  “Nixon”—Mrs. Kendrick extended her hand, and I shook it—“I’m so glad our little Zoe brought you home for a nice long visit. We’ve all been worried that she’d work herself single, but you’re just as cute as a button.”

  I grinned as Zoe turned at least five shades of pink.

  “No, Mrs. Kendrick, we’re not—”

  Wrapping my arm around Zoe’s small waist, I tugged her close. “We’re not sure how long our visit will be, but I’m enjoying every minute of it.” Thoroughly. She fit against me exactly how I’d pictured, tucking neatly under my arm.

  Well. Damn.

  Mrs. Kendrick gave us that gushy look I usually despised, and I smiled even bigger. “Well, you’re a gorgeous couple. Now here, take a pen and get to bidding.”

  “Where is Mrs. Whitcomb’s?” Zoe asked quietly.

  Mrs. Kendrick glanced around as if Zoe’d asked for the nuclear launch codes. “Table six, and she’s up a good fifty…maybe more by now.” Her lips thinned.

  “Gotcha.”

  We took off down the first aisle, and Mrs. Kendrick greeted the next group.

  “I can’t believe you.” Zoe shoved me off. “Now people are going to think we’re together.”

  “I quit giving a fuck what people thought about me a long time ago, Shannon. You should try it, sometime.”

  She shot me a glare, then bent over the table halfway down the aisle and scribbled on a sheet taped to the plastic table. Fuck. Me. Her ass really was a masterpiece, and those jeans cupped her curves so deliciously I nearly sank my teeth into my fist.

  “Tell me about the douchey ex.” And tell me why he got to touch you.

  “Why do you care?” She slipped the paper into the designated shoebox, then straightened.

  “Because you lied.”

  “I what?”

  I leaned down so our foreheads nearly touched. “You. Lied.”

  “I don’t recall us ever having a discussion about the people we’ve slept with.” She arched a brow but didn’t go for the low blow of mentioning my list.

  “I do recall you saying that you don’t do musicians.” What I couldn’t recall was the number of women I’d slept with. My stomach rolled slightly, and for the first time, that fact…bothered me.

  “I said I don’t do rock stars, and, honey, Peter Whitcomb might have a nice set of hands, but he’s no rock star.”

  Whitcomb. The same as the cake lady? How small was this town?

 
“According to Rolling Stone, I have magic hands.” I wiggled my fingers and gave her my best smolder.

  That did it. The ice thawed as she fought her smile and lost, finally shaking her head. “That might be the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said. Now pick a cake, and let’s bid. It all goes to charity.”

  The band started outside the tent, and yep—that low E was flat as hell. I hoped, for Zoe’s sake, he’d been better with his hands on her than on that poor guitar.

  Then a cat died—or he started singing, it could have been either. The song changed around row two, but not for the better. I’d never thought much about the thickness of tent exteriors, but I would have paid to relocate to a concrete bunker.

  She cringed as he missed a high note, playing it off as she examined a cake.

  “This one?” I suggested around row three, motioning toward a chocolate one.

  “Nope. That’s Mrs. Armstrong’s cake, and Mr. Armstrong always bids for hers. See? She’s sitting right at fifty-five dollars, which is how many years they’ve been married.”

  “How would you know that?” I studied her soft expression, and that ache flared again, right in the middle of my chest.

  “Small town,” she answered with a shrug, like that explained it all.

  Fifty-five years, and he still bids on her cakes. What was it like to love like that? To spend fifty-five years with one person and never grow bored? To let someone in so completely that they knew everything about you?

  We rounded the row and started into the fourth aisle, then the fifth.

  “Tell me about the ex,” I repeated, placing a bid on a random cake that hadn’t gotten any yet. When I lifted my head, I found her watching me, like she was trying to figure me out. “Come on.”

  “Nothing to say.” We made it to table six. “We dated for a couple of years, and then he decided Laura Fletcher looked better in her cheerleading skirt than I did in jeans.” She stopped in front of a nice, chocolate, tiered, professional-looking cake. “Would have been nice if he’d told me before prom, instead of letting me find them in the back of his truck, but whatever. Water under a bridge and all that.”

  My muscles locked. “He cheated on you at prom? Who the fuck does that?”

  “Shh!” Her eyes flew wide and darted toward the middle-aged couple bidding behind us.

  “Don’t shh me. I’m not Douchebag Dan up there.”

  “Peter,” she corrected me. “And I haven’t talked to him since we graduated. I’m sure he’s grown up by now. Shit. Mrs. Whitcomb’s cake is already up to two hundred and fifty. She’s going to win, just like she does every year.” Her face fell, and she walked off, her shoulders slumped.

  Just chalk that up to yet another small-town thing I didn’t understand. At least in the music industry, no one got pissed about easily bought cakes. But Whitcomb was the same last name as her ex, right?

  “If you want the cake, I’ll buy you the cake.” I followed Zoe to the ninth table, where she stared at another tiered cake, but this one was golden vanilla, edged with fudge and strawberries. The sheet next to the cake read A. Shannon.

  Alice Shannon. Zoe’s Mom.

  Okay, cakes were something I didn’t get, but rivalry? I sure as fuck understood that.

  “Bid.” I motioned to the sheet.

  “I can’t,” she muttered. “Mom would kill me. She always says that if the last bid is by a Shannon, she won’t speak to us until Christmas.”

  “Harsh.”

  “That’s Mom for you.” She blew her breath out slowly with a rumble through her lips. “There’s always next year.”

  Someone called her name, and Zoe was engulfed in another group of hugs, this time from women her own age. Thank God she had friends—I’d been on the brink of actually worrying about her. I’d taken at least a dozen calls from Quinn and Jonas in the last few days, but Zoe’s phone had been silent, other than her family and Ben. Even little Type A’s like Zoe needed friends.

  I was introduced, and a quick flare of their eyes told me they knew exactly who I was but neither of them mentioned it, which made me like them. Then they ignored me completely and asked Zoe about how she was, which made me like them even more.

  “Go ahead,” I urged her when they asked about cider. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  Zoe’s forehead crinkled. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s zero alcohol at this family-filled festival, and now that someone has finished strangling an animal on stage, I think I just might make it. You can trust me for five minutes. Go hang with your friends. I’m going to place a couple bids. I’m in the mood for Devil’s food.”

  “Of course you are.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she finally nodded. “It’s the booth right next door. Just walk out of the tent and you can’t miss it.”

  “I think I’ll be able to find it,” I drawled slowly.

  She rolled her eyes but just about vibrated with excitement as she took off with her girlfriends.

  I ignored the stares that followed me as I took myself back to the tables and three more bids. Once that was done, I bought a cupcake from the table of bake sale items and wandered out of the tent.

  The high school choir sang from the stage as the crowd varied between watching the show and meandering toward other booths. Thank God, Zoe’s ex wasn’t the main event. Jesus, how long had it been since Hush Note had been anyone’s opening act? Seven years? Eight? We’d been selling out stadiums for the past few years—long enough for me to take what had been years of struggle for granted.

  I glanced over at Zoe with her friends, marveling at her carefree smile, and the ache in my chest sharpened. For all the time I’d spent with her, I didn’t know her nearly as well as I should have.

  I ripped my eyes away from Zoe, and then really took in the crowd. Couples swayed on the night-chilled grass as rambunctious toddlers ran happy circles around them. Guys in letterman jackets puffed out their chests for the girls they’d mucked up the courage to talk to. An older couple looked after their grandchildren. There were countless little moments happening in the park, and I tried to catalog them all, to file them away with the scent of apple cider and the taste of lemon cake and raspberry buttercream in my brain to be accessed when I was writing.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Zoe approach without her friends and started toward her, but her ex got there first. Whatever he’d said had her mouth hanging open, but she hadn’t tossed either of those cups of cider in his face, so he had that going for him.

  It was probably my duty to warn the guy her temper was pretty vicious.

  “You didn’t even make it to LA?” he scoffed, and my hackles rose.

  Zoe winced. It was slight, but it was there.

  I stilled. This fucker wasn’t allowed to make her flinch like that.

  “Nope. The management firm I work for has a branch in Seattle, so I stayed there,” she said calmly, keeping her cool just like she always did.

  “And how many bands do you manage, now? Let me guess—none.” He smirked, pointedly looking at her left hand. “And no husband either. So, no career, no family. No wonder you avoid the shop every time you’re home. I wouldn’t want to see me either. I told you you’d fail.”

  I fucking lost it.

  6

  ZOE

  Guess Peter hadn’t grown up after all. He looked exactly the same—dark hair, hazel eyes, slightly crooked nose. The same but tired, and about thirty pounds on the Dad-bod side. At one time, my world had revolved around this guy, and now I wasn’t even attracted to him.

  I was, however, completely mortified by his on-point assessment of my life.

  “The fact that I don’t eat ice cream when I’m in town has nothing to with you,” I assured him, my hands clenching the no-longer-steaming cups of apple cider. It felt like half the town was watching our little reunion.

  “Hey, baby.”

  Oh God, no.

  I turned slightly toward Nixon’s voice and found him smiling down at me. Great, now he’d hav
e more than enough ammunition for the next six months of his let’s-piss-Zoe-off game. Wait. Did he just call me baby?

  Before I could form a phrase, his hand splayed possessively over my hip, and he tugged me against him, the fingers of his other hand tunneling through my hair. It was only sheer dumb luck that kept me from spilling the cider.

  What the—

  He kissed me.

  Nixon Winters was kissing me with those impossibly soft lips. It was wrong—I knew that somewhere—but it felt so deliciously good I couldn’t bring myself to care.

  He swiped his tongue across my lower lip, and I gasped.

  He took complete control, sliding into my mouth like he already owned it, laying claim to every line and curve with nimble strokes and swirls of his tongue. Holy shit, he kissed like he played guitar—like nothing else mattered on the planet, and in that moment, nothing else did. He wiped away the rest of the world and altered the universe so it centered around us.

  It blew every kiss I’d ever had out of the water, and I surrendered to it, kissing him back, chasing the taste of lemons and raspberry that clung to his lips. His grip tightened, pulling me closer, angling my head so he could take me deeper, then groaning softly when I flicked my tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then he sucked my tongue all the way in, and I melted.

  I wanted to rake my hands through his hair, to tug on the strands and hold him prisoner so I could live in this one moment where he desired me. My hands ached to slide my fingers under his jacket and shirt to trace the lines of his abs, and I wasn’t going to stop where his jeans began. Longing filled me, demanding to touch, to taste, to feel every single part of Nixon, but my hands were already full for a reason I couldn’t seem to remember.

  “Zoe,” he growled against my mouth.

  My knees weakened, my entire body humming with energy, and his grip shifted to my ass, gently lifting me from my feet with one arm, but it felt more supportive than passionate—as if he’d recognized exactly what he’d done to me. A soft whimper escaped my lips as I felt him hardening against my stomach from what I’d done to him.