Page 28

Chapter 27

Mila

I was an independent, badass woman who never waited for a man.

Except tonight. Tonight I waited for a man.

First I paced.

Then I snacked. But a girl can only take so many kelp crispies and raw almonds before giving up. I couldn’t even properly eat my feelings in this house.

Finally, I got back to work, double- and triple-checking all the information I’d gathered and organizing my evidence wall—or “murder wall,” as Jude affectionately referred to it.

I couldn’t afford to miss a single detail here.

But my mind kept wandering to Jude. To what songs his band was playing. To how big the crowd might have been.

And despite my efforts to keep it at bay, sadness washed over me.

Envy.

I was missing out.

I’d lived in an obsessive bubble for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to go out and have fun. To listen to music and sip a cold beer and let go for a couple of hours. Not that I’d ever done much of it. Since childhood, I’d been focused, driven. I’d never really let anything get in the way of my goals.

Including friendships, relationships, hobbies, and fun.

I sat on the couch, hit by the weight of it all. It settled over me, pushing me into the cushions. Ripley was by my side immediately, sensing that I needed canine support. And all of a sudden, I was hit with a rush of wanting.

It wasn’t specific, this type of want. It was big and unwieldy and hard to wrap my mind around. I wanted companionship and affection and sex. I wanted friends and weekend cookouts and hikes and nights out at the dive bar where I could watch a sexy guy play guitar.

I’d missed out on a whole life. First by focusing solely on my career, putting my commitment to journalism above my own fulfillment. And now, by allowing myself to be completely consumed by the search for the people who’d harmed Hugo.

No wonder it had been so easy for me to slip into the role of a fictional person, to become Amy. Mila was never a complete person to begin with.

I was dangerously close to falling into the emotional black hole that had opened up before me when Ripley perked up and wagged her tail. Head tilted, I listened closely, and sure enough, I caught the faint sound of an engine.

Like I’d been conditioned, excitement bubbled inside me.

Jude walked in, looking more handsome than when he’d left. It was some kind of superpower that should be studied by scientists.

“Miss me, Trouble?” He set a small amp on the floor, then rested his guitar case against the wall.

My brain told me to play it cool. But I was in no emotional state to pretend.

“Yes.” I strode across the room and planted a big kiss right on his lips. “I missed you a lot.”

He smiled down at me, his expression a perfect mix of surprise and delight. “I missed you too. I felt guilty about going out to play without you, so I thought I might put on a little show for you here. How does that sound?”

Stunned, I stumbled back a step, nodding a little too vigorously.

“Gimme a minute.”

He came back a few minutes later with a stool and one of the acoustic guitars he kept on a stand in the spare bedroom. As he settled in front of the fireplace, he gave me a shy smile.

“Sit down,” he said, lowering his head and plucking a string, tuning the instrument.

The sight of him, perched on his stool, one of his long legs extended while he bit his lip and adjusted the frets, made it impossible not to swoon.

Or maybe it was the jeans, light-washed and broken in, hugging the curves of his muscular thighs. Or the maroon T-shirt that hid nothing. Whatever it was, it made me lightheaded despite the ungodly number of almonds I’d consumed earlier.

“Any requests?” His eyes sparkled, reminiscent of the way he’d looked that night on stage when I’d come home with him. The easy posture, the quiet confidence.

“Your favorites.”

With a nod, he tapped one foot, then played the opening chords to “Blackbird” by the Beatles. And when he opened his mouth and the lyrics came out? A host of tingles swept through me. Holy shit. He could sing.

His voice was dark and smoky, with a hint of a rasp. Johnny Cash without the cigarettes. I couldn’t tear my attention from him when he closed his eyes and the music took over, his strong fingers on the guitar, the beautiful lyrics drifting on the air.

We were alone in the living room of a small house in Northern Maine. It didn’t matter. He could be singing to a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden and it wouldn’t have been any more moving than this moment. Because he was singing to me.

He transitioned straight into Simon she knew things.

“When did you start playing?” The question was lame, but most of my blood was pumping to my lady bits. If I didn’t distract myself, I was liable to rip my clothes off and offer him my body. No wonder I’d lost my mind and gone home with him last year. There was no resisting this man when he had a guitar in his hands.

“Third grade.” He took a big gulp of water. “The music teacher brought out recorders and made us all play them. Yes, they’re the worst instrument ever, but I loved it. Took mine home for extra practice, and my mother, God love her, eagerly listened every time I wanted to perform for her. She pretended like ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ was not ear-splitting torture.”

A warmth of affection for a woman I’d never met bloomed in my chest. “That’s sweet.”

“After I got good enough to have a solo at the elementary school concert—we’d worked our way up to ‘Old MacDonald’—my mother signed me up for piano lessons. I spent years practicing in a musty church basement, all the while shoveling snow to earn enough money for a guitar. Any spare minute I had, I’d play. When I have a guitar in my hand, I know who I am.”

That statement cut through the affection like a knife through butter.

“I have no idea who I am.” The confession was ill-timed word vomit, but it was true. Though it had never hit as hard as it did in this moment, after watching him do something he loved so passionately. It was a stark reminder of how much I was missing.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said, his expression soft. “I have faith in you.”

Emotion rose up in my throat, but I choked it back. “I hope so.”

“You tired?”

I shook my head. “A couple more songs?” I was being greedy, but I wanted to experience this for a bit longer.

With a nod, he picked up his guitar. He rolled his shoulders, instantly shifting back into sexy rock star Jude, and strummed. “I think this may be one of your favorites,” he said.

It took five seconds for me to recognize the song. “Everlong.”

Books and movies made swooning seem like this feminine, delicate experience. But when I swooned at the soul and grit that rivaled Dave Grohl, my consciousness drifted from my body. When it returned, I was reduced to nothing but need.

He stood, his fingers moving deftly, his voice intense and his forearm muscles contracting distractingly.

I couldn’t feel my fingertips, and my brain was floaty and hazy, my body buzzing.

There was no escaping this. I was gone for this man, despite all the reasons I shouldn’t be. No logical argument or reasonable set of facts would change the chemistry of my brain. It screamed at me to grab on to him and never let go.

When the music ended, all I could do was stare.

“How did you know?” It came out as a squeak.

“The first time you came into the dojo, you wore a Foo Fighters shirt.” He shrugged. “And ‘Everlong’ is one of the best love songs ever written. So I guessed. You’re not the sappy type, so a hard rock ballad is definitely your style of romance.”

My chest constricted painfully. How the hell could he read me so well?

One hand still on the neck of the guitar, the other arm cradling its body, he padded closer. “I know talk of the future is forbidden, but you mean a lot to me. I need you to know that. And I’ll play anything you want. It killed me to see you so sad when I left. Thought this might cheer you up.”

He had done a hell of a lot more than cheer me up. I stood and grasped the back of his head, slamming my lips to his. The guitar was caught between us, making me have to pop up on my toes to reach his mouth, but I didn’t care.

“Take me to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”