Page 3 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

GENT

A week after punching the wall, I was still angry at myself for doing something so destructive. Putting my career in jeopardy after one moment of drunken stupidity wasn’t like me. Getting drunk at all wasn’t like me, and I’d never been that guy—the musician who causes property damage at a hotel.

Needless to say, I was mortified. I’d paid off the hotel with such heartfelt remorse, the manager had begun laughing. “There was half a dent on a wall that could have happened by accident with someone’s suitcase. Don’t worry about it. We’re used to it.”

I’d wrapped an ice pack around my sore hand and paid one of our sound techs to drive me out to my rental in Aster Valley.

As soon as I’d seen the little cabin nestled in the woods, I’d let out a breath.

It was perfect. I was ready for a month of rest and renewal.

I’d write new music and get my focus settled firmly back on work before going into our Australia tour in February.

My plan to ring in the New Year alone didn’t work out, however, because the pain in my hand didn’t subside the way I’d hoped it would.

I ended up arranging a ride to the hospital on New Year’s Eve when I’d begun to worry my hand was broken.

After several hours of waiting and a few X-rays, I learned it wasn’t broken, but there was tendon damage that would require some kind of physical therapy from a hand specialist. I scheduled the therapist to come to the house the following week since I wasn’t in a position to drive anywhere.

In the meantime, I curled up on the overstuffed leather chair by the stacked-stone fireplace and kept the gas fire going around the clock.

Seeing snow flurries outside the window while the fire flickered inside was peaceful and calming.

After a hectic December concert schedule, I found myself sleeping more than usual to make up for the sleep lost on the road.

I dreamed of the nameless stranger in the concert and spent hours creating fantasy scenarios in which I’d successfully stopped him before he left the concert venue, but they were just dreams and fantasies.

In reality, I was moving on, trying to get back into the New Year mindset of starting anew, focusing on work and finding my artistic spark again so I could create new music.

By the time the hand specialist was due to arrive, I almost felt normal.

I’d gotten a grocery order delivered and had started cooking decent meals for myself after subsisting on junk the first few days in Aster Valley.

Song ideas began swirling through my head again which made me doubly annoyed at my stupidity in hurting myself.

I used the voice recorder feature on my phone, but it wasn’t the same as scribbling in my well-worn spiral notebooks the way I liked to do.

And my guitar stared at me forlornly from its stand in the corner of the room by the fireplace.

I had high hopes for this hand specialist.

When an old, dirty jeep pulled into the driveway, my relief slowly morphed into fear that this tiny town’s idea of a hand specialist might not be much of anything.

I was ready to get this show on the road and make progress toward getting the full use of my hand back, and if Aster Valley didn’t have the right kind of specialist, I might have to return to LA early and see someone there.

I tempered my expectation and took a breath, reminding myself to be polite and professional regardless of what kind of “hand therapist” they’d sent.

After folding up the cuffs on my favorite flannel shirt, I reached to open the front door.

There, on the porch of my cozy rental cabin in the woods, was a mirage.

The man wore clean blue jeans and tidy brown hiking boots with a navy blue fleece pullover that featured the familiar logo from Aster Valley Med.

His dirty-blond hair was windblown, and his beard looked strawberry blond in the glint from the late-afternoon sun. The man was fucking stunning.

He was a dead ringer for the man from the concert, so much so that I couldn’t stop gawking at him. His eyes widened in surprise, enough to let me know he recognized me, too. But I wasn’t sure if he recognized me as a celebrity or the pervy singer who’d been ogling him all night at Sweet Splits.

“H-hi?” I managed.

The man’s face turned bright scarlet right before my eyes. “Oh Jesus,” he squeaked adorably. “Oh Christ. Oh fuck.”

I tried to remember my manners and the name they’d given me at the clinic. It was an odd name, which was the only reason it popped into my head when I needed it. “Are you… are you Winter Waites? They said you…” My words trailed off as I completely forgot what I was saying.

He looked terrified as he nodded.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” he whispered, stepping backward carefully as if he’d almost approached a live land mine by mistake. “I’ll… I’ll recheck my paperwork and…”

I was not letting him leave again.

“Wait,” I snapped. My entire body shook with adrenaline. “Please. Please don’t go anywhere.”

He looked back up at me in surprise. “But you’re Gentry Kane,” he breathed. “Gentry Kane the singer.”

I nodded, never once taking my eyes off him for fear he’d disappear in a puff of smoke. “I am. And I hurt my hand. I need your help.” I held out my hand with the brace on it as if that would convince him he was at the right address.

Curiosity appeared in his eyes as if I’d appealed to the professional, caring side of him. “But the name on the chart is Kevin Jones,” he said, disbelieving. After a beat, he shook his head and muttered, “I’m an idiot. Of course you would have used a fake name.”

I nodded. “I didn’t want the media to find out. Then they’d ask how it happened.”

“How did it happen?”

I opened my mouth to tell him but then quickly realized it had pretty much happened because of him. “Can I maybe tell you over a cup of coffee? I made some gingerbread, and I’d really like an excuse to eat some more of it.”

Winter still looked terrified. I wondered what would happen if he turned and bolted for the jeep to make a big escape. Would I run after him? Tackle him to the ground and beg him to stay?

Possibly.

“Please,” I added gently.

He swallowed and nodded. I opened the door and led him inside where some instrumental jazz was playing softly from my Bluetooth speakers and the fire was going strong in the big fireplace.

I walked to the kitchen area to make the coffee. “I have regular, decaf, or hazelnut. Any preference?”

“Hazelnut would be great, thanks.”

If only the coffee maker held the secrets to how to break this unbearable tension. I busied myself with the familiar process of working the Keurig.

“I saw you play in Denver,” he blurted. “After Christmas. At Sweet Splits.”

My heart thundered in my chest at the confirmation this was the man I thought it was. “Yes. I saw you.” I tried to sound calmer than I felt. “You were near the front.”

“You were amazing,” he said carefully, as if he was afraid of upsetting me by coming off as a fan instead of a professional healthcare worker. “Truly. I’m a fan.”

Then he let out a laugh. “That’s… well, it’s an understatement. But I promise not to let it interfere with my job.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to be just as careful.

It was like a giant trembling balloon sat between us in the air and if either one of us moved or spoke too suddenly, it would burst with a loud, startling bang.

“I mean, thank you for the compliment. I’m not worried about it interfering with the job. ”

He moved over to the small wooden table and set his messenger bag down before taking a seat at one of the chairs and wiping his palms down his jean-clad thighs. “I’m sure you get crazy fans invading your privacy. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

I let out a soft laugh. “It takes some getting used to. But it’s also ironic. The ones who get in your face are the ones you don’t want, and the ones you do want are the ones who run away.”

I watched his reaction, but he didn’t seem to make the connection.

“I can’t imagine anyone running away,” he said before scraping his teeth along his top lip. “I mean… your music is so beautiful. I could listen to you sing until you ran out of breath.”

The coffee maker finished filling the second mug, and I took them to the table before returning to the counter for the gingerbread and some plates and forks.

When we finally had everything we needed, I sat down in the chair opposite him and gestured for him to help himself to cream and sugar.

“Are you from Aster Valley?” I asked politely as he doctored his coffee.

“I’ve never been here before, but it’s beautiful. ”

He finished his first sip and shook his head.

“No. I’m from Colorado Springs. After I completed my hand therapy certification, I looked for a placement in a smaller town where the cost of living wasn’t as high as Denver or Boulder.

I have tons of student loans to pay off, and I’m…

and, uh, other things like that. The clinic attached to the hospital here was hiring, and it was a great opportunity for job security.

I’m the only hand specialist on staff, so I get plenty of work. ”

I wanted to know what he’d been about to add. He had student debt and what else?

“Do you still have family in Colorado Springs?” Yes, it was small talk, but I wanted to relax him a little. If I wanted any chance of getting him naked and slaking this crazy thirst of mine, he needed to let his guard down a little.

“My mom is still there. I have a little sister, too, but she’s in college in Aurora.” He glanced up at me through his lashes. “I’m helping her pay for school. That’s what I was going to say earlier. She’s in a nursing program near Denver.”

I cut a couple of pieces of gingerbread and nudged one over to him. “Is your mom in the healthcare field, too?”

“Kind of. She’s a caregiver at a nursing home. It’s low-paying shift work. I think that’s why she worked so hard to convince us to get a degree. She always said healthcare was the best field to go into but to make sure it was something that paid well.”

“So you became a PT.”

“I’m an OT, actually. Occupational therapist. Most hand specialists are, but everyone thinks I’m a PT, so it’s fine.

I have a full-time job at the hospital and just recently added on the part-time mobile OT gig.

” He took a bite of the gingerbread and closed his eyes briefly, revealing the thin, lightly veined skin under his thick blond eyebrows. “This is good. You made this?”

I couldn’t stop staring at him and wanting to rip away the small talk like an unneeded bandage. Quite honestly, I wanted to throw him down on this very table and strip his damned clothes off. Pretending to be therapist and patient was grating on my last nerve.

I nodded. “I found the recipe online a few years ago when I had to make something to bring to a party. It’s been my year-round guilty pleasure ever since.”

While we continued to act like semi-strangers, my eyes roamed over him like the most diligent inventory auditors on earth.

He had an empty piercing hole in one ear which made me wonder at the story behind it.

His lips were light pink and full. They looked soft and strong, like they were made for kissing.

His wide shoulders filled out the fleece pullover he wore, and I could see the outlines of the large biceps I remembered from the concert. My body ached to touch him.

He blinked at me, unsure of himself again. “We should probably get started. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

Winter reached into his messenger bag and pulled out several items to set on the table while I took a few more sips of coffee.

“I’m sort of on vacation this month, so don’t worry about taking up too much of my time,” I offered.

“Oh?” He swiped across the screen of a tablet. “What do you mean sort of?”

“We always take the month of January off after a busy holiday concert season. I use it to create new material, and everyone else takes the opportunity to go somewhere warm.”

He looked up at me with a frown. “You don’t like to go someplace warm, too?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. But since our last show was in Denver, I decided a snowy cabin would be a good change. I get plenty of sun in LA.”

He held out his hand, and it took me a minute to realize he was asking for my injured one. I laid it on his open hand and wished it didn’t still look bruised and mottled.

Winter’s fingers were strong, and there were some golden hairs on his wrist where he’d pushed back his sleeves. He got to work carefully removing the brace I’d been told to wear to keep myself from using my hand.

“So tell me how this happened.” His voice was gentle and encouraging. As his fingers brushed against my skin, I felt jolts of desperate desire throughout my body—the same kind of feelings I had the night of the concert when our eyes had locked onto each other.

“I was upset.” I cleared my throat. “After that concert. In Denver. I went out drinking, which I rarely do, and when I got back to my hotel room, I punched a wall like a drunken fool.”

His startled eyes glanced up at me. “You punched a wall in anger?”

“I’ve never done anything like that before, I swear. Never . I’m not… I don’t lose my temper. And before you ask, yes, I made it right with the hotel before I left.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t going to ask, but that’s good. Especially if you don’t want the media painting you in a bad light.” He gently manipulated my fingers and hand, assessing my reaction to the moves. “Why were you upset?”

I watched him work. Every touch of his hand made the hairs lift on my skin. There was something magnetic about him, the same way there’d been at the concert. It made me uneasy. Like suddenly discovering a missing part of you but not knowing if you had the right to keep it.

“There was this guy…” I waited to see his reaction. His eyes flitted up at me but then darted back down to our hands. His cheeks flushed, and I let out a shaky breath.

“A guy?” he asked.

“A beautiful man. I couldn’t help but stare at him the entire time I was singing.”

The pink in his cheeks deepened and streaked down his neck. It was like watching a shy flower bloom. He didn’t take his eyes off my hand. “He was probably staring at you, too,” he said softly. “Mesmerized by your performance.”

“Why were you alone that night?” I asked, unable to stand it any longer. I closed my hand around his and held on.

Winter’s eyes widened. “You really noticed me?”

I studied him for a moment to try and determine whether he was flighty or simply insecure. My guess was insecure. “I did.” I took a breath. What the hell did I have to lose?

“I more than noticed you.”