Page 24 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

Montgomery

T his cocoon we're in is the type of one I love for us.

Nothing else is pressing, it's the weekend, I don't have to worry about class, or meeting my study group.

RJ and my relationship with him can be the focal point of the next two days.

It needs to be the focal point for the two of us, if we want to continue to make this work.

"Good morning," he says as he turns to face me, his voice deep with sleep.

It causes goosebumps to raise on my arms. His voice has always been both a comfort and a turn on to me.

I've missed it so damn much. This tour took a lot out of the both of us, and I hate that we haven't been connecting since he got home.

"Good morning," I whisper, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

His arms wrap around my waist, holding me tightly.

It's like he doesn't want to let me go. Part of me is afraid he will, the other part halfway wants him to.

After my discussion with Skylar, I'm confused about what the rest of our relationship is going to look like, but I realize I need to spend time with him.

I need to give him as much grace as I give myself.

We're at a weird point in our relationship, but I wouldn't be true to who we've been to each other if I didn't give us a chance to work this out.

"What are your plans today?" I question, sighing as I cuddle in next to him.

"None." He brushes his lips against my forehead. "If you wanna hang out, I'd love that."

"Sounds perfect to me."

The morning light filters through my bedroom curtains, casting everything in a golden glow.

RJ's hair is messy from sleep, sticking up in all directions.

He reminds me of that teenage boy I fell in love with.

There's a familiarity and intimacy in these quiet moments together, before the world demands his attention again.

They're what I live for when he's gone and on the road.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with my fingertip.

"Starving," he murmurs, but the way he's looking at me suggests he's not just talking about food. His hand slides up my back, sending shivers down my spine. My nipples peak, and I'm really trying to figure out why food is more important right now.

"Come on," I laugh, pushing against his chest playfully. "Let's make breakfast before we get distracted."

He groans dramatically but sits up, stretching his arms above his head.

The movement causes the blanket to slip down, and I catch a glimpse of the tattoo that wraps around his ribs—lyrics from one of Grey Skies' first songs.

It's one of many tattoos that tell the story of his life, his music, his journey.

In the kitchen, we move around each other like we have a million times before. It's like riding a bike, this dance we've perfected over the years. RJ starts the coffee while I pull ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets for pancakes.

"Remember the first time you tried to make me breakfast?" he asks, laughing as he puts my favorite nespresso pod in the machine.

"Hey, how was I supposed to know you can't substitute salt for sugar?" I defend myself, cracking eggs into a bowl. "They look exactly the same."

"Baby, they taste nothing alike."

"I was nervous!" I protest, but I'm smiling at the memory. It was early in our relationship, and I'd wanted to impress him so badly. Instead, I'd created the most inedible pancakes in existence. But he'd eaten them, with a grim smile on his face.

RJ moves behind me, his hands settling on my hips as I mix the batter. "You were perfect then, and you're perfect now," he says softly, pressing a kiss to my neck.

My heart does that fluttery thing it's been doing since I was seventeen and he first told me he loved me. Some things never change, no matter how much time passes or how complicated things get. I've never doubted his feelings for me.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I tease, but I lean back against him, savoring the warmth of his body against mine.

We work together, him flipping pancakes while I slice strawberries, both of us stealing kisses and touches whenever we pass each other. This is the RJ I expected to come home to me, and the past few hours are making me question everything again.

When they're done, we have a seat at the counter, and steal little touches as we eat.

"These are incredible," RJ says around a mouthful of pancakes. "Way better than anything we get on the road."

"Tour food is notorious for being terrible," I agree, cutting another bite. "I don't know how you guys survive on gas station snacks and whatever the venues provide."

Something flickers across his face at the mention of tour, but it's gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. "We make do," he smirks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

After breakfast, we're cleaning dishes when RJ suddenly stops, his hands still in the soapy water. "I should probably go home and grab some clothes," he says. "If we're going to spend the weekend together."

"I can pack a bag and stay at your place," I offer. "I love your house, and it's been forever since we've had extended time there with each other."

His face lights up. "Really? You'd want to do that?"

"Of course. Your back porch is perfect for those late nights." I throw a wink in his direction.

"Careful, Montgomery," he grins, pulling me close despite his wet hands. "Keep talking like that and I might think you're ready to move in with me permanently."

My cheeks heat up at the suggestion, but there's something appealing about the idea. "Don't get ahead of yourself, rockstar."

"Too late," he says, spinning me around the kitchen. "I'm already thinking of clearing out my spare room for you to officially turn it into a library."

An hour later, my overnight bag is packed and we're driving through town toward RJ's house. His hand rests on my thigh as he drives, his thumb tracing small circles that make it hard to concentrate on anything else.

His house sits on several acres outside of town, giving him the privacy he needs.

It's a beautiful craftsman-style home with a wraparound porch and mature trees that provide shade and seclusion.

Something he'll need as they get more and more popular.

Every time I see it, I'm reminded of why he fell in love with this place.

"God, I missed this," he says as we walk up the front steps, swinging our hands together. "I'm sorry for the craziness."

We get inside, and I kick off my shoes, throwing my bag into his bedroom. "The weather's too perfect to stay inside," I say, looking out at the sunny afternoon. "Back porch?"

"You read my mind."

The back porch is my favorite part of his house. It's spacious and comfortable, with cushioned chairs and a view of his property that extends to a small pond surrounded by trees. We settle into the chairs, and I immediately feel the stress of our zoo visit melt away.

"This is exactly what I needed," I sigh, tilting my face up to catch the sun.

RJ disappears inside for a moment and returns with his acoustic guitar—the same one he's had since high school, worn smooth from years of playing. He settles back into his chair and starts strumming softly.

"Any requests?" he asks.

"Play whatever feels right."

He starts with something I don't recognize, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. It's a gentle melody, with a bit of an edge. It's the type of rhythm I love, and he knows it. I close my eyes and let the music wash over me, feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks.

"That's beautiful," I murmur when he finishes. "Is it new?"

"Yeah, I've been working on it." He looks almost shy, which is unusual for him. "It's about coming home."

"To the Nashville area?"

"To you."

The simple statement makes my heart skip. This is the RJ I fell in love with—thoughtful, romantic, completely genuine in his affection. When he looks at me like this, it's easy to forget about all the complications, all the uncertainty about our future.

He plays a few more songs, mixing originals with covers of songs we both love. His voice is rougher than it is on Grey Skies' albums, more intimate. This is the voice I remember from late nights in his childhood bedroom, when he'd play softly so his parents wouldn't hear.

"I love watching you play," I tell him. "You look so peaceful."

"Music has always been my escape," he says, still strumming gently. "But lately, it feels like work more than joy."

"Maybe you need to remember why you started playing in the first place."

He looks at me for a long moment. "It was for you, you know. I wanted to impress my best friend in chemistry class."

"You were terrible at chemistry," I laugh.

"But I was great at guitar."

"You were great at guitar," I agree. "You still are."

The afternoon stretches on, it's everything I've wanted. We talk about everything and nothing, sharing memories and dreams like we used to do. For a few hours, it feels like we're those same kids who fell in love in high school, before life got complicated.

As the sun starts to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard, I realize this is what I've been missing. Not just RJ, but this version of us—relaxed, happy, completely focused on each other.

"Thank you for today," I say softly.

"Thank you for giving us another chance."

I reach over and take his hand, intertwining our fingers. "We're going to figure this out, aren't we?"

"Yeah," he says, bringing my hand to his lips. "We are. It might not be easy, but we'll get it together if it kills us."