No. After two months, finally found.
I look up at him over my shoulder, and can’t help but think about the song we first bonded over. The lyrics of Lost, track number nine, mark his body and touch my heart. I guard my eyes, hoping he won’t see how good it feels to be this close to him again.
“Where’s the barn?” I look back over the path I followed to reach this point. “No one followed you?”
“We’re not secret agents, Kai.” Rhyson starts moving down the left path, pulling me along. “You’re the one who cares if people know about us. I certainly don’t.”
“There isn’t an ‘us’ again yet, Rhys.” My hand gripping his as we rush toward the light breaking through the thick overgrowth makes a lie of my words.
He looks at me, eyes narrowed and mouth compressed into a flat line.
“There’s always an ‘us,’ Kai. You know that.”
I drag my eyes away from his and look at the clearing we’ve reached. Just ahead stands a red barn that looks like it’s seen better days, but still holds a certain charm. The heavy door falls back when Rhyson pushes, and he pulls me in behind him, letting the door slam shut. He gestures ahead to a ladder leading up to a loft above.
“After you.”
I climb up ahead of him, but pause when his hands circle my waist from behind. His fingers splay over my stomach, and he presses his head to my back, drawing a deep breath.
“Keep going,” he says, voice heavy and husky.
The ladder only takes us a few feet above the ground, so I know it isn’t altitude making me lightheaded and breathless. It’s his touch. His breath ruffling the hair at my neck when we reach the top. His hands on my shoulders, squeezing. His thumb tracing sensuous circles over my collarbone. I’m struggling to hold on to my composure, to my resolve, when I take the last step up and onto the top floor.
A tablecloth, I presume from the caterer since it looks like the ones from the reception, covers a small patch of hay. A bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne grace the middle of the white cloth. Two huge chunks of wedding cake under glass sit beside it.
“This is nice.” I clear my throat. “How’d you pull it off when they haven’t even cut the cake yet?”
“I left it to Marlon and didn’t ask. He may have slept with the caterer to get this. It’s better if we don’t know.” Rhyson chuckles. “We don’t have much time before Grady and Em leave. I want to see them off, so let’s sit and eat.”
He traps my eyes with a determined look.
“And talk.”
I drop to the cloth, arranging the skirt over my knees. For a few minutes, we eat in silence, reacquainting ourselves with the solitude of each other. We never needed small talk. Never needed other people. Just each other. I think we’re poking around in this silence to make sure that hasn’t changed. I’m halfway through my mammoth piece of cake before I slow down and actually taste it.
“I love wedding cake,” I mumble, passing my fingers over my lips to rid them of crumbs.
“I see that,” he says with a straight face, even though his eyes tease me.
I give him my evil eye, but my lips twitch.
“You can afford it, though.” His eyes lose their humor as they run over me. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Dancing twelve hours a day for two months’ll do that.” I gather a dollop of icing from the plate and slide it into my mouth.
“And you look tired.”
“Gee, thanks, Rhys.” I grab a napkin to wipe the sweet icing residue from my fingers.
“I’m just saying.” He pushes his clear glass plate of cake away. “And you sound tired, too. Is Malcolm building vocal rest into your schedule?”
“Let’s not do this.” I push away what’s left of my cake, too. “Talking about my career certainly won’t get us far.”
“Just don’t come into the studio tomorrow sounding like that.”
“Tomorrow?” I frown, clueless about what he means. Luke and I are recording a song for his new album tomorrow, but I’m not sure what that has to do with Rhyson.
“Luke didn’t tell you?” Rhyson runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I wrote that duet you’re recording tomorrow with Luke.”
“Oh,” is all I manage before he follows up with even better news.
“And I’m producing it. He may be keeping my involvement low key because he knows Malcolm and I aren’t exactly best buds. Malcolm might try to interfere if he knew.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Rhyson takes a sip of the champagne. “I’m not easy in the studio.”
“You’re not easy out of it, either.”
Maybe his mother was right about him being difficult, because none of this feels easy. My first time in the studio recording professionally? Not a demo, but a real track that will be heard everywhere? And Rhyson’s producing? I knew we were recording at Wood, the studio Rhys co-owns, but Luke always records there, so I thought nothing of it. Why didn’t Luke at least tell me?
“I’m not going easy on you because you’re my girl.”