His fingers are only a few inches from mine, and I can’t help but follow the line of his arm with my eyes, muscles taut up to his shoulder, to the broad slope of his neck, and the place behind his ear.
“I don’t know if you can even call it music. It’s all just sound design and tricks in a studio.” He laughs bitterly, looking toward the sky, flooded with pinpricks of light—the stars so much brighter up here, not dulled by the glow of neon and streetlights. “I used to care about the music, it used to be mine...but not anymore. It’s been stripped of anything authentic.”
“Is that why you stopped performing?” I ask. I don’t know much about the life and career of Tate Collins, but I’ve heard on the radio about how he hasn’t done a single concert or released a new album in over a year. He basically fell off the map, right at the height of his career. No one seemed to know why. And I never actually cared...until now. Now that I’m sitting beside him, on his lawn, with his fingers, his shoulder, his body so dangerously close to mine.
He straightens. “There are other ugly things about the business.” His gaze suddenly clouds over, like he’s recalling things from another time. A memory I can’t see. “I let it get out of hand, and I can’t take it back.”
“Take what back?”
But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even shake his head. His stare is caught in the distance—on something far away.
“But you still love to make music?” I ask softly, attempting to draw him back.
“It’s been so long since I wrote anything, I’m not sure I remember how.”
“I doubt it’s something you forget,” I offer, trying to sound encouraging.
He turns and looks at me for the first time since we started this conversation. He presses his lips together, his eyes softening again, like he’s slowly coming back to the moment. “I hope you’re right.” And his mouth actually shifts into an easy smile, the dimple winking to life.
“Of all your songs, which is your favorite?” I ask, hoping I might help him remember what he used to love about his music, maybe even recall what had inspired him once.
“It’s probably not one you’ve ever heard of.”
I look away, slightly embarrassed. “To be honest, I don’t really know many of your songs anyway.” I bite the edge of my lip and give him a grimace that I hope passes for a smile.
He laughs—he actually laughs. “Even better.” Then he jumps up from the grass, holding a palm open to me. “Come here,” he says.
I let him pull me up, and before I know it, he places a hand on my lower back, pulling me close, then laces his other hand through my fingers, as we start to dance.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my heart battering against my ribs—my body pressed close to his.
“You wanted to know what my favorite song is,” he says, drawing me closer. “This is the best way to show you. It’s a love song—it’s meant to be slow-danced to.” Before I can respond or protest or swallow the lump in my throat, he begins to hum. Softly at first, then whispering words to a song I faintly recognize—one of his songs. “If you knew what this felt like, to be without you, you’d never have left me.” And in his voice, in the sweet, cool tenor of his words, I hear the sound of Tate Collins—the singer.
“Your eyes are like emeralds, your body like gold.
“If you could still love me.
“You don’t know what you’ve done...”
He holds me gently, firmly, his voice a mere whisper, and I don’t resist, letting my eyelids slip shut. A breeze stirs up from somewhere, unsettling the leaves of a nearby tree, and even though the air is warm, goose bumps rise up on my arms. His hand tightens on my back, his fingers pressing into my shirt as he leads me in a slow, lazy circle. I feel myself slipping further and deeper into this moment, letting it take hold of me.
I blink my eyes open and realize that he’s watching me, his face unreadable. Without a word, he starts leading me toward the house. He turns to me just before we reach the door, his arms going around my waist as he presses me against one of the stone pillars that encircle his back patio. His eyes search mine. I can see his pulse pounding at the base of his neck and then he’s leaning in close. Closer.
I take a deep breath, my chest brushing against his, and he closes his eyes. Tentatively, I settle my hands on his chest, drawing in a sharp breath at my own boldness. He’s so warm. Beneath my palm I can feel the rapid beat of his heart.
Tate draws his finger across my cheekbone, just beneath my eye. His body is so close—only a thin layer of air and clothing separate his chest, his torso, his lips from mine. I tremble and close my eyes, my lips parting in anticipation. I can feel his breath, warm and soft, drift across my lips, and I know he’s close. I know he’s going to kiss me.
And I want him to.