But that was what made a good song—not being removed at all, but knee-deep in emotion.
Pensive and a little melancholy, Jolene went into the kitchen and started removing groceries from the bags. Though comfort food was her defense mechanism, the reality was that she needed to back off the mac and cheese. It was either that or hit the gym for an hour a day, and that was even less appealing. So she had packed veggies and fruit and Greek yogurt. Almonds. All the things that were good for her but never ever satisfied her.
Now she was really depressed.
“You ready for that walk?” Chance asked after moving her suitcase and his duffel bag into the bedroom. He had his guitar in his hand.
It was one she’d bought him. She’d picked it up on impulse while doing a retro photo shoot for a magazine in Austin. It had been a prop. The one he’d tossed in her pool had been a very collectible 1959 Gibson, and it had set her back a pretty penny. This one was nothing special, modern, but she’d liked the color—a black that bled to red—for some reason, it had reminded her of him. Maybe because, unlike the typical country picker, he lived in black and gray. He’d always told her his idea of adding a pop of color was walking next to her. And he’d always seemed to prefer this guitar to the other one, which was typical Chance. He saw value where others didn’t.
Damn it. She needed to stop thinking about his better qualities and focus on his shit ones, of which there were plenty.
“Sure,” she said, striving for breezy as she threw some bottled water and her notebook into a bag. She had expected to feel angry on this trip, and irritated. Not melancholy. She would have welcomed anger at this point—sadness was more difficult to deal with.
The day was hotter than Hades, but the setting was so beautiful that she didn’t mind. Nothing but leafy trees and rolling hills, with no immediate neighbors. The cottage had window boxes hanging from the porch rails, filled with pink and purple petunias tumbling toward the ground. They descended the steps, Dolly on Chance’s heels. “Let’s go by the pond,” Jolene said.
He was strumming as he walked, playing with chords. “God, it’s freaking hot out.” Flopping on the ground, he stared out at the water. “I may be forced to jump into this pond in a minute.”
“We’ve been outside for all of three minutes,” she said wryly. She sank down next to him. “Good thing we’re not actually roughing it. This cabin has air-conditioning.”
“God bless America and AC,” he said emphatically. Then he stripped his T-shirt off.
The view had been beautiful before. Now it was downright mouthwatering. His skin was a natural golden color, his back muscles well defined. He had a scar on his left shoulder from falling out of his childhood tree house. He’d told her that story the first night they slept together, when she had traced the jagged white edges with her finger before kissing the scar, feeling in awe that she was in bed with Chance Rivers. Watching him now, Jolene leaned back on her elbows, legs sprawled out in front of her, wondering at the twists and turns her life had taken. His jeans slid down on his hips, so from where she sat, she had a great view of his ass. She was tempted to dip her finger in there and startle him. But she didn’t want him to move away from her. He was plucking his guitar, which made the muscles in his back ripple a little. His soft brown hair was too long, like it always was, a disheveled mess that fell down his neck and in his eyes.
“There’s catfish in here,” he said. “I can see them. I wonder if there are poles in the cabin.”
“Want me to catch you dinner?” she teased.
Chance laughed. “I don’t plan on starving.”
“Hey!” That pricked her pride. “I can catch a catfish. I can fillet it, too, for your information.”
He scoffed. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.” Why did he insist on acting like she was a pampered princess? She’d had a life before fame and fortune, and it had not been one of shopping and sitting around on her designer duff. Hell, she would still have a life where she did things like go fishing if she had an ounce of free time. It was just logistics that kept her from getaways like this. “I’ll bet I catch more than you.”
He glanced over at her. “I’ll take that bet. What does the winner get?”
She shrugged. She hadn’t meant it to be an actual bet, but if that was the way he wanted to play it, who was she to say no? She was going to win, she didn’t doubt that. Chance’s family had been too busy throwing parties to take him fishing when he was a kid, whereas she’d had no money and lots of time to kill. Catfish were going to jump on her hook, and she was going to enjoy the satisfaction of besting him. “Whatever the winner wants.”
“Ooooh, cocky. I like it.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “But foolish. Especially for someone who usually likes to double-check the fine print.”
“I’m confident.”
“Deal.” He stuck his hand out.
“Deal.” She grasped his hand. His grip was firm. “Sucker.”