Connected (Connections, #1)(76)
Deciding I need to find River and talk about last night, I stand on shaky legs and see my clothes lying on the floor beside the bed. Making my way to the bathroom, I look in the mirror. That was not a good decision. Makeup smears my face and my hair is a tangle of knots from all the hairspray. I really need a shower but settle for washing my face, brushing my teeth, and throwing my hair into a ponytail before going to search for him.
I don’t have to look far. As I walk down the hallway I hear soft music being played on a guitar. I stop at the entranceway to the living room to take him in. He’s sitting on the couch in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, barefoot, and his hair is a little more disheveled than usual. His fingers are holding a guitar pick and he’s strumming a beautiful melody while quietly singing an unfamiliar song that I can’t really hear the words to. He has a notebook and pen beside him and he’s deep in thought. I stand there awhile just listening, looking, thinking how unbelievably gorgeous he is both inside and out and how sad I am that I’m leaving. I decide to quietly go get my camera out of my bag in the bedroom. I want to capture his perfect image at this moment. As I tiptoe back and stand just inside the living room, watching him through my lens, I snap a few photos while he’s playing. He’s so involved in his work that he doesn’t even notice me or hear the click of the camera. When he finishes the song, he adjusts his guitar on his leg and leans over to his notebook.
Standing there leaning against the wall I say, “That was beautiful.”
He glances at me, but the happy grin I usually receive from him when entering a room is absent. “What song was that? I didn’t recognize it.”
Leaning his guitar against the couch, he nonchalantly says, “It’s just something I’m working on.”
Taken aback by his cavalier attitude and obvious disinterest in discussing the song, I ask, “You got your guitar back?”
Standing up, he shoves his hands in his front pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, Xander brought it by this morning.” Then he asks, “How about coffee?”
I enter the room and head for the kitchen while I say, “Yes, I can get it though.”
“I’ve already made it, I’ll grab you a cup.”
“Thanks,” I say, putting my camera down and sitting on the couch, hoping my queasy stomach can hold down the coffee.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine. I took your remedy. I think it’s working.”
I watch him walk into the kitchen, but he doesn’t turn around to catch me like he usually does. Once he’s in the kitchen, he pulls out the paper cups we bought at Whole Foods yesterday and pours two cups. He adds cream to mine and I smile. He walks back into the room and hands me the cup. “Do you want me to go get you something to eat?” he asks as I take the cup, staring at him. For the first time since I met him, I can’t read him at all.
“Shit no,” I answer grasping my stomach. “I hope I can keep the coffee down.”
He chuckles and I can tell the River I’ve come to know is in there somewhere.
He walks back over to where he was playing his guitar and sits down.
Sipping my coffee, I look over at him. “Was Xander feeling okay?”
He quickly glances my way and answers, “Yeah. He looked wrecked but nothing some sleep won’t cure.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then continues, “I asked Garrett to take him home last night. I guess he stayed at Garrett’s, and on their way back to Beverly Hills this morning they stopped by to check on you and drop off my guitar.” Pointing to the bar, he adds, “And your jacket and purse.”
“That was really nice.” Then I laugh a little. “Shit, I don’t even remember leaving my stuff there. I guess since you gave me your jacket, I never thought of mine. At least my purse was still there. That would have sucked to have to cancel everything.”
I notice he doesn’t laugh at my swearing like he usually does. Instead, he nods at me then says in a very flat tone, “Well your mind was elsewhere. I would have grabbed your stuff when I stopped to talk to Garrett, but I forgot it was even there. At least I grabbed my jacket or you would have been frozen.”
For some reason the whole conversation seems strained, awkward even, and I sense it’s because of my behavior last night. I’m sure he’s uncertain about my feelings and upset about what I said.
Needing to rectify the situation and make amends for my bitchiness to this man who now, in my sober state, I believe with my heart never meant any foul behavior, I stand up and walk over to the bar. Setting my coffee down, I turn and move toward him.
His eyes rake my body as I approach him. I feel like this one little move on my part, a sign of my forgiveness, has put his mind at ease and by the look in his eyes, I know he’s back. Tears sting my eyes as I sit on his lap. His arms instantly surround me and a soft sigh meets my ear.
“I’m sorry,” I cry as I throw my arms around him.
He sighs again and pulls me as tightly to him as he can. My head is in the crook of his neck and he inhales before sighing again. Shifting me so that I fit perfectly into his lap, he whispers into my ear, “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I know I should have.”
Pulling back, I sniffle a little and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. He gives me that grin I adore then shifts me again to lift his shirt, using it to wipe my tears and my nose.