Crazy in Love (Blue Lake #3)(54)

“How many people do you have checking in today?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “A few.”

“What are you going to make for breakfast?”

Back to small talk? “Cole, I can’t do this.”

She pulled toward her room until their arms were outstretched. He pulled back, hauling her against him. “It’s going to be hard for me to leave too, Rach. Tell me your plans, so when I’m driving to Lake Tahoe I can picture you here. And every morning and every night after that.”

He was going to think of her after this moment? After today? Okay, so that made her feel a little better.

She sighed against his chest. “I’m going to make biscuits and gravy with toast and homemade jelly on the side.”

He moaned. “Okay, okay, enough talk about food. Are you going to do anything with the remodel later today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And tonight? Any plans?”

“Cooking dinner for the guests, cleaning up after they hit the sack.” Her heart faltered. “Oh damn it! I forgot I have a date with Joey.”

His chest deflated against her cheek. “You’re still going to go out with him?”

“Yeah, I guess, I mean…”

His hands dropped from her waist.

“I completely forgot to cancel,” she said, watching Cole’s jaw tick. “I got so caught up in this, in us.”

“You should go out with him.” The words seemed pulled from Cole’s lips. As if he wanted to say something completely different. “If he’s a good guy, if he’ll be here for you when you need him…you should go.”

She nodded, but she didn’t want to be with Joey. Didn’t want to be dating him if she could be with Cole instead.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t belong in Hollywood with him, and he didn’t belong in Blue Lake with her.

“Come here,” he said, tugging her hand toward his room. “I want to show you something.”

She giggled, but the sound was strained. “Again?”

“No, not that, you sexy little temptress.” He stroked his hand over hers as he led her to the boxes in the corner of his room…the boxes he’d been so protective over when she’d cleaned up in here the first day. He unfolded the tops and pulled out a stack of photo albums.

“These are from my childhood,” he said, setting them on the bed and turning back to the box. “They’re all I have left.”

Sadness leached through her as she watched him dig through his memorabilia. Sweatshirts came out, along with old Rolling Stone magazines—was that a 1967 date she spotted on the cover?—followed by leather-bound notebooks with the pages falling out. And then, when Rachael thought he wouldn’t reach the thing he’d searched for, he pulled out a small wooden box and flipped open the lid.

“I found music at a desperate time in my life, when I could have gone one of two ways. I could have drowned in depression…or I could’ve channeled my cry for help into my guitar. I chose to write, to play, and that saved my life.” He took out a black guitar pick set on a silver chain and dropped it in the heart of her palm. “This was my first pick. I want you to have it.”

“What?” She flinched. “No, I can’t take that.”

“I didn’t know I was standing at a crossroads when I met you, but I was,” he said, staring deep into her eyes. “If I want to have a career in this business, I need to start writing my own songs again. I know that now.”