Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)(23)

I patted him firmly on the back and headed back through the living room to leave.

“He’s being weird. Tell him it’s fine, OK?” I whispered to Monica as I left her apartment.

Walking to my car, I texted Bo.

Me: You around?

Bo: Of course, why what’s up?

Me: Can I come see you?

Bo: I just left a dinner meeting, getting in my car. Can I come to your place? It’s much nicer than a crappy motel.

Me: True. Just head to my place, we’ll meet there. :)





Chapter Eight

Moonlight beamed off the hood of my car as I parked it in front of my apartment, right behind Bo. He got out when I did and we walked to the stairs. I noted his tense movements; maybe he was fighting the same moral demons I’d wrestled all day.

“Where the hell have you been?” I laughed out. “Your hair’s a mess!”

I roughed through his hair like he was a puppy before unlocking the building door.

He chuckled like a high school boy, grabbed my hand and kissed it with tight lips. Something was off, and I didn’t like it. Everyone is bizarre today.

“Hey,” I continued as we headed up the stairs to my apartment, “is everything ok? You’re all weird.” I dialed down the concern and took a more get over it tone so he wouldn’t think I was getting crazy.

“Sorry. Everything’s fine. Just a little tense about our meeting with you guys tomorrow.” By our meeting, he meant himself and David Bryson. He was definitely fighting the same demons.

I opened the door to my apartment and headed right for the wine rack. Sobriety had taken up enough of my time today. Bo thumped heavily on the couch.

“Do you want beer or wine?” I hollered from the kitchen.

“God. Beer please,” he exaggerated with a hint of a smile in his voice. He was staring to relax, but I could tell this would be a two-beer kind of conversation.

“You’re in luck. I’ve got a ‘Whale’s Tale Pale Ale’ from Cisco’s, the brewery on Nantucket - it’s awesome.” I handed him his beer and sat down on the couch, facing him with my knees bent toward the back of the couch. I swallowed half of my wine in one gulp.

“That bad, huh?” Bo looked into my eyes. It wasn’t just at my eyes; he really got in there and scrambled things around until I no longer knew if I was feeling him or me racing through my veins.

“Not bad. Just . . . a lot. I just want to get through this meeting with David Bryson tomorrow and have you all to myself for the rest of the week. Am I crazy? I feel a little crazy. You’re in the house of a crazy person.” I rushed to the kitchen to retrieve more beer and wine.

“You’re not crazy, Ember. Don’t you realize what you do to me? Ha! You know . . .” He smiled as I returned with our refreshed drinks, “the second we sang that verse of “Heaven When We’re Home,” it was all I could do to not hoist you over my shoulder, hightail it out of the bar, and just drive around the country singing with you.”

The thought speared me in the knees and I could no longer stand, thankfully I arrived at the couch.

“Are you kidding? God, you’re a lot more ‘by-the-seat-of-your-pants’ than I am.” Guitar cases, hotel rooms, stages, and harmonizing with Bo filled all available space in my brain.

“Are you saying you’d object to taking that voice of yours and sharing it with all of humanity? You want to keep all of it for yourself?” He seemed comically flabbergasted.

“Well, myself and you.” We wouldn’t be talking about work anymore tonight, so I let my already weakening guard completely down.

“Ember I can’t tell you how many times over the past four years I’ve wanted to just take my guitar and go. . .” His eyes were now clouded with a different stress.

“Bo, I hate to bring this up, but the first time you came here - with Monica and Josh - you said you haven’t seen your sister in years; then two days later I find out you started a non-profit with her.” That detail nagged my brain for days.

“I was wondering when you’d call me on that. When I first met you guys it was easier, I didn’t have to get into it. I didn’t have to say that she was a recovering drug addict, and my parents died in the middle of founding an organization based on helping kids like her, and so on. She was really screwed up, Ember . . .” His eyes welled with tears as he looked to the floor.

Wordlessly, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and gave him the tightest hug I’d ever given anyone. He slumped forward and pressed his forehead to my bare shoulder. I was overtaken by his vulnerability.

The wetness I felt on my shoulder was the only indication he was crying. Crying. Girls make a production out of this; we let the whole world know with wails, throwing things, and we even stare at ourselves in the mirror while doing it. In front of me sat a gorgeous, hurt man who felt comfortable crying in front of me, and I froze.

Why does having someone cry in front of you feel more intimate and revealing than having sex with them? He sat there for just a minute, and I gave him the silence I assumed he needed. I rested my chin on the top of his head and felt him breathe deeper. I didn’t let on that I knew he was crying, because I wasn’t sure how much of the Y-chromosome he carried with him at all times; I didn’t want to embarrass him. Finally, he looked up with dry eyes and a puff-free face that eludes every woman on the planet. He looked in to my eyes, and when he opened his mouth to speak I closed it with a kiss.