Page 53 of Beneath the Burn

“Don’t be. It’s better that way.”

He dropped her hands and stepped back. The absence of his body was as discomfiting as his expression. “You don’t get it, do you?” The brackets around his mouth deepened with his scowl.

She could feel his disappointment because it was hers, too, and the air was thick with it. “I came here to talk, not…this—” She gestured between them. “You’re forgetting the last time I attempted a relationship, my boyfriend was murdered.”

He touched her shoulders and guided her backward until her legs hit a chair. With a nudge of his hands, he sat her in it. Then he dropped on his knees between her feet and pulled at the hem of her shirt at her hips until it covered her thighs. That last gesture made her want to yank out her heart and hand it to him. She was an idiot.

“And you’re forgetting I lost you once. I won’t let you out of my sight again. I have one of the highest trained security teams in the country. The safest place for you to be is at my side.”

The suggestion was noble. And ridiculous. “Will I stand on stage with you in front of thousands of people while you perform?”

He glared at her and she realized the crater in her argument. Jay Mayard didn’t stand on stage. He sang from the shadows despite his fans’ dismay.

“I owe Nathan Winslow an apology. When I scrape up what’s left of my ego, I’ll give him one.” He interlaced his hands with hers. “He’s a fucking hero.”

Her hackles went up. “Don’t—”

“I’m not being flippant, Charlee. I mean it. He rescued you, and as much as I want to kill him, he’s my fucking hero, too. I got to tell you that’s hard to compete with.”

Why wasn’t he badgering her with questions about Roy? Maybe he wasn’t ready to ruin their reunion by grounding them in her ugly reality. “There’s nothing romantic between Nathan and I.”

Little lines fanned from the corners of his squinting eyes. “I saw you in bed together.”

She sighed. “We’ve been sharing a bed for three years. We’re on the run. We’re scared. We don’t leave each other’s sight, okay? Not even to sleep.”

The disbelief was still there in his eyes.

“As far as I know, he hasn’t been laid in a long damned time.” The reminder squeezed her chest. He deserved so much more than what she’d condemned him to.

“Then I really find it hard to believe that he sleeps next to you without feeling something.”

Her heart tripped. “When we share that bed, Noah’s there between us. Always.”

The tightness in his face ebbed. “Did you love him?”

An ugly mess of emotions balled in her throat. “Not enough.”

28

Jay looked down at their joined hands, his pulse a fuzzy squish in his ears.

Not enough.

He knew Charlee carried guilt over Noah’s death, but if she’d loved him, she would’ve known.

In the years that separated them, he’d written dozens of songs. Every creation bloomed from his memories of her and the emotions those memories stirred. “You can’t control love. It’s like creating music.”

That brought her eyes up to his. “How so?”

“Love is like a series of improbable, lonely notes landing together in meaningful chaos. Where every channel carries a rhythm that conveys an expression of emotion. It doesn’t feel flat or fake or hollow. It’s not exaggerated with overtones. The complexity might feel organized, but the creation is never controlled.”

Her eyes were huge blue portholes. She untangled her hands from his and reached a tentative one toward his face. The movement was a slow climb, allowing him time to welcome it or intervene.

The thought of her touching him produced a clash of feelings in his gut. He wanted to get fucking lost beneath the slide of her hands, but his reaction to touch was involuntary. His trigger would scare her away, even as he wished more than anything it would be different with her.

He caught her hand inches from his face, turned it, and pressed the backs of her fingers to his cheek.

She leaned into his hold, accepting the compromise. “What are your demons, Jay?”

---