Page 80 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

I look away, grateful for the shadows that hide my hot cheeks. “You don’t need to feel guilty about that. I’m perfectly happy with the couch—”

“I can’t sleep with you out here on the couch and not in my bed.”

I set my glass down, watch the ring of liquid pool on the countertop. “Dave . . .” I sigh. “You can’t say things like that.”

He chugs the rest of his water and groans. “I know.” He leans back against the counter, hand next to mine, and my skin tingles at the heat of him so close. It burns like reaching toward an open flame, then his pinky makes contact with mine and I inhale a deep breath as goosebumps sprout over every inch of my body.

He turns to me in the dark. I can feel him watching me as his fingers crawl over mine to take my hand. My body is electric, an intense energy flooding through my veins at his touch, his gaze, his everything. I keep my eyes forward. I know if I look at him right now, I won’t be able to control myself. I’ll simply throw caution to the wind and climb him like a tree. I squeeze my thighs together and I know he sees it—I can hear him swallow next to me as his hand twitches and tightens over mine.

I can’t be your boyfriend, I can’t be someone who falls in love with you.

The words he spoke in Las Vegas rush back to the forefront of my memory. Slowly, I slide my hand out from under his and hide it in my lap. Next to me, he lets out a long breath.

“So . . . are you excited about going on tour?” I ask, grateful my voice is moderately steady.

I chance a look at him, and he grins. “Yeah, it’s still a little hard to wrap my head around. All of it is, I mean. But, it’s literally a dream come true. I feel incredibly lucky. I can’t wait to get on the road and meet other bands and the fans. Play music almost every day . . .”

“It’s going to be great.”

“And you’ll be there too,” he adds. “Documenting everything.” Even in the dim light I can see him grin widely. “I mean, that’s a hell of an opportunity for you too.”

“It is. Sometimes I feel like . . . Like I don’t deserve it,” I admit.

“What?”

“I just mean I’m . . . me. Surely there are other people far more qualified. I just got lucky.” I pull my lip between my teeth, feeling a little lighter having voiced how I really feel.

“You didn’t just get lucky,” Dave says, bumping my shoulder with his. “You deserve every good thing coming your way. Wait here,” he says, bolting from the kitchen.

I open my mouth to call after him, but then remember it’s three in the morning. I down the rest of my water and hop down off the counter to put my glass in the sink. A moment later, I hear footsteps and watch as Dave rounds the corner with a shoebox in his hands.

“What’s that?” I ask as he takes off the lid.

“This is why you deserve this,” Dave says, pulling pieces of paper out of the box. “This was the first article you publishedabout us,” he says, showing me a clipping from theStoneman Press. “And these,” he says, showing me a handful of ticket stubs, “are all the extra gigs we picked up because people read your article and wanted to see us perform.”

My stomach flips.

“This,” he continues, holding up a piece of yellow paper, “was our schedule from the studio that day you came to visit after we kept getting denied recording time. And this is the first royalty check I received because expected sales tripled with what you wrote.”

“You kept all of this?” I whisper. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to forget anything. I don’t want to wake up in twenty years and think I might have missed out on doing something I wanted. I guess it’s a way of keeping track . . . like—”

“A list?”

His gaze finds mine, those blue eyes searing into me in the dark. I shouldn’t have said that. Does he know I found his list? That I haven’t had the courage to give it back to him? Has he made a new one since he realized he lost it?

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Exactly. So, don’t go thinking you don’t deserve this, because you’re just as integral to all of this as any of us.”

His face is so sincere in that belief that I can’t help but smile. He smiles back briefly, then looks away.

“Actually, I uh . . . got you something for Christmas,” he says.

“You did?”

“Yeah. It’s not much since it was last minute, but I— Maybe you can make better use of it than me while we’re on tour.”

He moves the shoebox and reveals a brown leather-bound journal. He holds it toward me and my fingers skim across the smooth cover, my heart beating frantically in my chest at his gesture. “Dave, I . . . don’t know what to say.”

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