Page 25 of Just Business

“Mmm. You smell good.” I sniff him again for good measure so I don't forget it.

“You’re killing me, Penn,” he murmurs, the timbre of his voice dropping lower. The sound vibrates against my chest that’s currently smashed up against him, and heat pools in my belly at the sensation. His fingers dig into my thighs, causing all sorts of mental images to flash through my mind.

Before I know it, he’s jogging down the sidewalk and I’m clinging to him for dear life, both of us laughing our heads off.

When he reaches my steps, he runs up them, turns, and drops me onto the porch swing. Then he sits right beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. There’s a comfort between us that isn’t normal for two people who only met two days ago.

“Guess you didn’t think you’d be piggy-backing a tipsy studio owner while you were here,” I say.

Austin lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “Can’t say I minded it though.” Turning, he drapes one arm across the back of the swing and those blue eyes meet mine. I swear I feel it all the way down to my toes, and I scramble for a safer topic.

“So, um…UT, right?” I say, awkwardly gesturing toward his ballcap. “You were probably one of those wild guys who painted their body orange for football games, weren’t you?” Of course I’ve been Googling him again. Turns out he went to the University of Texas to play baseball, which probably explains the broken nose. From the looks of it, he was a great ball player.

“Nah. Didn’t have much time for all that. I was a pretty serious student. I wanted to make my family proud. When I wasn’t studying or playing ball, I was busking around campus and town with my guitar case open, hoping for a few bucks. The frats would get me to play at their parties, and eventually, some of the bars let me perform. That’s how my label discovered me. I saw dollar signs and dropped out to play music.”

“Do you regret it?” There’s something in his voice that sounds an awful lot like regret.

Austin pauses, his brows creasing. “I did well in school. Loved baseball. But music feeds my soul, ya know? Do I wish I’d handled fame better?” He pauses again, nodding his head. “Hell yeah. But I don’t regret it.”

I get that. Deep in my bones I do. Music feels like it’s stitched into my DNA, like it’s the oxygen I need to breathe. I completely understand how it feeds his soul.

“Seems like we’ve talked a lot about me but hardly any about you. Who is Penny Miller?” he asks.

Though the wine has loosened my tongue, I’m still hesitant to open up to him. "There’s not much to tell,” I say, unsure how to answer his loaded question.

“I’m one hundred percent certain that’s not true.” Austin’s gaze lands steady on me, and heat creeps up my neck. After a beat, he adds, “Tell me what it was like growing up at the studio. Let’s start there.”

I smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Honestly? I didn’t know it was anything special until I was a teenager. When musicians were here, it was kept so quiet I just thought it was normal. It was the family business. Dad owned it, Mom did the bookkeeping and I basically ran around like the band’s kid sister, doing whatever I wanted."

A wave of nostalgia and love washes over me, thinking back to those days with my parents. “I had a fun life with my mom and dad. They were great. My dad showed what it meant to love unconditionally by loving us both that way. You’d think that spending all day, every day together, they’d argue or need a break from each other. But not them. Not once did I hear them argue.”

"Listen, this is none of my business. If you don't wanna answer, tell me to shut the hell up. But what happened to them? Your parents," Austin asks. He's trying to get to know me, and I might regret unloading all this in the morning, but right now, I decide to let him in.

“When I was eleven, my mom was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. It didn’t respond to treatments and it spread quickly. She was gone by the time I was twelve. Just short of a year later.” Austin’s eyes that are locked on mine soften sympathetically. “Dad hid his grief as best he could from me. I mean, I was a kid who’d lost her mom. But I worked extra hard to be the bright spot in his life. Now, as an adult looking back, I can’t even begin to imagine how he must have felt. He lost the love of his life.”

“What aboutyourgrief?” he asks. “I’m sure losing your mom at that age was hard.”

Austin reaches out and lays his hand on top of mine. The simple gesture is so caring and kind that I come close to telling him just how little grief I’ve allowed myself for both my mom and my dad, how alone I feel even when I’m surrounded by people. There are things no one tells you about the grieving process. Sure, there are phases that anyone can search on the internet, but there were also things that blindsided me. I was never warned that there would be days I’d have to search every corner of my mind just to recall the sounds of their voices. Dad’s is still pretty fresh, but I have to dig deep to unearth my mom’s.

Anytime I think I might break, I find something to busy myself with. When I stay busy, it’s easy for me to shove all my emotions into a locked box I only open in the privacy of my shower, where the water can wash my tears down the drain.

“I don’t know exactly when my dad started drinking, but it must have gotten pretty bad,” I continue, ignoring his question. “My nana and pops helped out a lot, making sure we had meals and the bills were paid. In hindsight, I’m sure they saw his struggles and tried to shield me from them. I worked hard in school and got a scholarship to Alabama.”

“So how was college for you?” he asks, mercifully shifting the conversation to a lighter topic. “What were you like? Were you wild, partying and dating, or were you this almost serious Penny that I see now?”

This makes me chuckle. “Almost serious?"

He raises an eyebrow, challenging me.

“I had my fair share of fun. My friends and I would go listen to live music practically every night. We were all music majors. Mine was commercial music.”

“Is that what you wanted to major in? I changed my major, like, four or five times.”

Austin’s innocent question has my throat constricting and my chest heavy with a confession I’ve never told anyone, not even Josie.

I toy with an embroidered flower on my shirt, taking a deep breath. “I wanted to go to Belmont. It’s a small college in Tennessee. I dreamed of majoring in professional music. I always imagined myself on a stage, like the people who came through the studio.”

A beat of silence passes, my confession hanging in the air between us.

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