Page 27 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

Now that I’m holding this spitfire woman, this unicorn that I needed—and whom I am fighting tooth and nail against wanting in a way Ishouldn’t—thisis when that intimacy takes hold of me with the clutches of necessity and drags me closer to her in every single way.

“Scarlett,” I murmur, tucking my head lower to locate her ear again. “You know Oscar?”

She nods against me, her fingers curled into my shirt at my lower back.

“Did you know he’s an orphan?”

She’s still for a second before giving a small shake of her head.

“He was orphaned during Katrina,” I go on, my hands rubbing her back again. “He had nobody until all these folks found him and brought him to be part of this label. Everybody here became his new family. We’ll be that for you, too, if you need it.”

Scarlett makes no reaction to that, and I don’t really blame her. This bizarrely different version of intimacy is new for both of us, so I try another angle.

“And you know that first album of his?”

Another nod against my chest.

“That album is as incredible as it is because he recorded it in the house where his family died. It’s raw and real because it was him playing in the middle of the depths of his greatest loss. And I bet you can relate to that, can’t you?”

She doesn’t respond, so I rub her back a couple more times before stroking her hair and nudging her face toward me.

“I can see that you are hurting right now, so I want you to play for me.” She blinks a couple more tears out of her eyes, and I reach for another piece of cotton to dab them away before they reach the scratches. “I think it could help you, and I think you might be surprised at how amazing it will be.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and her eyes are luminescent pools of silver, deep with every emotion I know she’s drowning in, and I am so fucked.

“I know all of your music comes from somewhere inside you where you feel everything like a raw nerve,” I murmur, stroking her hair again. “So, I want you to try to see what you can do with this.”

The weariness in her expression is palpable, but she manages to sit up straight and turns to place her hands on the keys. There’s an extended pause long enough for me to whip my head around toward the sound booth in hopes that someone’s in there, see that both Luke and Jimmy are, and point at them with a few seconds to spare before Scarlett starts playing that same slow, mournful melody that she was when I first stepped in here.

The intro is long; a good, solid minute, and then she lifts her head slightly, so I reach to silently move the mic closer to her mouth.

“Couldn’t we pretend,

Your two hands that fold in mine,

The sun simmering long and low,

and old jazz on the radio,

Couldn’t we pretend for all of time.

I saw us on a summer night,

Stars glow low like candle lights,

I made a wish that we could be,

One soft touch for eternity,

Save me from these troubled times,

Couldn’t we pretend for all our lives.

Fraying roots and tire marks,

Long sweet kisses in the dark,

I made a wish that we could be,

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