Page 18 of Sing Me Home
I hooked my legs over his left knee, slid an arm around his waist, and buried my face in his neck. His scent was familiar and different at the same time. He was wearing a new cologne, maybe? Something spicy, with hints of amber and pepper. Whatever it was, it was the smell of confidence and masculinity, and it left me with a buoyant, peaceful feeling. I was safe here in his arms.
Protected.
He cradled my head, his strong guitar-picking fingers gently massaging the base of my neck. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “Nothing’s ever going to hurt you again.” He leaned his cheek against my hair. “I’ll make sure of that.”
It was so Cash. I hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t told him that the last four years had nearly killed me. But he could tell.
With me, he always could.
six
Charlie
The guest bed in Ford and Peyton’s house was so comfortable, I slept better than I had in years. Definitely better than the last three months when I’d been living in my car. I probably would’ve slept till noon but the sun had broken through the window, welcoming me home to Clean Slate Ranch.
When I remembered I was wearing Cash’s T-shirt and old basketball shorts, I pulled the shirt up to my nose, hoping it would smell like him. But I only caught a whiff of Tide.
The horizon was a swirl of oranges and pinks, reminding me of a puff of cotton candy. I threw the blankets off and sat up, ready to race to the window to get a better look. I almost screamed when I realized a man was asleep on the floor.
Cash.
And he was shirtless.
His T-shirt balled up a few feet away, covered from the waist down with a sleeping bag.
Good gracious. There were a lot of muscles down there—biceps that flexed even in sleep, sculpted shoulders, an eight-pack that rose and fell with every breath. And so much hair—on his head, stubble dusting his face, and a small tuft in the center of his chest. Oh, and with his arm thrown over his brow, I could see a healthy sprig in that right armpit. If I’d been fifteen, I would’ve tried to braid it just to annoy him.
But twenty-four-year-old me just pressed a hand to my heart. He must’ve snuck up here to make sure I didn’t leave in the middle of the night. My chest warmed at the thought.
I’d hardly been able to look at him last night with him watching me like a hawk. So I took advantage now. His chocolate-colored curls were swept back off his forehead. Gone was any hint of baby fat in his cheeks. Now, he was all perfect cheekbones, strong jawline, and dark lashes that made me envious. I was Jewish and I didn’t have lashes that thick or dark. Not without the blessing of a good mascara.
His full lips were parted slightly, and a tiny bit of drool was creeping out of the corner of his mouth. I watched him breathe, enjoying how peaceful he seemed, his chest slowly rising up and down.
My head snapped around when I heard my mom’s voice float up the stairs. “How could you tell her she could stay here?” she cried. It sounded like Aunt Peyton tried to say something, but Mom talked over her. “She’s our kid. She should be at our house.”
I winced at her pain-filled words.
Cash’s foot kicked under the sleeping bag. They were going to wake him. I tiptoed across the room, stepped onto the landing, and quietly closed the door. Then I padded down, heart thumping, and sat on the third step from the bottom to eavesdrop.
“Honey,” Dad said. “Let Peyton explain.”
There was a muffled sob from Mom and then Aunt Peyton said, “She called from a police station in L.A. The officer said she’d been living in her car.” Mom gasped. Peyton continued, “The only way she would agree to come home is if I let her stay here. And I thought it would be better for her to be here than to disappear again, right?”
I jumped when the door to my room flew open. I looked up to see Cash, eyes wide and panicked, shirt in his fist, his lower half clothed in a pair of black athletic shorts. When he saw me, his shoulders relaxed.
I pressed a finger to my lips and pointed so he’d know something was happening in the foyer. And yeah, I watched as he pulled that shirt over his head, a little disappointed when his spectacular torso disappeared under gray cotton.
He sprang soundlessly down the stairs and sat next to me. “What’s going on?” he whispered, his voice deep and scratchy.
My parents are here,I mouthed.
“I never should’ve written that memoir,” Mom said.
“Yes, you should,” Aunt Peyton countered in a calm tone. “Look how many women you’ve helped.”
“What good is it if I’ve lost my own daughter?” Mom's voice held an ache so deep it mademychest hurt. “She hasn’t been the same since she read it and found out what her sperm donor did to me.Ishould’ve told her.”
“You didn’t know she was going to read it,” Dad said.
