Mark must have tuned up the guitar. The thing had been sitting around, unused, for twenty years. But Ruby had never been able to get rid of the old instrument. Even now, the pads of her fingers tingled as she remembered the hours she’d spent strumming the wiry strings, trying to coax out a melody.
Pausing just outside the living room, she leaned against the wall of the hallway and watched him. He was obviously working on a song, and she loved this insight into his creative process. So different from the way she worked: researching, planning, organizing. Every detail meticulously arranged.
But this. Just like the man himself, his process was spontaneous, organic. He’d brush his fingertips over the strings for a few notes, then reach over the guitar to scribble something on the pad of paper on her coffee table. She recognized the paper as scrap from her office, and she was, for some reason, glad that he’d helped himself. She wanted him to know he was welcome to any of her possessions. Her paper, her food. Her heart.
At that realization, pure panic rushed through her, and she put a hand to her chest, which had begun to pound like a drum. She couldn’t breathe; her vision began to dim. How the hell had she let this happen? She had gone and fallen for a man who epitomized everything she did not want in a guy.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Sorry, baby. Did I wake you?”
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she took a few shaky steps to the sofa. “Maybe, but it’s okay. What are you working on?”
She focused on his naked torso, fighting back a crazy desire to lick his shoulder, tug on his nipple rings. To hug him and feel him in her arms. Only he could untwist the knot of anxiety in her belly.
And yet she was smiling because, even though it was temporary, he was here now. And she couldn’t help but take pleasure in that little fact.
She sank into the sofa, leaning her back against the arm. “Do you mind if I stay?” she asked as she brought her knees to her chest.
He shook his head, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Not at all. In fact, I’m about done.”
“What are you working on?”
“A new song. I woke up with a thought, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I had to try to work it out.”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s like that for me, too. When I get an idea for an event I can’t rest until I write it down.”
“Exactly. It’s like this beast within, scratching inside your head until you let it out.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.” Still nodding. “Precisely.” They stared at each other a minute before she said, “So. Wanna sing me your song?”
For a second, he looked uncertain, and it was the first time she’d ever seen this expression on him. “It’s not finished.”
“I don’t care.”
He met her gaze, and she saw vulnerability in his eyes. She touched his shoulder. “Really. I love everything you do. Please. Play for me.”
“Okay. Sure.” He turned back to the guitar and started to strum. The melody immediately pulled her in with its soft, melancholy notes. But then he started singing, and that was all she could hear. His voice, the words.
She listened, losing herself as he revealed a part of himself she’d never seen. And he was singing to her, about her. It was a love song, and when he chanted her name in the chorus he looked directly at her, and she felt her bones turn to liquid.
Ruby, mine.
A love song. For her.
Chapter
Seventeen
So, I’m pretty sure my husband is gay. Or bi. Frankly, it’s a toss-up right now. It could go either way. No pun intended.”
Ruby nearly spit her latte across the table. “What?” she said after she’d swallowed.
Meg crossed her legs. Today she wore a black hat with dotted netting covering one eye, a vintage dress that looked very Jackie Onassis except it was paired with black fishnet tights and on her feet were old Doc Martens boots.
“I said, I think my husband is gay. I might as well just sign up for one of Oprah’s desperate housewives shows.”
It was Tuesday, and they were having a “meeting” at Savor. So far Ruby had been able to avoid going anywhere near the studio, and luckily Meg hadn’t second-guessed her reasoning for meeting at the café instead of their office.
“Wait.” Ruby tugged the hem of her dress. In total contrast to her friend, she wore a pink fifties sundress and red round-toed pumps. A cashmere cardigan rested on her shoulders, fastened at her neck with a vintage pin in the shape of a rose. “Back up. Emmett is not gay. Or bi!”
Meg calmly removed her sunglasses and placed them on the table. “Really? Allow me to present my case. Exhibit A: He hasn’t had sex with me in months, even when I try to get things going, if you know what I mean. Exhibit B: I found all kinds of gay porn on his computer. Exhibit C: He’s out late every night. Exhibit D.” She looked up, then back down at the table. “I don’t have an exhibit D, but I’m sure there is one.”