“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You can’t know that,” he told her.
“Not for sure, but I can guess. You want the world to think you’re really cynical and disconnected, but you’re not.”
“How do you know that?”
She smiled. “You love your grandmother.”
“Even serial killers love their grandmothers.”
“I don’t think so. From my very limited understanding on the subject, family members are often the first to go.” She slid off the stool. “I should probably eat something.”
“Good idea.”
“I know where the secret stash is.”
He was a little afraid to ask “of what?” Knowing Courtney as he did, it could be anything.
She crossed to one of the cupboards and reached up to a high shelf. As she stretched, her T-shirt rose, and he saw the small of her back and the tattoo there.
“Well, hell,” he muttered.
She pulled down a bag of Oreo cookies, then faced him. “What?”
“Your tattoo.”
“Ha-ha. Not what you expected at all. Admit it. I surprised you.”
“Very much so.”
She opened the package and pulled out a cookie. “Do you know the song?”
He nodded.
“I’m not sure I believe you. What’s the whole line?”
“‘You can walk me to the river,’” he quoted, “‘but you can’t make me drown.’” She’d tattooed lyrics onto her skin.
“That’s right. Hey, the artist—Zinnia. She died a few years ago.” Her mouth parted. “Is she the one? The project? Did you have something to do with that song?”
“Yes.”
She put down the package of cookies and rubbed her temple. “Was that yes to all the questions?”
“Yes, I worked with her, and yes, we were involved. She killed herself a few months after we broke up.” He held up one hand. “The events were not related.” As far as he knew.
“And the song?”
“I wrote it.”
Her expression of surprise was almost comical. “But you’re a music producer. I thought you sat in a booth and pushed buttons or moved levers or something.”
“How flattering.”
She rolled her eyes. “And discovered talent and all that, but you write songs?”
“I do nearly everything that needs to be done.”
Courtney collected her bag of cookies and returned to the counter. He refilled her glass while she ate a couple of Oreos.
“What was she like?” Courtney asked when he set the glass in front of her. “Zinnia?”
He thought of her slight build, her long red hair, her energy. “She was fire.”
“That sounds so great, but in real life, it has to be a pain. The drama.” She clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead and I just did. Plus, I don’t know her. I really hate it when people are critical of someone they don’t know. Like we all have this great insight. I apologize. I’m weak and spineless. Do you want a cookie?”
She pushed the bag toward him.
He honest to God had no idea what to do with her. Zinnia had been pure flame and Courtney was right—sometimes it had been a pain in the ass. But art came at a price. Courtney was different—quicksilver, maybe. Light and bright and impossible to hold. He decided he liked that about her best.
“You should finish your water,” he told her. “Then take a couple of aspirin and go to bed.”
“Want to join me?” She grinned. “You’ve seen my tattoo, so I can’t offer you that unveiling, but still.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Well, duh. I just asked you to have sex with me. You don’t think I’d be brave enough to do that sober, do you?”
He stepped toward her. After taking her face in both his hands, he lightly kissed her lips, then her forehead.
She exhaled. “Well, crap. There’s never sex after a man kisses your forehead.”
He stepped back. “You’re so worldly.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m humiliated and in pain.”
She was smiling as she spoke and still eating cookies. So not either of the things she claimed.
“I suspect you’ll recover. Can you get back to your room on your own?”
“Of course. I made it here.”
“Your sister drove you.”
She brightened. “That’s right. I was at my mom’s tonight. Did I tell you that?”
“You did. You are going to have one nasty hangover.”
“I’ll be fine. You sure you don’t want a cookie?”
“Yes, but thanks for asking.”
“Anytime. Were you at least a little tempted?”