"Billy's house is on fire."
"Omigod." She grabbed her coat. Jerk or not, if he was hurt-
"He's okay." Nat's phone dinged again. "Kimmie thinks. She said-" Another ding interrupted her. "Damn, Pepper's hearing rumors he tried to go into the house."
Lindsey's heart went into a panic-dance. "Was someone-"
Nat's phone kept dinging. "House was empty..something valuable inside … he's gone now, took off, nobody knows where … Pepper says he's not answering Mikey's calls … Marilyn's going nuts … ."
"Heaven forbid that Bliss gets a bad reputation over this," Lindsey muttered.
"He tried to go into the house. While it was burning," Nat said. "Jeez, a guy like Billy can afford anything he wants. I wonder what was in there?"
Lindsey tuned Nat out. She willed her heart to slow. He was fine. He didn't need her. He had Mikey. He wasn't hurt.
But the Will she had known-and Billy Brenton, the Will she didn't know-would not have gone into a burning building. He was funny, he might cross a line, and he liked a good joke, but he wasn't stupid and he wasn't reckless. The only thing-oh, no.
Nat was thumbing through her phone, managing the incessant dings. "Whatever it was must've been valuable. Rumor is it took three firemen, two cops, and Mikey to stop him. That's crazy."
And probably exaggerated, if Lindsey knew anything at all about small towns. But the part about his trying to go into the house-that wouldn't be idle gossip.
Would it?
She grabbed her own phone and hit the Internet. Three clicks later, she was staring at an article about Billy Brenton and his favorite guitar, Vera.
Vera.
No.
Not Vera.
Despite everything, she hoped it wasn't his guitar. She didn't know enough about guitars to pick one out of a crowd, but she could still see Will's country smile at that roaring fireplace in the ski resort lobby, a guitar at his knee. My snow angel, he'd said the second time they ran into each other. This time not literally. Sit on down. Meet Vera. She's the only other woman in my life, but she ain't too jealous.
God, the songs he'd played on that guitar that week-and his voice on top of it. None of them were songs she'd heard before or since.
Just playing what I hear, he'd said.
You hear a song in everything? she'd asked.
I do when you're here. She remembered the smile that went with his words. Remembered being unable to stop her own goofy smile in return. Remembered how much smiling they'd done that whole week. How he'd made her feel okay about being her, despite her friends ditching her at every opportunity.
She knew he'd noticed, but he hadn't asked for an explanation. So for one week, she got to pretend she was normal. That she hadn't destroyed every single friendship she'd thought she had by telling her sorority sisters they were all dating the wrong men. Instead, he'd listened to her talk about her classes and her family and her big dreams. He'd told her about his family, about his job-he'd been a janitor-and about playing open mic night with his friends and his trusty guitar, Vera.
If he'd lost Vera-a lump settled in Lindsey's throat.
The Will she'd known was gone. And he'd never been meant to be hers.
He could still go screw himself for pushing her buttons the last few days, but if any of her other former boyfriends needed a friend, she'd be there for them.
She grabbed her purse. "I have to go."
"Lindsey?" Nat snagged her by the arm. "Hey, he's okay. Are you okay?"
"I need some air. Too many memories in here."
Nat gave her a long, flat stare that was entirely too much like Mom's old You're not pulling anything over on me look. "Let me know if you find him. And if you need anything."
"I don't think anyone can give me what I need."
"You're not alone, Lindsey."
She blinked against an unexpected sting in her eyes.
She felt alone. But she wasn't. She had Nat and Kimmie. CJ and Noah. Dad. She bent and squeezed Nat in an impulsive hug. "I'm a sucky substitute for Mom, but you're pretty damn good," she said to her sister. "Thanks."
Nat hugged her back hard. "You don't need to be Mom. Just be you."
Lindsey almost laughed. Because she was about to be anything but herself.
She was about to be very, very stupid.
Chapter Seven
WILL WAS HUNCHED over a Hummingbird in a cramped instrument store in a town a ways from Bliss, eyes closed, rocking back and forth, idly picking strings and actively practicing the fine art of denial.
Vera was okay.
Maybe some punk figured out where he was staying, broke in, and stole her, and she'd be on eBay next week. He'd put his people on watch for her. Or maybe she was in his truck, and he hadn't looked hard enough. Or maybe-
He set the Hummingbird aside with a snarl. Vera was a Hummingbird, but this Hummingbird was no Vera. Felt different. Sounded different. Played different. The store's assistant manager-a straggly haired kid with a goatee that hung almost to his name tag-offered him a Yamaha. Will had played Yamahas before. Fenders. Martins. Brocks. All of them.
But he'd always liked Vera best.
And she was gone.
She was gone, and the music was gone. His dream was gone. His magic-gone.
He snagged the Yamaha with a grunt.
Bells jingled. The kid shuffled away. "Be right back, Mr. Brenton."
The hairs on Will's neck stood up. Then the hair on his arms.
And then a slow, dark, haunting melody slipped into his brain. A bass beat. Then another. Some violin. Lyrics. Lonely without you, lonelier with you, you make the dawn dark, turn the sunshine to night … .
He focused on the guitar. Tried to shut out the world. But he heard the soft murmur, knew the tone.
She could've whispered in a stadium of screaming fans, and he would've heard her over the crowd. Wasn't his ears listening. His whole body was tuned in.
A shiver washed down his arms and legs, and the half a beer he'd had turned rancid in his stomach.
He looked up.
Yep. There she was.
"Go away," he growled.
Lindsey didn't bat an eyelash. "This place will still be here tomorrow. Take a night off."
A night off. Vera was gone, and a night off was supposed to help? He snorted and set the Yamaha aside, then grabbed another sitting behind him. He shifted in the seat. Positioned his hand on the neck of the guitar, wiggled his fingers around the strings. Shifted again in his seat, moved the guitar in his lap, and a subtle scent of smoke wafted out of his clothes.
Will dropped the guitar flat on his lap and pressed his palms into his eyes. "Go. Away."
A hand settled on his knee. "Will."
He jerked at his name in her voice. His hands dropped, pulse leapt, jaw clenched tighter.
She blinked quickly. "Will you please listen a minute?" she said quickly, as if she didn't want to use his name any more than he wanted to hear it from her tonight.
"You fixin' to tell me you can match a man to his instrument too?" he said.
"I'm fixin' to tell you you're being an ass, and from what I hear, that doesn't suit your image."
He idly picked at the guitar's strings, a usually comforting habit that unfortunately reminded him why he was here.
Because he had to write the songs, and he didn't have Vera to write them with anymore. "Got a lot of fans happy to comfort me," he said.
"For what? Your momma going to prison? Your truck break? Your dog die too?"
Jesus.
His hand curled into a fist. His momma was gone. Vera was gone. Bandit was gone. And he was sitting here in the godforsaken frozen North so the girl who inspired his songs could rub it in his face.
"And I runned out of beer," Will said. "You done forgot that one."
Behind them, the kid snickered.
Lindsey skewered him with a look that reinforced the idea that she did eat babies for breakfast. But the kid had a smartphone out.
Will uttered a word that would've gotten his mouth washed out in Aunt Jessie's house.
"Put it away," Lindsey said to the kid.
His face went red, his shoulders hunched forward, and he shoved the phone in his pocket. "Sorry, ma'am," he muttered.
She turned to Will, something unreadable but strangely inevitable written in tight lines around her eyes. And then she said the last thing he should've expected, but the only thing that felt right all night. "My house is five minutes away. It's quiet, and I have a guest room and a privacy fence."
He could've gotten a hotel room.
He should've gotten a hotel room.
But a hotel room didn't have privacy. Didn't have peace. Didn't have anonymity.
Didn't have his inspiration.
Will picked at the guitar strings again. Cast a glance toward the kid. Then to Lindsey. "You gonna be there?"
"I have to work tomorrow."
He kept plucking. Bad idea, staying at her house tonight. Or any night.
But a worse idea was being alone, thinking about Vera. Finding Mikey. Beating the shit out of him to take it out on somebody.
Will twisted his ball cap around so the bill faced forward. He shoved the Yamaha at the kid. "This one." The kid jumped into action, carrying it past the wall of gleaming guitars and through a mess of drum kits to the checkout counter.