Lindsey stepped back, and Will looked at the floor.
"I've got half a mind to come up there myself to drag you home."
Will perked up. Maybe she'd bring Paisley. "I can get you tickets."
Mari Belle huffed.
Girl didn't like it when he tried to take care of her. None of the women in his life did.
Lindsey crossed past Will and went into the living room, knuckles white around her iPad.
Probably not his brightest idea, putting Lindsey and Mari Belle in the same town.
"What say you get you a ticket and get on home?" Mari Belle said. "Come stay with me a few days. Paisley would be in heaven."
"Get to meet your friends?" For all the unconditional love Mari Belle claimed to have for him, she put a lot of conditions on him. Like not meeting her friends until she knew if they were worth being friends with.
Apparently he complicated her social life by being him. Probably he should tell her about Paisley's plans for his show at Gellings. And that Mari Belle's friends probably already knew about him. But should and would weren't the same tonight.
"You are the most impossible man God ever put on this whole earth," Mari Belle said.
Considering what she said about her ex-husband, that one dang near stung. "Love you too."
He slid a look at Lindsey.
She didn't bat a lash.
"I'm worried about you," Mari Belle said. "So is Paisley. Will, I got home, and she was crying. She heard about Vera at school."
His throat tightened. "Just a guitar," he said.
"William Brenton Truitt, we all know better," Mari Belle said. "Come home. We-"
His phone gave a warning beep, then died, cutting Mari Belle off mid-sentence.
And his work phone-the one he used when he took phone interviews or called in to radio stations-had burned up last night, along with his charger.
He looked into the living room. Lindsey was snuggled into one of her oversize couches with a yellowish knit blanket, looking tired, worn and almost dainty despite being near about as tall as he was.
Pink-tipped toes peeked out from beneath the blanket.
There was a lot of girly hidden beneath her tough lawyer girl walk. And Will was ballsy, but he wasn't one of those perverted types that went digging through a woman's underwear drawer when she wasn't home. If she still wore those smiley face panties-his groin tightened, and for once, it brought back some of his better sense.
Her underwear wasn't his business.
She slid a suspicious eyeball his way like she knew where his brain was going.
He held up his phone. "Battery died."
"There's a charger plugged in next to the fireplace." She dropped her gaze back to her iPad.
He'd been dismissed.
Probably best. Because talking to her, teasing her, being around her felt too natural.
Like if he gave her half a chance, she could suck him into her world again, then crush him again. Exactly as his daddy had done to his momma.
Mari Belle was probably right. He should get out of here.
Instead, he found the cord, plugged in his phone, then settled in to the cozy room.
No cookies or dinner. He wasn't truly hungry. And fun time was over. Lindsey wasn't interested. Will couldn't be. He was here to work on his songs. Nothing more.
Will was feeling too nostalgic about Vera to write, but playing-he could handle playing. He wanted to play. He loved music. It soothed his soul. Always had.
He started slow. Something from the last decade or so, some newer country. Nice and mellow. Brad Paisley's "Whiskey Lullaby" was a real good start. Good and heartbreaking. Alcohol and death.
He played for himself, but he wouldn't have minded if the noise bothered Lindsey.
She bothered him just by being there.
He moved on to some David Allan Coe, "You Never Even Call Me by My Name." Lindsey's reflection in the back window jolted, her mouth hanging. Will chuckled to himself, dialing up the twang so thick he could barely understand himself by the time he got to that third verse, the one about momma and prison and that ol' train.
Voices clicked on.
Loud voices, like she turned on the TV to drown him out.
Will grinned to himself and finished the song with a flourish, then switched gears again. Something slower. Steve Wariner's "Holes in the Floor of Heaven," one of those sentimental pieces about a man who lost the love of his life.
Had a feeling Lindsey was working up a good bit of mad.
But she still didn't stand.
Any other woman in the world would've been all up in his business, batting lashes and telling him which one was her favorite song. He knew not to trust Lindsey far as he could throw her, but he was still curious. Who was she? What had she done all these years?
Had she missed him?
Dangerous questions, but Sacha was right.
He wasn't done here.
Truth was, Lindsey had snuck into the front of his mind when he gave in and started working on Hitched. He'd seen her and heard her everywhere those few months. And hearing the brass say those songs-those old, sad, lovesick songs of his youth-were his best ever had made him question if he'd truly grown as a musician, or if he was about to wash up. If his best days had been behind him before his career ever started.
Will changed tunes again, this time taking a few liberties with the chords, though not the lyrics, on Jason Michael Carroll's "Alyssa Lies," a good ol' knock-'em-in-the-gut song about a little girl with bad parents.
He was finishing the first chorus when Lindsey stalked into the room.
"Stop," she said.
Warmth crept over Will's ears.
The lady's eyes were hard and hot, her lips set grim as a reaper, and unless Will was way off the mark, he'd gone and pissed her off real good.
He never was the brightest guy on the block-didn't have to be with the other gifts God gave him-but he knew he was wading into quicksand over an unstable sinkhole. He clapped a hand over the guitar's strings, plunging the room into silence.
"Them cookies ready?" he said.
There was a good chance she considered the question grounds for murder. He had a feeling she might've been justified, though he couldn't say why.
"I'm going to bed," she said, the lethal undercurrents in her voice terrifying in a sultry, seductive, sinful kind of way, though Will had the good sense to know she didn't mean to be showing her bedroom side, and he didn't mean to be looking for her bedroom side. "And I swear to God, if you don't stop with the achy-breaky-twangy crap that's coming out of this room, I will snap that guitar in half and then light it on fire myself."
She could've probably ignited his guitar strings with one of those looks.
"So … ain't no cookies?" Will drawled.
Wouldn't ever be cookies, unless she was thinking about baking his cookies. And he didn't mean the kind with chocolate chips.
Girl was hot.
In every way she could be.
That right there had a song in it. Something strong. Warrior womanish. A minor key, loud and hard, but with some soft, easy moments. He reached for his notebook, scribbled notes. Words. Chords. No full lyrics, just feelings, a theme, an idea.
His heart thumped, a solid bass drum beating beneath the riff in his head.
He didn't notice when Lindsey left. He scribbled more, flipped for a blank page, sketched out an arrangement-guitar, bass, drums, fiddle.
After a while, he noticed voices echoing above him, soft, then louder.
He took a gander at the ceiling and listened.
National Public Radio, he'd bet Vera's strings.
Hell and tarnation.
Didn't have Vera to bet anymore. And he was a doggone fool to have ever said he would've bet any of her for anything.
He set the notebook aside, rubbed his eyes, then went to check the battery on his phone and text Mikey. Got a minute for a song?
Ladies Night at Suckers came back two minutes later. Can be there in 30 if you need me.
Will shook his head at the screen. Something wasn't right. Mikey should've invited Will out. Said they could talk tomorrow.
Offering to leaving ladies night?
Will had a sudden thought, a suspicion so crazy, it made his staying with Lindsey seem sane.
He glanced at the clock. Barely twenty-four hours since they were last at Suckers. Time for Mikey to be moving on to his second phone number, if Mikey was being Mikey.
You sick? Will texted.
Eat shit, buckaroo.
Will scratched his whiskers, sent another look at the ceiling where Lindsey's NPR was still playing.
He texted Mikey again. Where you staying tonight?
Dude. Ladies Night. Quit breaking my groove.
That was more like Mikey. Will slouched on the couch, glanced at the reflection of the empty couch in the front room. Then he shoved to his feet and went to the kitchen.
He'd get to the music soon enough. But for now, he had something else to do.
Chapter Nine
LINDSEY WASN'T an early riser by choice, but given her case load and her houseguest-who had been awake God knew how long last night-she was showered and dressed before the sun. She had enough drama at work with divorce season dawning. She didn't need it at home too.
Yep, that was why she was tiptoeing in her dark house, slingbacks dangling from her fingers, barely breathing for fear the noise would alert Will to her presence outside the bedrooms.