Real Sexy (Real Dirty Duet #2)(28)

I make my way down the stairs and realize the basement is just as big as the first floor of the house, which is built into a big hill. Four sets of sliding glass doors run along the back, leading out to a terrace where he set up all the targets for me the other day.

The sound of the guitar grows slightly, but it's still much quieter than I would expect as I make my way down a hall to peer through thick windows.

I finally find the source of the sound.

Holy shit. Boone has his own recording studio.

His back is to me, and the headphones he'd wear if he were recording are hooked on a stand.

This close, I can hear more of the sound coming through the mostly-soundproof walls, and it's like nothing I've ever heard from him before.

He pauses and pulls a pencil from behind his ear. From the hunched set of his shoulders, I assume he's writing lyrics down.

Something akin to awe sweeps over me when it sets in that he's writing a song. Probably something that's going to be played on a million radios and in dozens of stadiums.



       
         
       
        

Amazing. Seriously amazing. And that thought is followed by, This could be me someday.

Is that what I want?

I've barely had time to consider the question and what the consequences would be if I decided to take the leap.

Unlike Boone, I don't have a family to leave behind and miss. What I said about Pop is absolutely true-if I ever made it big, or hell, even made it in a small way-he'd show up with his hand out, expecting to be repaid for everything he ever did for me.

Sadness and grief accompanies the vision playing through my head. Why couldn't I have a normal family like Boone's? Why did Pop have to drown in that bottle instead of smothering his only daughter with love? Why did someone have to kill my mama?

I'll never be able to answer any of those questions.

Boone swivels on his stool, guitar in hand, and his head jerks up when he sees me through the window. A smile stretches over his face, and it's like the sun coming out from behind thick clouds to shine its warmth down on me.

When has anyone ever looked at me that way?

Never.

Boone slides off his stool and comes out of the studio. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

"You could've woken me."

Boone shifts the guitar out of the way and steps forward to steal a kiss. "Didn't want to. You look like you're owed a few solid nights of sleep. I'm sorry for leaving you to wake up alone. I got hit with a melody that wouldn't quit, so I had to get it down before I lost it."

"Your next number-one hit?" I ask, half joking.

One of Boone's eyebrows goes up. "I guess we'll see."

What would it be like for that to even be a possibility? Do I really want to know?

"I've been doing some thinking, and I want to take you home."

Jerked away from answering either question, I snap my gaze back to Boone with surprise, and a shaft of disappointment surprises me with its intensity. "Oh. Of course. I just need to get my stuff, and I'll be ready. I can have Hope come get me if you're too busy."

A look of confusion crosses Boone's face before it clears. He shakes his head. "No, not your home. Mine. My folks. I want you to meet them. See where I grew up."

I catch my reflection in the glass windows of the recording studio, and I'm not sure my eyebrows could go any higher.

"What? Like . . . soon?" Meeting the parents is kind of a big freaking deal.

One corner of Boone's mouth quirks up. "Yeah, like today."

"Today? I can't. I have to work tonight."

"I took care of it."

What did he just say? He couldn't have possibly said what I think he just said. 

"Excuse me?"

"I took care of it. I called Hope. She said you can have the weekend off."

I take a deep breath, but my temper gets the best of me. How dare he?

"I don't want the weekend off! I need to work. I need the money. That's why I have a job. I can't keep taking time off, because I'll never save any money and get my own place. And weekend shifts are the biggest for tips."

Boone shrugs like it's no big deal. "I'll cover it. You won't lose any money."

My jaw drops open at the fact that he thinks I'd take a handout.

"I'm not taking your money. I work for mine, which is why I need to call Hope right now and tell her not to take me off the schedule."

"Too late. She said someone else asked for extra shifts because she's got a sick kid who needs surgery, so she said it worked out perfectly."

He's talking about Lenora, another part-time bartender at the White Horse, a single mom whose baby has been in and out of the hospital since she was born.