Then There Was You(50)

We spent the next few minutes spellbound, lost in our own thoughts. No one spoke, barely breathing, as if a bubble of tension was squeezing in around us. I could still feel the tingle on my skin where his hand had held mine and found myself wishing he’d reach for it again, but he didn’t.

Breaking the silence, Chris began quietly singing one of his chart topping songs. I listened to him softly crooning in the seat next to me as he stared out the windshield. His words seeped into my thoughts:



I’m afraid of running off on impulsive decisions

It’s not my strong suit

And I’m astounded by anyone who can just dive right in

And see where it ends

Just to see where it ends.



Every time I’d heard those lyrics, I’d always associated them with life in general, but in that moment, they seemed to take on a whole new meaning. “I love that song,” I said softly.

He turned to look at me again as we yielded to some pedestrians. With penetrating eyes—the emotional abysses I suddenly found myself wanting to dive into—he whispered in the darkness, “Me too.”

Forget it, Salem. Can’t happen.





We pulled into the parking deck of his apartment building. When we hopped out of the car, Chris linked his arm with mine and walked me to the elevator.

“Your chariot awaits, madam,” he joked, smiling as he gestured toward the open doors of the elevator.

I grinned back and stepped inside. I’d had quite a few fantasies about elevators; this was not one of them. It was awkward. I was nervous and excited. I wondered what he was thinking—what his intentions were. Then I wondered what I wanted them to be.

He stood on one side of the elevator leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. He held the bag full of our takeout food while I stood on the other side nervously staring at the floor. The silence was deafening. I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake in coming here.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened. Now if I could just make it into his apartment without fainting first. My heart was racing and my hands were trembling. Chris smiled and linked his arm in mine again as he escorted me toward his apartment. As we approached his apartment door, I noticed a man standing outside the door.

“Pete, this is Salem,” Chris introduced me. Unlike Grant, who was long and lean, Pete was shorter and rounder, but he seemed tough as nails by the grimace on his face.

Pete acknowledged me with a quick nod. “Ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you,” I responded, looking nervously around the building.

“Pete,” Chris placed a hand on the man’s burly arm and spoke quietly, “please see that we are not disturbed tonight.” Chris slipped him a folded bill, which I could only assume to be another large tip like the one he’d given Grant.

Pete shot me a sidelong glance. “Yes, sir,” he smirked.

My lip curled up with disgust, knowing what he was thinking. I wondered if this was a usual occurrence for Chris. I wanted to scream, ‘I’m not one of his groupies!’ but I didn’t. I just ignored Pete’s assuming eyes and clutched my purse to my body.

Slipping the key out of his pocket, he inserted it and swiftly swung the heavy door open.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Chris teased. I was beginning to notice that Chris masked his nerves with corny humor.

I laughed at his attempt at humor to alleviate some of the tension. I stepped inside to a beautiful loft apartment overlooking the city. A panel of windows covered one whole wall. The city lights sparkled and the towering architecture captivated the night sky. I could see the Bank of America building from his living room. “Wow, this view is fantastic!” I said in awe.

Chris nodded. “It’s the reason why they call this place ‘The Vue.’ It is pretty amazing, huh?” He stood behind me, looking out the windows too, as if he were seeing the scenery for the first time through my eyes.

“It’s truly breathtaking. You live here? I mean, when you’re not on tour, that is.” I looked at him as he stood with his hands in his pockets, nervously rocking back and forth on his heels.

Shrugging his shoulders, he explained, “Kinda. I got this apartment a few years ago. I prefer to have a place I can call my own when I’m passing through town. Maybe eventually I can settle here, but I still love the beach, too.”

I looked around the apartment, taking in all of its features… granite countertops, hardwood floors, contemporary style furniture, and a spiral staircase to the loft.

“What’s in the loft?” I asked, assuming an office or a study.

A weird look came over his face. “My bedroom,” he rasped. The way he said it flipped my stomach.