Love Song(78)

I tear my gaze off her and continue playing, trying to figure out how Crystal Soto transitions into the bridge. I think I’m missing a chord maybe. It takes a few attempts to get it right, and then I start the song from the top, because I’m the kind of perfectionist who needs to play something right the entire way through.

I’m at the first chorus when I realize Blake is singing along. It’s barely audible, but the sound of her soft, pure soprano is so unexpected that I stop mid-chord.

Her gaze flicks toward me. “Why’d you stop?”

“You can sing.” I stare at her in shock.

She quickly shakes her head, cheeks reddening. “No, I can’t. That wasn’t even singing.”

“That was totally singing.” Excitement tickles my chest. “Do it again. Sing with me.”

“Oh my God. We are not singing a duet.”

“Oh yes, we are. Come on.” I crack my knuckles, and she laughs at my antics. “I’ll sing the first verse, you come in for the chorus, and then you take over verse two.”

“Wyatt—” she protests, but I’m already playing the intro again.

My voice is a bit raspy as I sing the verse. I don’t know why this thrills me so much. Lots of people can sing. It’s just… Blake isn’t an attention seeker. She isn’t the first to sign up for karaoke like Alex Tucker or belt out show tunes like Stella Davenport after you get a few beers in her. The fact that Blake even feels comfortable singing around me does something fierce to my heart.

When I hit the G major of the chorus, her voice slips in, reluctant at first, but it’s so sweet, bringing a smile to my lips. I join her, letting the high notes ring so her voice has somewhere to land. And it does. She’s perfectly in tune, carrying the melody like she’s the one who wrote it, and I tap into the harmony on instinct, our voices twinning.

Fucking magic. There’s no harmony in the original, but here, with nothing but us and the piano, it’s perfection. Her light, airy voice balances my deeper tone, and the song suddenly isn’t a cover anymore. It’s ours.

As the final chord fades to silence, our eyes lock, and I shake my head at her.

“What?” she says, sounding insecure. She pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them.

“That was amazing.”

“It was fun.” She smiles at me over her knees, that gorgeous smile that utterly devastates me, and for a second, I have to look away.

Everything about her gets to me. Her smile. Her voice. Her energy. I want more of it. More of her. I want her to show me every part of herself, shed every last layer and let me look inside. And the fact that I’m thinking any of this while we’re fully clothed scares the shit out of me. Feelings like that aren’t casual. They’re dangerous, because if she lets me in the way I’m craving to be let in, I’ll have to do the same.

I’ve never been in this position before—I’m never the one who wants more—and I don’t like it one damn bit. Yet that doesn’t stop me from sliding off the piano bench and climbing onto the couch with her. She giggles when I lie directly on top of her, propped up on my elbows so I can peer down and kiss her. She kisses me back, but I nip at her lip when she tries to slip me some tongue.

“Don’t start something we can’t finish right now.”

“Why can’t we finish?” she asks mischievously.

I give her another soft peck before sliding lower so my head is resting on her chest. “Because I’m taking a nap. You kept me up all night.”

“You wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway.”

That’s where she’s wrong. About a week ago, something miraculous happened. I discovered the cure for insomnia.

It’s called Blake Logan.

If she’s in my bed, I sleep. At first, I thought it was a fluke. That her blowjobs are just so goddamn good that they short out my brain and send me into a post-BJ coma.

But then one night last week, my dick didn’t enter the equation. I was too tired after frying my brain writing all day, so the only action in my bed was me eating Blake out for forty-five minutes. She came all over my face and curled up in my arms, and then we fell asleep.

Both of us.

Telling a girl “You put me to sleep” isn’t exactly a flex, though. I’m worried she won’t take it as the compliment it is, so I’ve been pretending I’m still not sleeping great. But this streak has held up every night. Even daytime naps don’t affect it.

“Are you really napping right now?” she teases.

“Mm-hmm.”

I press my cheek against her breast, sighing happily when she starts playing with my hair, and it isn’t long before I feel my breathing slowing, steadying, as her fingers softly stroke and lull me into slumber.





We’re fixing dinner later when my phone lights up, an unfamiliar New York number flashing on the screen. Normally I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize, but this past month, I’ve been lunging for the phone no matter what. It’s been weeks since my mom told me Tobey Dodson was going to call me. To be honest, I’d given up hope, and considering it’s nearly ten p.m. on the East Coast right now, I’m expecting a telemarketer or attempted scam recording when I swipe to answer.

“Hey,” a baritone voice rumbles in my ear. “Is this Wyatt?”