Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Inside, The Songbird sits empty except for Rye crouched behind the bar, organizing bottles that were probably already organized. She looks up when the door chimes, going guarded the second she sees me.
“We’re closed.”
“I know.” I set my guitar case against the wall. “Wanted to talk to you about something.”
“If it’s about the song, we already—”
“It’s not about the song.” I approach the bar slowly, giving her space to maintain distance if she needs it. “It’s about this weekend.”
“What about this weekend?”
“My family wants to meet you.”
The bottle in her hand freezes halfway to the shelf. “Your family.”
“Zara and Levi are having dinner at the ranch Sunday.”
“Levi Austin is your brother-in-law.”
Rye says this as if it’s news.
I nod.
“I Googled you,” she says. “I didn’t mean to, but I did because I was curious. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together sooner. I know Levi . . . well, of him. He was a star long before I started working here, and I remember him marrying a rock chick from LA, but I never realized his wife was your sister.”
“She’s still my sister,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Rye doesn’t smile. “Anyway, they invited both of us.”
“Both of us.” She sets the bottle down carefully. “As in, together.”
“As in two people who’ve been spending time together and might want to get to know each other better.”
“We established boundaries, Darian.”
“And I’m respecting them. This isn’t about crossing lines. It’s about . . .” I search for the right words. “You met my body. Maybe it’s time to meet my people.”
A laugh escapes her, sharp and surprised. “Did you just quote a country song to me?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“No.” But her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “I don’t do family dinners.”
“Why not?”
“Because families ask questions. They have opinions. They get attached.” She resumes her organizing with unnecessary precision. “And because what we have doesn’t require meeting anyone’s family.”
“What do we have?”
The question hangs between us while she arranges bottles alphabetically for the third time this week. I wait, watching her jaw work like she’s chewing words she doesn’t want to swallow.
“A finished song,” she says finally. “That’s what we have.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Rye.” I lean forward, elbows on the bar. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly. Her eyes carry the same wariness I’ve seen since that first night, like she’s always calculating escape routes.
“The song is finished,” I agree. “But this isn’t.”
“This what?”
“Whatever’s happening between us that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
She flushes. “I don’t—”
“You do. Same way I look at you.” I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. “Same way we looked at each other when we were recording and forgot there was a world outside that booth.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the bar’s worn wood surface. “Meeting your family implies things.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re building toward something. Like this matters beyond convenience and chemistry.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The question sits heavy between us. Her face cycles through emotions—want, fear, resignation, hope. She’s been hurt before, badly enough to make her believe that caring leads to losing. But something tells me she’s tired of those defenses, tired of playing it safe.
“I have a daughter,” she says suddenly as if this is an excuse she uses often.
“I know.”
“She’s ten. Musical. Brilliant. The most important thing in my life.”
“I know that too.” I suspect she’s everything like her mom.
“I can’t bring chaos into her world.”
“Do I look like chaos to you?”
She studies my face for a long moment. “You look like everything I told myself I couldn’t want.”
The admission hits me square in the gut. Raw and honest and brave in a way that makes me want to reach across the bar and touch her hand.
“One dinner,” I say instead. “No implications, no expectations. Just good food and people who care about me meeting someone who . . .” I pause, choosing words carefully. “Someone who matters.”
“I matter?”
“You know you do.”
She’s quiet again, the debate playing out across her features. Fear wars with curiosity, safety battles against the possibility of connection.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
“Your daughter. You’ve never told me her name.”
Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Lily.”
“Lily.” I test the name, let it settle. “My nieces are Stormy, Willow and Poppy. Poppy is the baby, babbles, drools and makes a mess everywhere. Stormy is a dancer and has been in a handful of music videos. It’s how my sister met Levi. Willow is a musician. I’m teaching her how to play the guitar.”
“Lily writes songs and is learning to play the guitar. In fact, she’s taking lessons from Benny,” Rye adds with pride in her eyes.
“She takes lessons from Benny?”
Rye nods. “He’s the best and she deserves it. She wrote and sang an original piece for her summer camp. She was terrified and brilliant.”