Her lips stay parted, the softest of gasps filtering out as she gazes up at me, rendering me frozen.
I think she’s stepped forward and I realise I’ve put my hand on the door frame above her, leaning down slightly. I can’t remember the last time I got to admire all the different shades of blue in her eyes this close—they’re still just as beautiful, a pool of aquamarine with flecks of pastel blue and cerulean, all surrounded by a ring of deeper turquoise.
Now I’m the one swallowing.
‘I …’ Honey starts, then finally glances to the floor, cutting off whatever trance we were in. Even more when she throws that polite smile back on and says, ‘As long as the women you bring back don’t mind it messy, then it’s not a big deal.’
Right. Because I totally haven’t lost my appetite for sleeping with countless women since you came back to town.
Trying to distract myself from the sharpness in my gut at how she sees me, I clear my throat and throw out with a wolfish grin, ‘Think they’re usually too preoccupied to worry about the mess, Blue.’ An added wink gets me the expected flash of Honey’s eyes and the briefest falter of her smile, and then I suggest, ‘Let’s go see how the guys are getting on with your stuff.’
We unpack Honey’s boxes in silence for the rest of the day.
Honey’s mom, May, was supposed to bring Noah over in the afternoon to give him some time to adjust to the situation, although according to Honey, he was ecstatic to be staying atthe Sawyer Nash’shouse for a month. Still, I wanted to make sure they both settled in together without me in the way, so once Honey was unpacked, I headed out to Duke’s bar.
When I hop out of the cab back at the ranch later that evening, I’m met with the faint plucking of guitar strings flowing from the house. And once I creep in through the front door on my crutches, I find Honey sitting in the living area, playing an old acoustic guitar to Noah. Honestly, it almost has me stumbling—I’ve never walked back into this house to anything but emptiness and pain, but this scene is rife with warmth.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, Honey halts her fingers against the strings, her eyes darting up to me, and I curse myself for not being quieter, so I could’ve savoured the momentary joy this place so rarely experiences.
‘Sawyer!’ Noah twists on the couch, beaming at me. His hands clutch at the cushions tightly, like he’s holding himself back from running over to me. I don’t think anyone’s ever been so excited to see me before, especially not walking back intothishouse. It’s … nice.
‘Hey, buddy,’ I reply, hopping over to the island counter to lean against and give him a wave, as opposed to bustlingstraight into this moment of theirs. I glance back up to Honey then, at how the guitar looks so natural in her hands, and it strikes me—‘I didn’t know you played.’
‘Oh, um …’ Honey starts, fighting back a bashful smile. ‘I learnt while I was at college.’
I don’t know why that has a strange warmth spreading through my chest. Knowing she kept up with her music. With singing maybe too. Just like she used to write about her alter-ego character, Georgia Hart, doing. The ones whose stories she used to read me.
‘She’srealgood, Sawyer,’ Noah assures me, his cheeks all rosy, probably from the warm fire crackling. That has Honey’s smile broadening, all the while a sparkling admiration dances in her eyes, brighter than I’ve ever seen before.
Damn. What a lucky kid. What I would’ve done to have had someone look at me like that when I was younger.
‘You still sing too?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’ She lets out a breathy chuckle, gesturing to Noah. ‘Only way I could get this one to stop crying when he was a baby. Even now that’s how we get him back to sleep after he has a bad dream. Soothes you, doesn’t it?’
Noah nods, flashing me a gappy grin. I wonder if that’s why she’s singing tonight, to calm him into staying somewhere new.
I don’t doubt it soothes him either—I could never forget her angelic voice. It was one of the only moments she ever let herself stand out from the crowd in high school, albeit in a choir, but her voice would capture the whole school. Nobody could give a shit about choir the rest of the time, but when she sang, they damn sure listened. One of the fewtimes in high school my mind ever felt clear, listening to her. That odd saviour of a moment the choir decided to perform for us.
Even now, when talking, there’s something melodic about Honey’s voice. Like each syllable is the press of a piano key, mellifluous notes playing together and—oh fuck, she just said something to me but I was so busy daydreaming about her voice I have no idea what. Stupid, easily distracted mind.
‘Sawyer?’ she asks, angling her head.
‘Uh—’
‘Can you sing “Landslide” next?’ Noah asks, saving me.
Fleetwood Mac. Kid’s got taste. I wonder if his cowboy knowledge bleeds into his musical taste too—I’ll happily educate him on some Brooks & Dunn or a bit of Johnny Cash.
‘Of course, baby,’ Honey says, repositioning the guitar properly on her knee, her delicate fingers sliding along the strings which whisper in response.
Her bottom lip finds its way between her teeth as she concentrates, preparing herself to start—she always used to do that when she was focusing. The first strum of the strings instantly has me enraptured and I drop to sit on a stool.
Of course, that sweet country twang of hers gives the song more of a western edge than usual when she starts singing, the lack of instruments bar her guitar and foot tapping against the floor creating a beautifully stripped-back rendition. Every note of her voice has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up higher. Has the endless whirring thoughts in my mind quietening.
I could sit here for hours, just listening.
Passion radiates off her vibrantly, just like it did when Iused to watch her write in the library. Everything about her is illuminated as she sings, like her authentic self is shining through—blonde hair shimmering in the firelight, golden skin glowing and edged in the moonlight shining through the window behind her, eyes glittering with joy as Noah sways on the couch.