Page 34 of Real Sexy
Round three in the books, my eyes drift closed.“I’m going to take a quick nap.Only a few minutes.”
He presses a kiss to my hair.“Take all the time you need, sugar.”
When I openmy eyes the next morning, the sun is sneaking through the curtains, and I feel like I’ve just woken from a coma.
With my arms stretched above my head, I search the room but see no sign of Boone.There aren’t any sounds coming from the bathroom either.I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on, along with another one of Boone’s T-shirts.I tie it in a knot at the side so it doesn’t hang down to my knees.He’s deceptively big.I don’t know what it is about him, but you don’t realize how massive he is until he’s right up on you.The ache between my legs is another sign of what else is massive.
Good God, if all those groupies knew what kind of equipment Boone is packing, he’d be even more overrun than he already is.
A flash of possessiveness streaks through me at the thought of anyone else knowing what I know.
He’s not yours, Ripley.Calm down.
Another part of me disputes that because hecould be.All I have to do is say yes.
I shove those thoughts aside and make my way out of the bedroom to wander the house in search of Boone.The kitchen and living area are empty.I don’t see him on the back deck.His truck and his 442 are in the garage, so I know he has to be around somewhere.
Part of me doesn’t want to snoop in other places, but when I hear the muffled sound of a guitar drifting up the wide stairs leading into the basement, I follow it.
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.”
