Page 40 of The Perfect Melody
He rubs a hand over his short beard and clears his throat, pale cheeks flushing pink. “I’ll just, er, turn around.”
He turns to face away from me, then pulls his wet t-shirt over his head, exposing his broad back. My gaze catches on the cluster of freckles over his left shoulder blade. They’re delicate and pretty, a stark contrast to his imposing size and stature.
Wait, I’m supposed to be changing too. Quickly, I drop my eyes to the bundled fabric in my hands, knowing I shouldn’t stare. Just because he knows I might catch a glimpse of him while I’m changing at the same time doesn’t mean it’s OK for me tolook. Austin bends to pick up his fresh top from the sofa, the movement drawing my attention once more. I only allow myself to be distracted by his broad shoulders and tapered waist for a moment before averting my gaze again.
It’s more difficult than it should be to peel the sodden fabric of my t-shirt from my body and lift my arms high enough to pull the garment over my head. Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve had a panic attack, and they always leave me feeling like this. Drained. Empty. Miranda used to make dealing with the aftermath even worse. I stare at the dry top in my lap for a good thirty seconds before mustering the strength to put it on. My skin is still damp, so the fresh shirt sticks to me a little, but not as much as the previous one.
“Are you decent?”
I nod.
“Cassie, you good?” Austin asks, concern tightening his voice.
Right, words. My mouth is drier than a desert, which seems wrong given there’s water dripping from the rest of my body. “Yeah.”
Austin turns back to me, a flannel shirt in his hands. It looks soft. “Take this. I was too hot to wear it while I worked, so it’s mostly clean.”
“My arms are heavy.”
“I can help you put it on, if that’s OK?”
I nod woodenly.
For someone with such large hands, he helps me slip my arms into the blue and grey shirt with surprising gentleness. The cuffs hang well past my hands, and I brush my fingertips over the inside of the shirt sleeves. I was right—it is soft. And warm.
Austin’s chuckle is warm too, as he notices my predicament. Dropping to his knees in front of me, he carefully rolls up one sleeve, then the other, until both my hands are free again. “That’s better.”
Hints of bergamot and cardamom tickle my senses, and I tilt my head down towards the shirt collar to inhale deeply. It smells like him. “Smells good.”
“I need to stay here, but you can’t walk home like this. Two of my friends are in tonight—for dinner, not drinks. Reggie and Francis, I think you met them last Saturday?”
I vaguely remember serving them that night. It was obvious how proud they were of Austin. “Yeah, we met.”
“Would it be alright if I asked them to drive you back to the B&B? I promise they’ll get you there safely.”
“They won’t mind?”
“No.”
“OK.”
His answering smile is dazzling, and I find myself wishing he’d do it more. “Great, let’s go ask them.”
I get up to follow him. My legs are still a little wobbly, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. You don’t get through hours-long dance calls without learning how to keep moving even when your muscles have been pushed past their limit—not when Miranda’s overseeing rehearsals. I used to fake needing extra help from the choreographers for my tours just so my dancers would get proper breaks. Luckily for my last two tours, the choreographer we hired refused to allow Miranda to attend every rehearsal. They nearly came to blows over it, but I smoothed things over by appealing to my mother’s ego, saying she must have far more important things to be doing. The dancers, choreographer, and I were all happier without her constant, overbearing presence.
Right as Austin reaches the door, I notice it.
“Wait.”
“What is it?”
His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. Shakily rising onto my tiptoes, I lift my hands to the back of his neck.
“What are you?—”
“Your label was sticking out,” I reply, tucking the bright white strip of fabric back beneath the neckline of his t-shirt where it belongs.
“Oh.” His cheeks flush. “Thanks.”
