Page 79 of The Perfect Melody

I finish gettingready a few minutes early and decide to wait for Austin in the reception area of the B&B. The royal-blue tea dress stops at my knees and looks surprisingly cute with my cowboy boots—just as well since, aside from my trainers, they’re the only shoes I brought on this trip.

“You look lovely, dear,” Esther tells me, coming out from behind the reception desk. “Big plans with Austin tonight?”

I laugh. “Does the whole town know?”

Esther bobs one shoulder. “That’s Pine Grove for you—the phone signal may be spotty, but the gossip chain always has bars.”

She’s not wrong about the reception. Luckily for me, I get great signal in the B&B, but there are a couple of spots in town that I don’t get any. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh, your young man is here.” She nudges me towards where Austin now stands just inside the doorway.

He always looks good, but tonight it’s obvious that he’s taken the time to put a little extra effort into his appearance, anddamn, it’s paid off. He’s traded out his usual dark-blue jeans for a smart black pair, turned up at the ankles to show off a pair of freshly polished black lace-up boots. The forest-green shirt hewears doesn’t have a single wrinkle, and the colour brings out his eyes beautifully. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal toned forearms that are sprinkled with a light dusting of freckles, and his beard is freshly trimmed. In short, he looks so good that I wonder if we really need to go out for dinner when we could go back to his place instead.

“Wow, you look…” Austin trails off, eyes drinking me in.

“It’s OK?” I ask, fiddling with one of the covered buttons that keep the dress fastened on my left side.

“More than,” he breathes. “You look beautiful—you always do, but this is…” He trails off, unable to find the words.

I guess Mei was right. Smiling, I slide my hand into his outstretched palm, letting him lead me out to his car. “In case it wasn’t obvious from my staring, I think you look great, too.”

The restaurant is on the other side of town, closer to the fancier B&Bs, and Pine Grove’s one large hotel. I even spot a sign indicating there’s a golf course only a couple more miles down the road.No thanks. There’s a small parking lot behind the restaurant, and Austin easily finds a space before coming around the car to open my door for me.

The building housing the Italian restaurant is painted white, with ivy growing up the sides. The windowpanes are made up of diamond-shaped pieces of glass, and soft light spills through them onto the pavement. Austin gets the door for me, and the moment I step inside, I’m met with a wave of mouthwatering aromas.

A host wearing an open-collared white shirt with a black waistcoat leads us to a table tucked away in the back corner. I pull out my chair before anyone can get any ideas, and Austin chuckles as if he knows what I’m thinking. Maybe he does. Considering how we started, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to discover we think quite similarly. The intimate table for two is decorated with a simple white tablecloth, a small votive candle,and a white ceramic bud vase containing a single red rose. It’s cute and classy without feeling stuffy or pretentious.

We ordered from the set menu, and I’m convinced the carbonara before me was created by some kind of magic wielder rather than an ordinary chef. “You have to try a bite of this. It’s so good,” I say, twirling a few strands of spaghetti around my fork and offering it to Austin.

Instead of taking my fork like I’m expecting, he leans across the table and uses a gentle hand on my narrow wrist to guide the tines to his mouth. I watch entranced as he takes a bite, the tip of his tongue flicking out to capture a stray speck of sauce.

“Mmm. Not bad.” He settles back in his seat. “I think my ragù is better, though.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “No way. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” Austin quirks an eyebrow. Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Oh, don’t even. You know what mean.”

He shrugs. “It’s good, but it’s a bit rich for me. Would you like to try mine?”

“Sure.”

Austin nudges his shallow bowl towards me so I can grab a bite. The tomato-based sauce is excellent, and I make a soft sound of approval. “Delicious.” Sliding the dish back towards him, I tease, “Still not as good as mine though.”

For dessert, we order a slice of tiramisu to share and, for the first time, I indulge myself without having to shove Miranda’s voice scolding my lack of discipline to the back of my mind. This time I don’t hear her at all.

“What made you start writing songs?”

Popping the bite of dessert on my fork into my mouth, I buy myself time to consider my answer. I’m so relaxed in Austin’s company that it would be all too easy for me to slip and share something I shouldn’t. “I don’t know that it was any one thing.Music’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I think I wrote my first song when I was eight.”

Austin’s eyebrows shoot up. “So young?”

“Don’t get me wrong—it was terrible.” I laugh at the memory of crafting it in my bedroom then, too excited by the first verse and chorus, proudly coming downstairs to play it for my mother before it was finished.

My laughter fades when I remember Miranda told me not to waste her time with something until it was perfect. After that, I kept writing but didn’t share another song with her until I was twelve and performed an original in my school’s talent show. That’s when Miranda took my interest in music seriously—after teachers and other parents congratulated her on having such a talented daughter. When she realised I might be useful.

“I was just another kid with big dreams who wanted to write songs that made people feel something. Now I keep writing even though nobody cares about the songs I come up with.” My lack of solo songwriting credits on my latest album is proof of that.

“I care. The original song you performed at Bowman’s—it was as heart-breaking as it was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” His praise for one of the many songs I was forbidden to include on my latest album stitches closed one of the many wounds in my heart.