Page 104 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“And I’m still waiting for you to fight a fire that isn’t in your fireplace,” I tease.
“Touché,” he says and links his fingers with mine. “Am I supposed to go outside and light a fire just so I can hear you sing?”
“You’ve already lit one,” I murmur as I look up and then brush my lips over his.
His chuckle is deep, and it rumbles against his lips and onto mine. “Then maybe it’s time I play with it awhile before I help put it out.”
Just like that, we slip into whatever this is with each other.
And later, when Grady is cuddled against me, the heat of his body against my back and his arm holding me possessively as he does in his sleep, I pretend this will become something. A future. A tomorrow.
Our tomorrow.
I stare at my computer screen—at the completed set of lyrics for my last song—and a part of me wants to purposely forget to save it.
Because if I don’t save it, I’ll have to rewrite it.
And if I have to rewrite it, I’ll get more time here.
More time means more Grady.
More Grady means less heartache.
Less heartache is always better.
I close the lid of my laptop without saving. Almost as if I’m asking fate to make a decision for me—lose the song and tell me it’s worth staying. Save the song and let me know it’s time to move on.
Jesus, Dylan. You’re going out of your mind.
I flop back on the bed, sigh, and try to forget about the ten emails from the label I need to return. The ones verifying that I will be present for the studio time booked in five days. The time that can’t be pushed or rescheduled because it’s with the hottest producer in town.
Then there are the texts and voice mails from Jett asking me why I haven’t sent him the last two songs. The songs that are about getting over him and falling back in love again, only it’s him instead of me who’s going to be singing about it.
I put my arm over my eyes and try to shut it all out.
“You okay?” Grady’s voice from the doorway scares the crap out of me.
I bolt up from the bed with a little yelp. “Argh! I didn’t know you were home yet.”
He laughs. “Yeah. I’m off shift and on time. It’s a miracle.”
“Slow day in Sunnyville emergencies?”
“Yep. By the lack of crumpled paper all over the floor . . . it’s true then? You’re really done?”
“Yes.” It pains me to admit it.
“When are you leaving?” His voice rings hollow, reflecting how I feel. In all honesty, I should be jumping for joy right now, because this last song is the key to the handcuffs keeping me locked to Jett and the label.
“The end of the week,” I say because it sounds so much longer than three days.
He chews the inside of his cheek, and I wonder if he’s counting the days left like I am. “This kind of sucks.” Only kind of?
“Yeah . . . it does.”
“I have somewhere I want to take you.”
“Where?” I laugh at the sudden change of topic. “The last time you said that I ended up winded, climbing up a mountain.”
