by Emily Conrad
“The whole sex thing, right? But you can still be a Christian and do that stuff because—”
“No, you have to change.” The words came out harsh. She softened her tone. “I mean, if you love Him and want to follow Him, you’ll obey what He says to do—and not just in your relationships with men.” She pulled her hair away from her face and breathed deeply. “Another example might be considering what films you act in. How do your characters behave? What do the films encourage your audiences to do and believe? Do you see what I mean?”
“Oh. Like how Gannon refuses to take his shirt off for photoshoots?” Harper giggled. “But then they follow him around on the beach until they get what they want, so the whole thing is silly. If anything, it makes them more curious. He works out. He has nothing to be shy about.”
“And you would know.”
Harper gave a guilty smile but no explanation.
Unless she was bluffing, Harper would know if Gannon had a cross tattoo. Though Adeline hadn’t realized he’d drawn a line at shirtless photos, she could understand why he had. Even the photo of him in a tank had been pretty steamy. Shirtless … Her throat tightened. “If he believes he’s doing what’s right, then that’s a good thing.”
“Sex scenes are part of, like, every good role. But it’s just pretend. I’m sure God doesn’t mind. A girl’s got to pay her bills.”
Men’s voices sounded from the great room. The guys must’ve finished on the patio.
Adeline pressed her hands over the thighs of her pants. “I don’t know specifically what Christ will ask of you, but putting Him first instead of money is part of having faith in Him.” She heard fast, clicking steps—one of the dogs.
Adeline needed to wrap this up. She wasn’t doing any good anyway, wasn’t presenting things right, though she didn’t know what to change.
“Is that why you’re poor? God wants you to be?”
Poor? She had food, a house, two jobs. She wasn’t poor, though to Harper’s point, she had taken the modest jobs because she’d thought working for the church would please God. She’d done it out of duty. But had God asked her to take that rather than finding a better fit?
A sudden wave of guilt made her feel seasick. Since she hadn’t been praying when she’d taken the secretary role, she’d acted on an outward idea of holiness rather than on a relationship with God. She’d been struggling to get by for so long, but maybe God had never called her to that.
Bruce’s fur brushed against the door and pulled Harper’s attention away. “Look who missed his mommy.”
Bruce whipped his tail as he approached, but Gannon called him, and the dog hesitated halfway to Adeline. The sound of something rolling across the hardwood of the balcony toward the bedroom door got louder, and then Gannon stood in the opening, her suitcase handle in hand.
His line of sight tracked from Adeline to Harper and back.
Adeline passed her hand over her upset stomach. He’d be disappointed in her for focusing on works with Harper, the same as she had in her own life. Repentance and works and grace and faith all balanced together somehow, though, so what she’d told Harper might not have been wrong.
Anyway, she was disappointed in Gannon. What did it matter if he was disappointed in her?
For her part, Harper didn’t appear troubled. “Having a little chat.” She rose from the bed and crossed the room, laying her hand on Gannon’s chest as she passed.
He stepped backward.
Harper moved on to primp her makeup in the mirror. “We’re done now. You can have her.”
The actress behaved with such familiarity with him. She knew how to navigate this life. She belonged in a way Adeline never would.
She stood and thought of telling Gannon she could take her suitcase from there, but as soon as he saw her struggling with it on the stairs, he’d reclaim the task. She pulled her tote onto her shoulder and looped her purse strap around her hand. Bruce kept pace with her as she started down the hall behind Gannon.
Even without the suitcase, she was carrying too much. The realization that she’d taken the church job to please God when she hadn’t even consulted Him on the decision. The knowledge that she hardly knew God well enough to present Him to someone who asked to hear. A day ago, she would’ve turned to the man who walked ahead of her for help, but today, she couldn’t deny she hardly knew him either.
Once they were around the corner, away from Harper, Gannon glanced back at Adeline. He’d resisted sending Harper packing only because it would’ve led to a fight and prevented him from taking this opportunity to talk to Adeline.
Her change of clothes looked crisp and professional, but he missed the dress she’d worn this morning, if for no other reason than that her choice to go business casual was a mystery to him. “What did Harper want?”
“She was asking about Christianity.”
“Figures.”
Adeline drew her eyebrows together.
He started up the stairs to the third floor. “That’s how my relationship with her started. She knows we won’t refuse to talk to her about our faith, so she fakes interest to get us to let her hang around.”
“It didn’t seem impossible that she was genuinely interested. She’s beaten up and camping out here. She needs hope.”
And Harper was exactly the type to manufacture some for herself by conning Adeline into feeling sorry for her. “If you think she’s seeking God, I’ll connect her with Drew.” They reached the landing, and he set the suitcase on its wheels. “How did everything go today?”
“The damage to the siding and woodwork isn’t bad, but because of what it’ll take to get the smoke smell out, I have to open a claim. The work on the porch can continue. The painting on the other areas of the house can too, but I’m not sure yet if insurance will want to pay your painters for repairing the fire-damaged portion or if they’ll want to bring someone else in. It’s a mess.”
Gannon rolled the suitcase a foot or two into Adeline’s room, then retreated to the doorway. “Let me pay the deductible and whatever other expenses come out of this. I’m the reason someone was on your property. In fact, I’ll pay the whole thing. You don’t even have to go through insurance. Make it easier on yourself.”
Adeline stood just inside the room, the tote and purse still weighing her down. “I’m working on something that’ll cover the deductible.”
He’d expected her to refuse, but had she dressed up to go to the bank and ask for a loan? That would explain her forlorn expression. “Don’t go into debt over something I caused.”
“I turned in my resume for a job at the university. Tegan knows someone there. She thinks I have a good chance.” Though from her unenthusiastic smile, Adeline wasn’t as confident.
“You know that anything you need—”
“You’ve done enough.” She deposited her tote and purse at the foot of the bed, crossed her arms, and turned back to him. “Michael’s nice, but why does he carry a gun? That seems intense.”
Michael must be the security detail Tim had arranged, the one who’d said something to convince Adeline to stay. “They have to be prepared. I’ve had some close calls.”
Sadness, rather than concern, shrouded Adeline’s expression. “Like what?”
Those details might cause her to wheel that suitcase right back out of his life.
“People have tried to hurt you?”
At this rate, she’d imagine something worse than it’d been. “Someone pulled a knife on me backstage once. Another time, a woman carried a pocket revolver into a music festival, also with the intention of finding me.”
“Why?”
“Which one?”
His question seemed to deepen the lines on her forehead, so he gave up holding out. “The knife was a disgruntled husband. His wife came to one of our shows, met us backstage, and never went home. She filed for divorce. Not because of us, but that’s how he saw it—hence, the knife.”
He waited to see if she’d let him stop there, but she moved
a little closer, watching for him to continue.
Closer. That had to be a good sign, even if her forehead remained furrowed.
“The pocket revolver lady called in to a radio interview I was giving. She went on about how she and I were meant to be together for eternity. I said Jesus had dibs on my eternity, and she came to the festival to introduce me to Him. She didn’t get to use it, but that’s more than enough close calls for me, and I won’t gamble with you.”
Adeline ran her finger over the surface of the desk near the door, less than two feet from him now. “Can I ask you something?”
“Don’t you know the answer to that by now?” He touched her elbow, hoping she might step nearer.
Hurt seemed to pool in her eyes.
“Yes, Adeline. You can ask me anything.”
Frowning, she focused on the desk. “How close are we?”
“To what?”
“Each other.” She shifted away. Only a few inches. A movement that didn’t look conscious, but it warred with his impulse to reach out and pull her closer. Why hadn’t he kissed her when he’d had the chance? Then she wouldn’t have to ask questions like this.
She must’ve taken his silence to indicate confusion because she dove into an explanation. “We have history together, and I wonder if that has led to a false sense of closeness. Maybe I’m a lot like that woman with the gun, thinking we’re something when that’s not at all what it is for you. In the past, we were close, but now, we’re just a couple of weeks into getting reacquainted. We’re barely friends.”
“I thought we were past this.”
She backed farther from him. “You didn’t tell me about Matt. And people have tried to kill you? Being here is a wake-up call. I hardly know you.”
She might as well have planted her hands on his chest and shoved him away.
Hardly knew him? After everything? “Tegan and John seem to think your heart needs to be protected from me, but you pack a few punches of your own.”
Her shoulders drooped. “Be honest, Gannon. Harper knows you better than I do.”
“Harper doesn’t know herself, let alone another human being. She pays enough attention to manipulate us, but knowing someone? That takes more than she has to offer. She asked me last night if my dad taught me to change a tire.”
She winced, but her frown persisted. “I’m not sure I trust you where she’s concerned.”
“I’m not one to hide my sins like that. I wanted to tell Fitz about us. Why wouldn’t I be honest with you?”
“You didn’t want to tell Fitz enough to follow through. For all I know, you have reasons for not telling me the truth about Harper.”
“You’re throwing in my face the time I was loyal to you against my better judgment?”
“You were loyal to yourself. You didn’t want to look bad. Nobody does.”
“Fine. You want me to look bad? You want me to name all my sins? Lust, lying, anger, selfishness. I’ve been proud and judgmental. I’ve failed to devote the time to God that He deserves. You want me to keep going? I could, but I’m never going to say what you want me to say, because I won’t confess a sin I didn’t commit.”
Adeline retreated to a spot by the foot of the bed. “Maybe too much doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s the timing. I’ve got a lot going on, and so do you.”
“Don’t blame the timing. This might be the only chance I get to take this much time away for years. Between recording, touring, and Audition Room, my schedule’s impossible. I saw an opening, and I took it. Maybe the problem is that you’re afraid because real life isn’t neat and tidy. That’s why you haven’t been living it—because you tried once and it went badly and now you think every imperfection will turn into the same thing.”
“Or I don’t fit in your life and never will. If your schedule’s that hectic, how would our relationship work? You’d want me to move to LA? Or go on tour with you? Or you’d fly here once in a while? None of that sounds practical.”
“I can afford impractical.” His exasperation had spilled into his tone. He paused and measured his next words carefully. “The question is whether you can forgive imperfect—in me and in yourself.”
Her back straightened. “I do forgive you, but I can’t act like it didn’t hurt to find Harper here. I care about you. I love your faith and how you stand by people, but what else about you am I going to find out that’s going to end up hurting?”
“Does it matter? You’re taking shots in the dark, trying to hit an artery and kill this so you can go back to life without me and ignore or avoid anything that makes you uncomfortable. Is that what you want? To run back to your comfort zone?”
She blinked rapidly.
What if she started crying and wouldn’t let him give her a hug? He was being too rough, in danger of nicking that artery himself.
“Look.” He infused his voice with tenderness. “I know this isn’t ideal, and I’m sorry I hurt you.”
She sat on the foot of the bed, shoulders rounded as if they were still weighted down by the luggage she’d carried.
“You’re one of the few people who doesn’t judge me by my fame or my reputation, someone who truly knows me. Hearing you say you don’t know me …?” He pulled a flash drive from his pocket and laid it on the writing table. “For me, there is no going back to a life without you. Since the day we met, you’ve been a huge part of my life, even during all the years we spent apart. That’s when I wrote these, except for the last one, which I wrote this morning.”
Adeline’s eyes fixed on the small black drive. “Lyrics?”
“Recordings.” Maybe he should give her the whole notebook, go all in. But if she wouldn’t accept what she heard in the four recorded songs, having the whole collection wouldn’t make a bit of difference. “I promised you music last night so you could practice. You’ll find an electric bass downstairs in the studio, if you want it.”
“Matt’s? He wouldn’t like that.”
“Matt waltzed into Havenridge with little but the clothes on his back. Except the drums, what’s in the studio is mine, and you’re welcome to it, whether or not you like what you hear.” He stepped back into the hall.
She stared at the drive without moving.
“You have the say over whether we can use these. If you let us, I can’t say which songs, if any, will make the cut—we offer a lot more than what makes the album—but they have potential. My most successful work has always come from my most personal experiences and emotions, and it doesn’t get any more personal than that.”
If she listened to them and rejected him anyway, she’d be rejecting the best he had to offer. He’d never win her over.
“Okay.” She studied her hands, picking at the nails she still hadn’t trimmed.
“Okay.” He pressed his palm against the doorframe, waited another beat, and left.
24
Adeline dug her laptop from her suitcase. Once it powered up, she loaded the flash drive and hit play.
She returned to the bed, lay back, and let the comforter cradle her.
The quality of the recording was good—no noticeable white noise, just guitar and Gannon’s voice—but her laptop speakers playing from ten feet away should allow her to listen without feeling immersed. It would be like getting a voicemail message. Removed. No immediate reply expected.
The theory washed away when she teared up during the first song, the one he’d performed for her last night. As beautiful as it was, the idea of God holding her seemed so much less important than that He might direct her in what to do. When she spoke with Harper, she’d made it sound so simple to determine what God asked of a person, but that wasn’t the case at all.
If His guidance were easy to discern, she’d know what to do about Gannon.
Gannon was right about one thing: pursuing a relationship with him would put her far outside her comfort zone. Security details, paparazzi, fans, hectic schedules. Harper. Taking their connection deeper would also mean trusting Gannon the way she had last ni
ght when she’d told him about the rift in her relationship with God. A romance meant risking that he’d hurt her again, and worse.
The second song started. Though he used no names, the song said enough for her to recognize he’d been missing her when the lyrics came. He sang of hoping to spot her face in the crowd, of how she followed him everywhere but was never there when he turned around. The song gave no indication of when it had been written. From what he’d said, this may have come to him any time over the last nine years—or even before that—but had he honestly thought of her that much?
She’d thought of him often, but he was famous. Reminders of him were everywhere. Once in a while, she’d done what his song described—mistaken someone else for him and done a double take, heart pounding. She’d felt foolish each time, assuming he had forgotten her the way she had told him to.
She’d spent so much time blaming Gannon for what happened to Fitz that she’d considered herself the one who’d been rejected. But that wasn’t true. Gannon had wanted her to pick him and had only stopped calling when she’d told him she was staying with Fitz. He’d called again when he somehow heard—maybe through John?—that she and Fitz had broken up.
Again, she’d rejected him.
And then, at Fitz’s funeral, Gannon found her sitting out behind the funeral parlor and tried to comfort her. She pushed him away. What had she said? Something about how they’d killed him.
She wasn’t the only one who’d been hurt. He’d said she’d thrown some punches, and she had. She’d hurt him, and in a relationship, odds were she’d do so again. Why was he so willing to accept the risk?
Silence, and then the third song started, the beat driven with a bitter tension the other songs had lacked.
You can’t hurt me now so go ahead and try. You can’t win or wound a missing heart, and mine’s been laid to rest. I buried it at nineteen, I sent it packing with a girl who’s long, long gone. Beneath your hand’s an empty chest. You came too late, and you’re only second best.