He pushed open his door and dropped in the center of his bed. He needed sleep and in the morning he would finish the album. The sooner he gave her the songs, the sooner she would leave Highland House and be out of his life.
* * *
Dylan had no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes. He could hear music coming from downstairs. He rolled out of bed, aware he had slept in yesterday’s clothes. He lumbered down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Layla was making breakfast. She was singing to the radio, flipping pancakes on the hot griddle.
“Oh hey.” She smiled.
“Hey.” He scratched the back of his head. “What’s going on?”
“Breakfast, silly.” She went back to belting out the song on the radio. “Hungry?”
He thought it was possibly a mirage brought on by sleep deprivation. Sometimes when he wrote too many hours in a row he knew things got a little loopy. Not enough food, too much alcohol. But he swore he didn’t even finish one glass of wine last night.
“Sit,” she ordered with the spatula.
She had pulled her long hair into a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. He noticed the natural rosiness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked lighter and brighter without all the heavy mascara. He felt a pang in his chest. Holy hell, she was even more beautiful than she was yesterday.
He sat as she instructed and waited while she slid a cup of coffee into his hands.
“I noticed yesterday you drink it black.”
He nodded.
“Not sure about your pancakes, though.” She loaded a stack and placed it in front of him. “I found syrup, honey, and butter.”
“Honey,” he answered.
She slathered it on all the layers and returned it to him. “What are you doing, Layla?”
“I’m making breakfast.”
“I can see that. Why?” He couldn’t resist the hot food in front of him, not to mention the sweet smell of honey. He cut into the stack and took a giant bite.
She turned down the radio and placed her palms on the counter. “To say sorry, ok?”
“Sorry?” He had never had pancakes melt in his mouth like these.
“You know why.” She turned away from him and flipped over another batch.
He had no clue what was happening, only that he thought the Highland kitchen had turned into some kind of dream scenario. His mate was waiting on him, padding around the kitchen singing with an angel’s voice, feeding him his favorite food, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. He had to still be sleeping.
“I don’t.” He wasn’t trying to be stubborn.
She huffed. “Because of what I said on the porch. I didn’t mean it, Dylan.”
“This is because of Crave?”
She nodded. “I know I was a bitch.”
He shrugged. “You told me what you wanted. You wanted hits.”
“I did. I do. But, I shouldn’t have said it then.” She abandoned the spatula. “What I should have said is that I’ve never felt a song like that.”
“Felt?”
“Yes. I didn’t hear it. I felt it.” Her eyes locked on his, and for a second he didn’t think he could keep his bear’s chains on. There were loosening and slackening with every word she spoke. With every smile she gave.
“I’m glad you liked it. Then it’s a keeper.” He shoveled more pancakes in his mouth.
“Of course it’s a keeper. But it’s more than that. I don’t think I can explain it. Will you play it for me today so I can sing it?”
He stopped. It was one thing for him to get the words out. To open his soul to the music, but it was something else for her to do it in return.
“Just take it with you. You can record it when you get back to Seattle.”
“Please, Dylan.”
Her eyes softened, and he felt all the resistance he had sliding away. Fuck.
“Sure. After breakfast.”
10
Layla
She told Dylan she’d clean the kitchen while he set up on the porch. She tried to remember the last time she did something this normal. There was always someone shoving a breakfast shake in her hand, or making dinner reservations for a group of friends for her. She didn’t wash dishes anymore, or serve pancakes.
She smiled, drying one of the plates with a kitchen towel. She paid people to do things like this for her. It was nice to feel normal.
Dylan was on the porch with a pair of guitars when she walked outside.
The air was crisp and clean as she breathed in a full breath. “It’s really beautiful out here.” She loved how the light filtered through the thick forest.
He continued to arrange the chairs and guitars. “It is. There’s a reason the house is out here.”
She wriggled her nose. “So no one can find the Highlands when they’re working?”
He grunted. “Something like that.” He turned toward her, his chest wide like a boulder. “Ready to get started?”
She nodded, scooting into one of the chairs he pulled out for her. She picked up the guitar. “I don’t usually play.”
“But you know how?”
She nodded. “My grandfather taught me when I was a little girl.”
“Hmm. I would have thought you added it as part of your show.”
She scowled at him. “I also play the piano.”
“Well aren’t you full of surprises?” She knew he was teasing her—maybe the pancakes had worked. He didn’t seem as annoyed with her.
He rested the guitar on his knee, twisting the tuning pegs between his large fingers. He paused for a moment, looking in her direction. “You look good holding a guitar.”
She felt the sudden blush against her neck.
“What else did he teach you?”
“Hmm?” she answered mindlessly.
“You said your grandfather taught you to play. Were you two close?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know the Layla Love rags-to-riches story.”
His eyes crinkled around the corners. “Should I?”
“Just play the song.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” he asked. She didn’t know there were people in the world who didn’t know about her past. It followed her everywhere.
She sighed. “All right. My grandfather raised my sister and me. You could say he wasn’t really prepared for it. He didn’t have a lot of money—none actually.” She stared at the tops of her boots. No matter how many times she told the story, it always made her feel the same way.
She continued with the tale, “He was the janitor at the church, and on Sundays he played the organ. I learned how to play on those days when he stayed late to practice.”
Dylan smiled, his white teeth peeking behind his lips. “Sounds like a man who loved music.”
She let a laugh slip. “We couldn’t tear him away. I don’t know how many times he forgot to feed us dinner because he was working through a song. He loved any instrument he could get his hands on. We would be the only people there—just listening to him play. Eventually he let me join him.” She could picture the three of them in the sanctuary with the dim lights surrounding them. “We’d take turns. My sister would sing and I would play. I think it was what got him through, you know?” She turned feeling the heat of Dylan’s eyes on her.
“Music soothes broken souls, Layla.”
“Can we play now? You can read my entire biography online.” She meant it as a joke, but realized maybe it didn’t sound that way.
Sharing those memories were hard, even if everyone else knew. It felt different sitting on the porch telling Dylan about her grandfather. They had had a complicated relationship. He loved her like a father, but she knew it put a strain on him to raise two young girls. She was only sad he never lived long enough to see her success. She could have done so much to repay him.
“Sure. Let’s play,” Dylan grumbled.
She reached for the lyrics resting on his lap. As her fingers drifted ove
r his thigh she heard a distinct rumble spring from his chest.
Dylan immediately strummed a C chord, covering the sound with music. She stared at him, but his head was buried over the guitar and his fingers were working the strings.
She cleared her throat, steadying her breathing. As soon as she heard the notes, she launched into the words that he sang last night. Words that had cut right through her. The melody was beautiful and haunting. She was lost in the arrangement as he continued to play. When the music stopped she opened her eyes, looking at him.
His eyes were intoxicating. She knew it the first time she saw him, and she knew it now. They were dark and mysterious, like deep pools of coal.
“What do you think?” She was afraid to ask him.
He nodded, his jaw clenching with the motion. “I think you nailed it.”
Her lips twitched into a smile. Somehow his compliment meant more than any one she’d ever heard. “Thanks. I think it’s the song.”
“No. It’s you, Layla.”
There was something happening between them. She could feel it, and she almost thought she could see it. The way the fall air whipped around them. The way the sun dappled at their feet. The way the music spoke to both of them. His lyrics drifted from her lips as if they were one person singing together.
She shifted her knee so that it barely brushed against Dylan’s, bringing the guitar into her lap. Her fingers wrapped around the head. His eyes brimmed with the emotion from the song. She could feel it.
Her eyes lifted to his.
He craved her.
11
Dylan
He swallowed hard. The harder he tried to restrain his bear, the harder he fought back. After the melody flowed from her lips, all he could think about was making Layla his. He wanted her. He wanted to possess her the way she had taken possession of his song. The want was burning through his fingertips.
His nostrils flared. “I need a break.” He dropped his guitar and walked around the side of the porch.
This was exactly what his bear wanted. He wanted him to lose control—unleash the animal. The woods called to him. He could shift and run through the forest. Dylan scowled and picked up a log by the woodshed and grabbed an ax.
He swung the blade over his head until it sliced through the log, splintering it in two. He picked up the fallen pieces and laid one on its end to split it again. The more logs he cut, the warmer his muscles became. He made a hefty stack next to the shed.
“Just how long is your break going to take?” Layla walked up from the house.
He looked down at the log and swung the ax preciously. “I don’t know.”
She stopped a few feet from the stump. “Can I try?”
He halted mid-swing. “You want to cut wood?”
She moved closer, reaching for the ax. “It’s been awhile, but I used to split wood for my grandfather.”
Dylan stepped back as she gripped the handle and heaved it over her head. He stopped himself from chuckling at her. He had to give her the swing. She had that, but the ax was wedged in the log.
“Hold on, let me help you.” He reached around behind her, his hand sliding over top of hers. As soon as he touched her he felt the fire rage through him. It was the fire he had been avoiding for the past hour.
His palm burned from the want for her. He moved her hands out of the way so he could dislodge the blade.
“Here.” He handed her the handle, trying to calm his bear. He had to get this under control.
She twisted those full, lush lips together. “Maybe I should stick to singing.” She held up the ax. “I’ll let you do this part.”
“Might be best.” He retrieved the ax from her, but not before he caught the look in her eye. “Stand back,” he directed her.
Layla positioned herself against the woodshed while she watched him hack a few more logs. “You do that like you’re splitting pencils.”
“Nah. I just make it look easy.” He looked around for a wider log. One that would look more challenging, even though he knew his bear could chop a hundred pieces before getting tired.
“I’m trying to figure you out.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I could say the same thing.” He touched the blade to the center of the wood before cutting through it.
“Me?”
“Yeah.” He stood back. “I still don’t know why you’re out here. I would have delivered the songs on time.”
She huffed, “Yeah, well maybe I don’t know you well enough to trust you. It’s my career on the line.”
“Mine too. We both have something at stake here.”
Her chest rose, pushing her breasts forward and he couldn’t stop his eyes from fixing on the swells peeking over her tank top. If he didn’t know better he thought Layla liked the attention. She arched her back a little deeper away from the shed wall.
“Maybe I wanted a break.”
“A break from being an international star? Come on.”
Her eyes quickly lowered to the ground, and for the first time he thought he had struck a nerve with her. “Wait, is that it? You used this as an excuse to escape?” he asked.
“It’s not an excuse,” she pleaded. “It’s still work.”
“But you’re using my refuge as yours.” His brows knitted together in a frown.
“The house is huge. It’s not like you don’t have room.” She planted the heel of her boot on the wall.
“What could you possibly want to escape from? I’m sure back home you don’t have to lift a finger to do anything.” He hung the ax inside the woodshed. He had enough logs to use if he wanted to make a fire.
“You think I like having people manage me twenty-four-seven? It’s constant. I never have time to myself. I never have this.” She looked up at the sky.
“Yes, I do think you like it.” He stood in front of her.
She pressed her lips together. “Well I don’t. You don’t understand.”
“No, I guess I don’t.” He brushed past her, but before he was two inches away, she reached out, her hand gripping his forearm.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered.
He took a giant breath. It was exactly what his bear wanted. To be alone with her outside.
“We were in the middle of a conversation, Dylan.” Her eyes drifted to his lips. “Don’t just walk away.”
He felt the shudders under his skin. Her fingers pressed into his shirt, but she might as well have been raking her nails over his bare flesh. She was driving him crazy in every way.
“I’m going to load up the firewood,” he explained.
He had said it, but instead of turning in the direction of the pile he had made, he pivoted so that her body was in front of him. He didn’t want to stack wood. He didn’t want to walk away from what she was telling him. He wanted to taste her.
His hand slipped to cradle her jaw. She tilted her lips toward him, her green eyes hooded with lust. And he lost it. He lost the last shred of control he had on his bear.
His lips crashed into hers, drawing her lush body against him. She moaned as his tongue slid inside her mouth, exploring the corners. She wrapped her arms around his neck, purring under his mouth.
He nipped at her bottom lip, feeling the fullness between his teeth. He grazed over her neck, sucking against her skin, behind her ears, along her throat. Her hands were everywhere. He felt her nails dig through his flannel shirt as she threw one leg around his waist.
He kissed her long and hard, causing her to moan his name. It was a more beautiful sound than her singing.
All he could think about was, ripping the plaid shirt from her chest and nuzzling between her beautiful breasts. He wanted to feel her delicate skin on his tongue. He wanted to lick and suck every part of her. He could peel those tight jeans right off her hips, drop to his knees, and taste between her legs.
He growled lowly. He could do all that. He could take her here and now.
His hands tangled in her hair as he brought her mouth u
nder his. “This is not happening, Layla,” he whispered.
He let go. He made inches turn into feet as he backed away. Her skin was flush and her breath was hot and rapid. But there was a new expression on her face—longing. He had opened something between them he shouldn’t have.
He couldn’t look at her anymore. He would explode right then. He stacked an armful of wood and marched toward the house.
12
Layla
She ran her fingers over her swollen lips. Holy hell, that was the most amazing kiss she’d ever had in her life. Her entire body felt it. She let her head rest against the woodshed. She needed a minute to steady herself before walking back to the house.
It had been just like the song. The kiss unleashed something in her she knew she would always crave. When Dylan kissed her she wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t analyzing what he was thinking. She just let it consume her. It was pure like a kiss should be.
She smiled, pushing off the wall. Dylan Highland was full of surprises. Not only could he pierce every musical note in her body, he could kiss like a fucking rock star.
She walked up the steps to the front porch, wishing he had been there waiting on her. He was probably inside unloading the firewood.
She picked up the guitar from earlier and sat down. Before she knew what was happening, she sang a chorus, repeating it over and over.
The front door cracked and she heard footsteps behind her.
“What are you doing?” Dylan’s voice was deep.
She rotated in the chair. “I think I have a chorus. Want to write the rest?”
He picked up his guitar. “Let me hear it again.”
She repeated the words that had come to her after the epic kiss.
“How about this?” He sang a few lines.
Layla nodded. It was exactly what she was feeling, only she couldn’t start there. For some reason her brain jumped to the chorus first. Maybe it was because her body was still buzzing from what his lips had done to her.
Bear Treble (Highland Brothers 4) Page 3