Blind Melody: Second Chance Romance (Muse & Music Book 3)

by J. R. Rogue

  What She’s Doing Now

  Hunter

  If she wants Christmas, I reckon I can forget the rule my daughters roll their eyes at, which is no Christmas trees until the day after Thanksgiving.

  I loaded Sonnet into my Dodge, and we drove to Target. I turned on the Christmas playlist I created with the girls. It’s mostly country, and Sonnet was okay with that, but she did have suggestions. So I made the playlist collaborative, and she grabbed her phone, smiling as she added new songs to it.

  It’s strange to know I’ll listen to those songs she loves when I get back to Georgia, as I put up my tree with the girls.

  I don’t mix romance and my home life. I don’t like anything crossing over. It’s a bit much to juggle, so I’ve just never bothered. I’ve kept everything separate, on purpose.

  It was always easy to tell myself that if I ever had Sonnet in my world, everything would change. I knew she was married, that we would never move beyond flirtation. I liked that, knowing I wouldn’t have to open up with her. If I did, there might be no recovering from that. Because when we talk, we really talk. And I just don’t have space in my life for intimacy of that magnitude.

  Before we drive away from Target, I text Sera, telling her we’ll be coming back with some Christmas décor and it’d be great if we could decorate the cabin for a season, any season, for Sonnet. I think the simple act of decorating her space will be good for her, especially since she’s essentially homeless right now.

  My week at the cabin is coming to an end, and every day I spend writing with Sonnet, I’m also thinking up reasons to stay. Thinking up excuses Sera and Chace—the owners and my friends—won’t question. Hell, they’ve already questioned the shit outta me when it comes to their month-long resident.

  Do I stay or go back home?

  My job back in Georgia is flexible, as it’s always been. It’s the only reason I took it when I left Nashville. I wanted to be able to travel. I still wanted to sing and play shows. The guy who hired me was an old college buddy, so he agreed.

  I glance over at Sonnet, in the passenger seat. Her head is back, and she’s listening to the piano-heavy holiday song playing through my speakers.

  How can I go back home when I know she’s right here?

  She makes me think of Nashville, my love for the city and the guilt I feel for loving it. I had to move back to Georgia; it was a no-brainer. And living anywhere else right now is out of the question. It’s about my children; I can’t leave them again. Not yet. I can entertain that dream in the future.

  Being back home, getting to spend every morning with them, taking them to school, has really changed our relationship for the better. It was never bad, but we’re closer than ever now. Seeing them grow up and being there for every milestone has helped me cope with the remorse I feel over being gone the first time. It eases the pain and guilt I feel, due to lost time, lost moments I’ll never get back from the years I spent in Nashville.

  She’s only let it slip a few times, but I know Sonnet doesn’t have a relationship with her father. I know he abandoned her. I just don’t know the details.

  I never want to be that guy. I don’t want to fuck my girls up, make it any harder for them to find a man worth a shit in this world.

  It’ll be hard to leave Sonnet, but I have people counting on me.

  Between An Old Memory And Me

  Sonnet

  When we make it back, the rest of the writers are in the main hall. They stop talking when Hunter follows me in, my Christmas tree box over his shoulder.

  It’s times like this I wish I had my own separate entrance with a lock on the door. My sliding glass door won’t work, since it only locks from the inside.

  Sera’s behind the long counter with a guy whose hair is down to his shoulders. He has a sharp nose and smile lines around his eyes. He’s grinning at Sera like she just said something funny.

  I don’t know many of the songwriters here for this session, since I’ve spent most of my time in my room or Hunter’s room. Sometimes I chide myself for being so reclusive but remind myself I can get to know the novelists better when their week starts.

  The guy turns to us, and his smile gets wider. “Is that Hunter Hart? Am I really looking at Hunter Hart right now? Is this who you got to replace me, sis?”

  Sera nods and then looks at me. “Is that a Christmas tree?”

  “Yeah, just a small one. I know it’s only October, but I love them.”

  She walks toward us. “I do too. Normally I have a tree up here already. It’s an All Hallows Eve tree though. I’ve just been too busy to get to it this year.”

  “Is it here?” I ask, thrilled at the thought of bringing my love of The Nightmare Before Christmas alive again. I once had a small black tree with Jack Skellington hanging from the top, but it was another thing I sold when I left. So many curated items, sold for pennies on the dollar. I blink the thought away.

  “Yeah. It’s in the basement along with the Christmas tree I used to put up here. Since the retreats end earlier now, I haven’t put one up in a few years,” she says.

  I admire her hands-on approach to the retreat. It feels like her home, but ours as well. “I’ll help you with the Halloween tree if you want. I’d love to see what it looks like.”

  “Yeah?” She smiles. “Okay, let’s do it. There are about half a dozen tubs down there, though.” With that, she turns. “Yo, Andrew.” When the guy with the long hair doesn’t answer, she yells louder. “Brother, your ass is helping.”

  He doesn’t look like Sera. His hair is honey-colored, his eyes a shade different. As Sera leads us down the stairs, my small Christmas tree box is left in the main hall. Behind us, I can hear Sera’s brother and Hunter catching up.

  It seems they used to sing together at a bar after Andrew moved to Nashville.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother. Any sisters?” I ask Sera. The silence around us feels awkward compared to the boys’ chatter. But, Hunter can talk to a damn tree.

  “I’m an only child. Andrew is actually my stepbrother. We’re close, though. He’s Chace’s best friend.”

  “Oh, wow. Small town?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course.” I know about her relationship with Tristan Kane—everyone knows about it—and about him cheating on her. You couldn’t walk down a grocery store checkout lane without seeing their faces everywhere after it went down. Well, mainly his. Because the world doesn’t care about writers the way they care about movie stars. I also know that Chace is a bit younger than Sera from the interviews I’ve read about her.

  When we reach the basement, I’m relieved to see it’s not creepy or dark. Sera points to the totes in the corner. “The black ones are Halloween. Christmas is red.”

  “You’re so anal, sis,” Andrew says to her, punching Hunter in the arm as he passes him. Hunter turns and smiles at me, and I see Sera catch it.

  “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Everyone’s noticed. How exactly do you two know each other?” Her voice isn’t low, so I know the only answer I can give is one Hunter and Andrew will both hear.

  “I went to Nashville years ago, to—” I pause. I don’t want to say the reason I went there. Not the real reason. “To vacation with a friend. I saw Hunter sing. We kept in touch.”

  “Ever date?” she asks.

  I’m surprised at her question because I figured Brooklyn would have given her the dirt. I guess I was wrong to assume she’d give my secrets away, the way my ex-best friend did.

  “No. Never dated.” It’s the truth, and I see Hunter turn back to me. He has that grin on his face—the devilish kind I want to sit on. Luckily, Sera doesn’t catch that.

  “Good. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” she jokes.

  I still latch onto it. “Why’s that? I mean, I have my reasons to agree, but I’m curious about yours.”

  “He’ll never settle down. Right, Hunter?” At that, she raises her voice, lowering it for me when she adds, “I call hi
m Hunter Heartbreaker. I’m glad I didn’t marry a singer. A songwriter is the way to go.”

  “Not the combo?” I ask.

  “Never the combo.”

  “It was good enough for your best friend, though,” Andrew calls.

  “Kat is a treasure and you would never hurt her, so I don’t worry about your ass,” Sera says.

  I like their banter. It makes me wish I wasn’t an only child. My mother never remarried men with kids. She said it would be too hard to be a stepmother. Maybe that’s why she never expected much from the men who were my stepfathers. She never encouraged closeness. Perhaps she knew each man had a shelf life.

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching Hunter’s back as he sorts through décor, looking for items that will brighten my mood. “Maybe he’ll settle down with the right girl.”

  Would These Arms Be In Your Way

  Sonnet

  My second first kiss with Hunter was reminiscent of Ross and Rachel’s first kiss.

  His hands started on my waist and slid up into my hair. Like theirs, it was something that built—something we both wanted, and maybe, something others wanted for us. Well, my mother did, anyway.

  My cynical heart has trouble writing romance at times. I write about the love I want because reality has never measured up. But when it comes to romance movies and novels, the hard shit is skirted over. We see the rose, the bloom. And the thorns are there, sure. You can’t have a story without trials. But, the thorns are prettied up.

  They aren’t real thorns. They won’t hurt you. Surface wounds, maybe. Small scratches.

  I stare at my laptop. The blinking cursor. The blank screen.

  The hall is sort of empty. One songwriter is in an oversized chair near the fireplace. Another is at a table on the other side of the room. Everyone is winding down. The week is almost over, and Hunter will be gone soon.

  What will I do without the man who championed Christmas for me? The man who makes me laugh and blush and orgasm more than once?

  I hear someone coming up the steps, and warm.

  How do you know you want someone? You can hear their walk. You can hear it before you see them. They have footfalls that are music to your ears.

  I pull my hood down, stare at my screen as Hunter enters my peripheral vision.

  He walks straight to me. I see his gray T-shirt, his dark denim, and the guitar in his hands.

  He sits right next to me, and I pull the hood back some more. “Really?”

  “Yep. All these seats and I chose to sit right next to you. Invading your personal space. Because I know you want me to.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” I say, sounding like Chandler.

  “Careful, Bing,” Hunter says.

  I still, then pull my hood completely down. “You got that?”

  “Yeah,” he says nonchalantly as he pulls a notebook from under his arm, then a pen from behind his ear.

  He looks too good in his ballcap, with his own hoodie shielding him from the coldness of the room.

  My ex-husband hated Friends. And I think it was because of me. I love that show. When we first met, I was too short on cash to get cable, and the antennas on the roof were from the previous owner of the little house I was renting. So I bought a small DVD player and pulled out my Friends collection. I had every season.

  I watched them all the time—in the background when I would write—back before anyone read my words.

  I knew every line. I slid them into casual conversation. It was my comfort, like Christmas. And when he thought of Friends, he thought of me. When we reached the phase of our relationship where he started to hate everything I loved, Friends was an easy target.

  I hate being alone in my cabin room with these thoughts, which is what brought me to the common area to begin with. The little Christmas tree I bought helped for a bit, but the quiet caught up with me, reminding me of unfinished manuscripts. But the thought of Hunter being near me is all I want to focus on. Because soon, he won’t be near me.

  I look over at him—pencil in his mouth, dark lashes, that sharp jawline. I feel like I’m cheating for just a moment. If my ex-husband knew Hunter was the first man I slept with after the divorce, he would be devastated. Or, maybe he wouldn’t be. Maybe he’s moved on. My decision to cut all ties to the town we shared is both liberating and damning. I can’t stop the wonder at times.

  Preston is a catch. Smart, funny, and successful. He won’t stay single for long in that small town if any of the women there have anything to do with it.

  But I know him.

  He said he would never marry again after the year-long divorce negotiation.

  My ex-husband loves money. And I often believed he loved money more than he loved me. So the thought of him putting himself out there for another woman to take part of what he’s earned seems farfetched.

  The fact that he didn’t view me as his equal was one of the many reasons I had to end our marriage.

  Hunter pulls me from my thoughts. I must look odd, staring at my screen, arms crossed.

  “What’s going on in there? What are you thinking about so hard?” he asks.

  “My ex-husband,” I say. Lying to him never crosses my mind.

  Hunter sets his notebook down, turns to me. “Why did you split up? Tell me the real reason, not some short shit you would send in a text.”

  I turn in my seat, facing him. My knees fit between his thighs. I like the connection. “I think the person you love—the one you want to spend the rest of your life with—should be your partner. I loved him. I really loved him. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. There were times I fought for us when he didn’t. And there were times he fought for us when I didn’t. Eventually, we both stopped. At the same time.”

  He grips my knee. “Why did you stop?”

  “I felt like he didn’t like me anymore.” It hurts to say it. My voice wavers.

  “Like? Not love?” Hunter asks this like he knows exactly what I mean.

  “I know he loved me. But he didn’t like me anymore. I could hear it in the way he said things. I annoyed him. Every opinion I had. Every bad day. Eventually, he started to make decisions—big decisions about our finances—without me. And when I told him how that hurt me, he didn’t get it. He said I wanted him to ask for permission, but all I wanted was to be considered. I wanted to know I was his teammate.”

  “And how did he react?” Hunter leans forward, never taking his eyes off me.

  “He said I was overreacting. He even suggested we get a divorce, then date.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” I rarely see Hunter look annoyed or anything bordering pissed, but he’s close to it right now.

  “No. Instead of coming to me when it came to big financial decisions, his solution was to make it so our names weren’t on anything joint. He’d essentially rather buy me out than have to discuss anything with me. I don’t know how, in his mind, he couldn’t see it was over then. So, we did split up. And we did decide to get a divorce. And it took a while for him to grasp that it meant we couldn’t be together anymore. I don’t think two people have to be married to be together, but I think if you can’t handle marriage together, maybe you shouldn’t date afterward. It’s just too odd.”

  Missing my ex-husband, and all the ache I felt, starts to fade away. This is why my mother makes me talk about all the reasons we split when I get sad. Because it reminds me.

  “I’ve heard of crazier things.” Hunter laughs.

  “Me too. But it wasn’t for me. I don’t think anything’s broken my heart more. It probably would’ve been easier if he just said he didn’t love me anymore. But for him to slowly push me out like that was worse.” It’s a lie, saying no one has broken my heart more. But I can’t dig into that wound. Especially with Hunter.

  “Do you guys ever talk?” He moves closer to me.

  “No. I can’t. He’s blocked on all my social media. So is anyone we both knew. I shut the door on that town when it turned on me.”

 
“How many times have you been in love?” Hunter asks, so reminiscent of the questions we’d asked each other in his room as we worked on lyrics.

  “Three times,” I reply. “You?”

  “Twice. My wife and a girl after.”

  I remember the way he was in Nashville when I was there for a book signing a few years ago—the last time we saw each other in person. He was so subdued. I flirted, even though I shouldn’t have, and he was friendly. Just friendly. He didn’t tell me he was sort of with someone, or that it was falling apart because she wanted kids and he didn’t.

  “They say the third love will be the love of your life. So maybe she’s coming for you.” I press my leg into his and smile, so he knows I’m okay with him leaving here soon. That I know what we did was fun, but it was just like the past—fleeting.

  “And yours was your husband?”

  “Well, people say that. It doesn’t mean it’s true. But I will say this: I don’t want to get married again.”

  “That’s what everyone says when their first marriage falls apart. They get over it.”

  I roll my eyes, begin to gather my things. I have a wine bottle in my room calling my name. I have one question for him, though. “Are you over it or do you want to settle down again someday?”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on a woman again,” he says, echoing Sera’s assessment of him as a romantic interest.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t be a horrible partner.” I smirk.

  “I think I know better now, but I’m not sure it’s in the cards again.”

  “Get a new deck,” I reply, leaving him to watch me go.

  I Wanna Go Too Far

  Sonnet

  There is no better Christmas song than All I Want For Christmas Is You. I won’t even argue with anyone, because if the answer they want to force down my throat is different, I’ll choke it back up.