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.”
“That wasn’t the only reason you were winded,” he says and winks. My body reacts to the statement and thinks of our scenic sex atop the mountain.
“True.” I chew on the word as I angle my head and study him. He’s still in his Class A’s. His brown hair is styled, his eyes are alive, and that smile of his seems so much more at ease than when I walked in here a few months ago.
And he’s definitely still sexy as hell.
“Do you trust me?”
I laugh. “Famous last words.”
Grady doesn’t give any hints as to where we’re going as he drives a meandering route through Sunnyville. He talks about a few of the medical calls he had during his shift, but nothing of significance.
And then we pull into the parking lot of the strip mall.
“What are we doing?” I ask as I look over to where Marcy’s photo studio sits.
“I have something for you to—”
“Grady . . .” What the hell is going on?
“Just hear me out.”
“Why do I not like the sound of this when you haven’t even told me anything?”
“You forced me to stand in front of the lens so I could see how everyone else sees me. So I could step outside of my head and my insecurities and realize that the things I focus on aren’t what everyone else sees when they look at me.”
“Okay?” I draw the word out, my pulse racing as ideas twist in my mind.
“So, I’m returning the favor.” I laugh, but he just grabs my hand and squeezes to get me to listen to him. “I’ve booked a photo shoot for you. A boudoir shoot to be exact.”
If I had water in my mouth I’d have spit it all over his dashboard. “Are you crazy?” My voice screeches as I try to slide away from him, but he just clasps my hand tighter so I can’t physically reject his idea.
“Hear me out. Please.”
“These photos are not for anyone but you. I don’t care if they never see the light of day other than your eyes . . . I don’t.” He shrugs. “So long as you see them. Because I think once you look at them, you might actually see what the rest of us see when we look at you.”
“Grady.” My mouth opens. Closes. My eyes flicker to the studio and then back to him. My heart swells at the absolute thoughtfulness of this gesture. And then shrinks when my self-esteem tells me to run and hide.
“There’s a makeup artist, a stylist, a whatever else you need waiting for you in the studio.” My eyes widen, and he laughs. “It may not be Hollywood but, yes, even in little Sunnyville we have those.”
Stuck in a mixture of indecision, fear, and disbelief, I just sit there when Grady leans forward and brushes a kiss to my lips. The kind that makes all parts of my body tingle and ache and want to stay in this suspended state of desire.
“Let me do this for you, Dylan. I can’t give you much. Even with all you’ve helped me learn over the past few months, I can’t give you more . . . but I can give you this.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I know he understands why. The fear. The unknown. The insecurity. And yet I bite my bottom lip and nod. That small reaction causes his lips to spread in a huge grin and light up his face.
“You’re always more than welcome to share the photos with me too.” He laughs as I swat at him. “It was worth a shot.” He laughs.
“Grady Malone.” I sigh. “What am I going to do with you?” I smile softly at him, feeling sad. The real question is, what am I going to do without you?