Killian

The winter grass is the color of toasted sand, stretching toward a slate gray sky. It’s windy these days, the air wet with salt and sea. But on Libby’s farmhouse porch, with the cast-iron stove going, it’s warm enough for me to hang out in jeans and a T-shirt, my bare toes tapping on the worn floorboards.

I’m sitting in a rocker, drinking coffee and inhaling a heaping plate of the best damn biscuits in the world. Looking back on it, I probably fell in love with Libby the first time I ate one of her biscuits.

I tell her this now, and she gives me a look. The kind that says she finds me amusing but doesn’t want to admit it.

“Mama always said a man was led by his stomach and his cock,” she says from the rocking chair at my side, while she idly strums her guitar. “It was just a matter of figuring out which one needs the most appeasing at the moment.”

I take another bite of heavenly baked goodness. “After we eat, you can appease my cock.”

She hums. “Good thing it’s so cute, or I’d take exception to that.”

“Cute? My cock is no longer appeased.”

Libby fights a smile. But her attention is on the Gibson in her hands. It’s my guitar, but she plays it so well. A sweet melody rings out, old-fashioned and happy but nostalgic. Her honey-soft voice joins in as she sings “Sea of Love.”

The sound of her wraps itself around my heart. Her sound is home and hope all rolled in one. It always was. It always will be.

When she finishes, I turn to her. “Was that for me?”

Her smile is soft, beautiful. “They all are.”

It’s a good thing the guys aren’t around to see me welling up. Just yesterday, Rye texted to say it was only a matter of time before Libby and I started looking like the couple in American Gothic, that all I needed was a pitchfork. We sent him a picture of us standing in front of the house, me with pitchfork in hand, both of us flipping him the bird.

We haven’t been completely idle. For the past month, Libby and I have been writing songs. A couple of them are for Kill John, a couple are for Libby’s album. She still doesn’t want the limelight, but Jax, of all people, pointed out that she can have a career on her own terms. So that’s what she’s going to do: write, record, and perform in small venues.

Next week we’re going back to New York. I’ll start trying out the new songs with the guys, and Libby will go to the recording studio. But for now, I’m making the most of our semi-vacation.

I set down my plate and grab my Martin, making a few adjustments. “I’ve got a song. But you have to sing with me.”

“I will if you tell me what you’re playing,” she says.

Grinning, I bite my lip, a thrill of anticipation going through me. “You’ll get it.”

I start the White Stripes’ “Hotel Yorba.” By the end of the opening riff, she’s playing along, her rhythm framing my lead. We sing the refrain laughing, playing our guitars double time.

Her eyes are bright when the song ends. “You have that as my ringtone.”

“Yep.” I lay my guitar down. “Set it the second I left this house and you behind.”

“Why that one?”

“Lyrics fit my mood. I, too, just wanted to be back on this porch, alone with you.”

Her expression softens. “Well, here we are.”

“And what about the rest of it, Libs?” I ask, my chest growing tight. “Am I the man you love the most?”

A flush rises over her cheeks as she looks at me, the little spot where her pulse beats on her neck visibly fluttering. She knows the lyrics. She knows what I’m asking. “Yes,” she says, almost shyly.

I’ve had this planned. Doesn’t stop my heart from trying to pound its way out of my chest. Slowly I kneel in front of her, my hands settling on her lush hips. “I’ll love you my whole life, and it won’t feel like enough. So what do you say, Libs? Want to go get married?”

Her smile is my sun. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. “Where’s my ring, lawn bum?”

I smile against her lips. “Look in my pocket, Elly May.”

Her little jolt of surprise is cute. Did she think I wouldn’t have it? The way her hand shakes as she pulls out the small box tells me she’s as nervous as I am. For a long moment she looks at the vintage gold-and-emerald ring. Then her eyes well up, and she flings her arm around my neck, putting me out of my misery. “Oh, hell. I’m marrying a musician.”

I hold her close, breathe her in. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

Her laughter is a warm breath against my neck. “Yes, we are. And I’ll love you forever, Killian James. That much I know for certain.”