Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Tight? Not besties or anything. I’ve been hanging with her more than the others, but we’re not in competition for you if that’s what you mean.”
“Nope. Not what I mean.”
Not what I mean at all. If Heather and June are tight, maybe June mentioned what she found out about Misty. Now…how to bring that up…
I’ll think on it.
We reach the small table that the staff set up for us. Our dinner will begin in half an hour. For now, a bottle of chilled Cava waits for us. I set my guitar down on one of the chairs, pop the cork, and pour two flutes, handing one to Heather.
“Thank you.” She smiles and clinks her flute to mine. “To the best damned rock star in the world!”
“Thank you. And to the most beautiful hair stylist I’ve ever met.” I take a sip.
Her cheeks blush adorably as she takes a sip and then sets her flute down. “I can’t wait to hear some of your new stuff.”
“No time like the present.” I pick up my guitar and strum a few chords. “I’m working on a new ballad.”
“I love your slower stuff,” she gushes. “I mean, you rock and all, but your ballads are so dreamy and romantic. My favorite is ‘If I Fell for You Again.’”
“Well then, I think that earns you a private performance.” I pluck out the melody and then switch to chords and begin.
In the glow of the twilight, the breeze is your voice,
Whispers of past moments,
Did we make the wrong choice?
The fierce love between us never truly died,
Those memories still haunt me, no matter how I try to hide.
She closes her eyes, swaying softly in her chair, as I immerse myself in the music and lyrics I wrote so long ago.
When I finish the song, she opens her eyes.
“You enrapture me,” she says.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Tell me. Was there a special someone in your mind when you wrote that song?’
I’ve been asked that question hundreds of times, but the truth is, there wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking in terms of true love. I was thinking about the haunting memories of my time in Montana with my four best friends. I could never write about those times—though I have, in my head.
But I can write about the feelings, how I’m haunted, and in “If I Fell for You Again” I tell the story of two lost lovers, but I share the feelings of my own past. The last line says it all.
If we could rewrite the story, without the goodbye.
“Surely you’ve read the interviews I’ve done over the years,” I say.
“I have, and you always say no.”
“Do you think I was lying?”
She looks toward the ocean. “No. I’d never think that. But the song is so beautiful, so soulful. You had to be feeling something for a special person.”
I was. But it was a friend, not a woman.
“A poet doesn’t always have to have a specific muse,” I say, echoing the words I’ve said to so many journalists over the years. “What’s important is the feeling it evokes in the artist and the listener.”
She sighs. “It evokes all the feels in me.” She turns back to face me. “So what’s the new stuff you’re working on?”
I begin strumming again. “I don’t have the lyrics yet, but let me play you a few bars.”
She closes her eyes again. Interesting. Rather than watching me, she lets the music enter her mind without distraction. When I’m done, she opens her eyes.
“Another beautiful melody.”
“You have a sincere appreciation for music.”
She nods. “I do. I wish I had some talent. I adore music, especially rock, and you, Sebastian Tate, rock better than anyone.”
I lay the guitar on the extra chair at our table when I see our server arriving with our appetizer.
“Good evening, Ms. Hill, Mr. Tate.”
“Good evening, Bart,” I say. “What delicacy do you have for us?”
“Ahi tuna tartare with soy sauce, sesame oil, and a touch of wasabi, with avocado and radish sprouts on the side.” He sets a small plate in front of Heather and then in front of me. “Enjoy. Your dinner will be out in about fifteen minutes. Would either of you like something else to drink?”
“I’d love a good oaky Sonoma Chardonnay,” Heather says.
“And I’ll have a bourbon. Whatever Mr. Maxwell is drinking. Unless it’s the Pappy’s.”
“He’s drinking Angel’s Envy this evening.”
“Perfect.”
Heather takes another drink of the Cava. “I’ve had steak tartare, but never tuna tartare.”
“It’s not a lot different than the sushi we had on the boat,” I say. “If you liked that, you’ll love this.”
She takes a bite. “Mmm. It’s almost…creamy.”
“Try it with the Cava. It’s awesome.” I take a sip of bubbly.
She takes another bite, washing it down with the Cava. “Oh, yeah. Fabulous.”
I flash her a smile. “How are you liking the event so far?”