Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Even so, as I take a seat on the lounge chair and watch the sunlight bounce off the pool, I think about Damon. We spent so many summer days here, at this very pool, with this very view. Back then, he was a human with a soul, a person who cared. We were both competitive swimmers. We both lived in the water.
He used to challenge me there, race me.
He always won, of course. He was taller, older, bigger. But he never acted like he was better because of it. Only that he knew I'd catch up one day.
When I look to the living room and watch him play, I see it. I see the guy who teased me about my dog-eared paperbacks. I see the guy who held my hand when I was too scared to run into the ocean. I see the guy who asked what I thought of the lyrics he was writing.
Then he finishes, and he stands, and he waves me over with a cocky grin, and he's back to the asshole who doesn't care about anything.
He's been this person for a long time. He's been MIA in Daphne's life for a long time. Everything else, I could forgive. But not that.
I stand, and I move into the house with steady steps. "Do you want to go first or second?" I pull out my cell and open the recording app.
"Ladies first." He stands and motions to the bench.
I slide onto the seat. I check the sheet music. I hit record. And I start.
After the first few notes, I fall into the melody. I forget I'm in the Webb's mansion in Malibu. I forget Damon is five feet away. I forget I'm playing to win.
This is my favorite place to be, in this beautiful space where it's only me and the music.
When I finish the song, I shift into my surroundings. The blue sky outside. The massive ceilings. And Damon Webb, standing in front of the cream couch, staring at me like I'm the only thing he wants.
There's no hint of teasing or torture in his eyes. Only the sort of pure, deep need that goes to his soul. The desire to connect, understand, lose yourself in a song that swallows you whole.
For a split second, his deep blue eyes fill with a mix of hurt and longing. Then he blinks, and he's back to the devil-may-care guy I know.
I stop the recording, shift off the bench, motion for him to sit. "Your turn."
He doesn't say anything as he takes a seat. He just looks to me, waits for me to hit the record button, begins.
The second his fingers hit the keys, he shifts to that other Damon. The one who hurts. Who shares poetry and asks if I hurt too.
He plays the song like it belongs to him. Like he knows every single note.
He doesn't know about romantic heartbreak, but I guess he knows plenty about drinking too much.
When he finishes, I pause the recording, and I find my footing. I let my sneakers sink into the hardwood floor. I let the warm ocean air fill my lungs.
I need him to agree. And he played well. Better than I expected. He's talented without trying. He's everything without trying.
He's endlessly frustrating.
"How was that?" He shoots me a cocky smile.
My veins surge. My stomach flutters. There are too many signs of the guy I used to trust. I don't know what to do with it. "You want to judge first?"
He nods sure.
I rename the files Star and Sun and write a code in my notes app. I play his first.
He stands in place, listening carefully, letting every note flow through his ears. When he's assessed, he nods. "Play the next."
I do.
This time, his expression shifts. His eyes close. His brow softens. He's that other Damon again, the one who feels things, the one capable of compassion.
Maybe I can tap into that.
Maybe if I ask nicely, admit a little vulnerability, he'll actually agree.
I'm sure you have your reasons, but I need this. Please. I'm not dealing with this breakup. Everyone told me I was stupid to work with my boyfriend. How can I admit they're right? How can I admit my career is fucked without this opportunity? I want to succeed at something, for once.
By the time I form a coherent thought, the song is over, and Damon is still lost in the music.
"The second," he says.
Mine.
Thank god.
"Okay." I take a deep breath and let out a steady exhale. Now, I need to prove I play the best to myself too. "My turn."
His fingers brush mine as he takes the phone.
Again, my body buzzes. My fingers yearn to connect with his fingers. To touch other parts of his body. But that's not about Damon. That's about everything else.
I need to feel that connection again. Even if it's with him.