Sweet Solace (The Seattle Sound Series Book 1) (19 page)

W
e made
it to our respective beds that night. A smart move, but I missed Dahlia. I woke up clutching a pillow, which I shoved back against the headboard in disgust.

I rose, stretched, and headed to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed the luxury of hot water and a good night’s sleep. After I dressed, I checked in on Mason. He was laid out on the bed, spread-eagle, feet dangling off the side. Tire him out with horses and a sing-along, and the kid slept forever.

Abbi’s excited voice floated up the stairs. “They’re doing a show next month in Seattle.”

I raised my eyebrow. I wondered if she was talking about my band.

“That’s great. Coffee, you need to get in my cup. Right now,” Dahlia practically growled. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, surprised by her surliness. Maybe she’d missed me as much as I’d missed her.

Dahlia turned, and my breath froze in my chest. She was beautiful even with damp hair. She wore glasses with streamlined green frames that I wanted to pull off while I kissed my way along her jaw. The swelling of her cheek was gone now, and her face was once again symmetrical.

Dahlia’s beauty was quieter than Jessica’s compact vivaciousness. My stomach twisted when I realized how much I yearned for a future with Dahlia, Abbi, and Mason.

“So we’re going, right? Luke’ll love it.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t presume Asher wants us there . . . . And I have a book to finish.”

“Which you worked on until the early morning hours,” Abbi said.

She had? Must have been after I went to bed.

“Then there’s the miniseries to help produce. And the sound track to collaborate on.”

“Pfft. You’ll get all that done in, like, a week, the way you’re going. You’ve been amazing, Mom. Though you really should sleep sometime. What did you say? You wrote, like, over a hundred pages this week. More last night. Bev’s texting you for additional pages already this morning. So you know they’re good. I can book a couple of hotel rooms right now.”

“Abigail. You have me at a disadvantage. I haven’t had any coffee.”

Abbi laughed. She saw me standing near the kitchen archway. “Be sure to pour Asher a cup.” Abbi bounced over and kissed my cheek. She leaned in and said, “Mom’s having a mini freak-out.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons, but mainly because of you.” With a sly glance at Dahlia, who was pulling a mug from a cabinet, she said louder, “She always gets like this when the ideas are flowing, but it’ll pass.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” I whispered back.

Dahlia’s expression finally settled somewhere between longing and happiness. Her need to observe, to think hard about a situation before she reacted, was polar opposite to my performer personality. But I’d take her angst as long as I continued to spend time with her. As far as addictions went, Dahlia was my best one ever. And I planned to keep it that way.

“Should we give her some time to calm down?”

Abbi scrunched her nose. “Nah. Maybe let her jot some thoughts in her notebook while she drinks her coffee.”

Dahlia hadn’t mentioned her books since our last text message exchange. Maybe Mason and me coming here had added too much stress, cutting into her workflow. “Has she let you read her work in progress?”

Abbi leaned in closer, an impish smile on her lips as she looked back at her mom. “Bits and pieces. The hero is ah-mazing. I’m waiting to meet him in real life,” she said, rolling her eyes.

I liked talking to Abbi. Still filled with the optimism and naive belief everything would work out, she was a bubblier version of Dahlia. I’d do a lot to make sure that everything
did
work out for her. Abbi could never replace Olivia, nor the deep scar my daughter left, but she could add something special to my life.

“Play nice, Mom. I wanna go to Seattle.”

“Abigail.”

Dahlia sipped from the coffee in her mug and handed me a freshly filled cup. Our fingers met and tingled with heat from our attraction. I leaned in and wrapped my arm around her shoulders in a friendly embrace. She huffed into my chest and then wrapped her arms around me, fitting her head just right on my shoulder.

Abbi looked sad for a moment before she realized I was watching her. She smiled at me, gave me a double thumbs-up, and strode up the steps.

“She likes you,” Dahlia said.

She sipped more of her coffee but didn’t step back. I pulled her tighter to my chest, reveling in the moment.

“I like her, too. She’s a great kid.”

“I didn’t realize how much she’d missed a father figure. Abbi hasn’t had a dad since she was eight, regardless of what the death certificate says.”

I pulled back and looked into her deep gray eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dahlia smiled at me. “I know you are.” She paused, doing some kind of internal check. She blew out a breath. “I am, too, for Abbi’s sake. She deserves more. Mind if I jot down some notes?”

“Not at all. I’ll grab my guitar and my notebook from upstairs. Unless that’s going to distract you?”

Dahlia shook her head. “I’m pretty sure whatever you do will help, actually. I like having you here, Asher.”

I pressed a kiss to her temple and eased back. I’d dumped a lot on her last night. We both needed time to process that.

In the past, I’d worked hard to ground myself, to be the father my son deserved. As soon as I managed to extract myself from my mistakes, I knew what direction I wanted to go. I just hoped like hell Dahlia could see the difference in me.

“Be right back,” I said.

* * *

W
e spent
an hour working on our separate projects, Dahlia on her book, me on the new Supernaturals album. I’d thrown out half the songs I’d worked on during our tour last year. After reconnecting with Dahlia, I’d written a stack of new songs, but I wasn’t sure the guys were going to go for any of them.

They were more atavistic than our normal high-energy anthems. Like “Sweet Solace” or “Moonshine Eyes,” these songs dealt with loss and grief and second chances. These songs felt right. I reread the top one, hoping Bill would get back to me with his take. I’d sent this one and a few others to him last week. I hadn’t heard from him since our talk about Jessica the other night. Bill was flying into Seattle tonight and we’d talked then. Carl and Johnny were arriving tomorrow morning and planned to meet us at the studio. We were all looking forward to getting back to recording.

Dahlia came over to sit on the opposite end of the couch, another cup of coffee cradled in her hands. Her eyes were alight with excitement as she watched me pick out chords and make notes in my notebook.

“I’ve always wondered how you created a song,” she said when I took a break.

“The same way you write a book, I bet. It starts with a seed, either a bit of the tune or a phrase that keeps repeating in my head until I figure out how it fits in the bigger piece.”

Dahlia nodded. “Play that for me, that last bit. I really liked it.”

I smirked at her. “You should. It’s the start of the theme song for your Gardiner series.”

She beamed. “Really?”

I played it and sang the words we’d jotted down together yesterday, plus another few lines that seemed to fit. Dahlia’s eyes darkened, and her cheeks flushed. She snatched up my notebook and wrote with quick, efficient strokes of her pen.

She handed it back to me, and I read her chorus, my head bobbing. A cello would add a richness, fill out the melody.

“That’s fantastic,” I said, smiling. “You’re good at this.”

Mason slammed onto the couch, almost oversetting Dahlia’s coffee cup she’d just picked back up. I closed my eyes, waiting for Dahlia’s pissed response. Mason acted like an animal half the time, but I was pretty sure he’d outgrow it with time. I had as a boy. Mostly.

“Wow, Mason. You jumped at least ten feet. Next time let me set my coffee down first. Maybe I can catch you.”

My eyes popped open, and I think I was gaping like an idiot as I stared at Dahlia. Mason beamed up at her, pressed into her side.

“’Kay. Morning. Did the Easter Bunny come?” he asked, eyes alight. I wasn’t sure if he still believed in such silliness, but he was burning with hope at the idea of presents. I hadn’t even considered this part of the weekend until now, and I was a total douche for putting Dahlia in such an awkward position.

Her eyes were open wide as she stared down at my son. My heart raced as I tried to figure out what I could say to smooth over the situation.

“Hey, Mason. Why don’t we go upstairs and get dressed?”

“Dad! I gotta get my Easter basket first,” he said, his jaw jutting in that stubborn way mine did when I’d set my mind on something. Shit. I was so screwed. Mason was going to be in a bad mood the whole rest of the day.

“Mason,” Abbi called from the dining room on the other side of the kitchen, nearest the porch. “Can you come here?”

He hopped off the couch and sprinted toward Abbi’s voice. I sat my guitar down and let my head fall into my hands. “I’m sorry, Dahlia. I didn’t think about it being Easter this weekend. I just thought it’d be good because we’d have more time here.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as Mason squealed. She stood and held out her hand to me. I took it, my confusion spiking.

“Look what the Easter Bunny brought me!” Mason shot into the room, a blur of little-boy excitement, shaking a video-game box in the air. “It’s got new buildings and swords and stuff. And there’s a whole basket of chocolates, and you and Dahlia and Abbi all have baskets, too.”

He shivered with delight as he clutched the game. I looked at Dahlia, overcome with gratitude and pleasure as Mason ran back into the dining room. I could hear Abbi laughing at whatever Mason was squealing about.

“How’d you do that?”

“I talked to Ella about what Jeremiah liked. Then I used two-day shipping,” Dahlia said, a smirk forming on those petal-soft lips.

I wrapped my arm around her so I could kiss her. This was a thank-you, and I hoped she understood what I was trying to say. “You’re fucking amazing.”

She grinned against my mouth before she pulled away, laughing. “Let’s see what the Easter Bunny brought you.”

I
’d made
an Easter basket for Abbi every year until she was nine. That year, Doug was in the hospital for some complications. The following year, because of how surly Doug had become, I hadn’t had the energy for anything more than my obligatory writing time. I’d become the sole earner for our family by then, which just added to Doug’s antagonism.

Somehow, I’d fallen out of the habit of celebrating these little occasions, and now I realized just how important they were, not just for Abbi, but for me, too.

“Man, the Easter Bunny even knows what guitar pick I like best.” He flashed me a smile before muttering, “That’s pretty good stalking.”

I beamed, pleased I’d found something he’d use. I’d also packed guitar strings and some of my favorite coffee. He lingered over the last item in his basket, which I’d added on a whim this morning while he was working. It was the poem I’d written about our night on the beach. It was only ten lines but was the catalyst for my current story, the first lines I’d felt good about in years.

He cleared his throat twice as he tapped out a rhythm on his thigh. “This is about us?”

“Yes.”

“From our walk?” He read the words again, his face softening. He had to wipe the corner of his eye.

“I thought you’d like it.”

He pulled me into his arms, his breath soft against my hairline. “I love it. Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, and I melted into his embrace. Much as I wanted to snuggle against him and watch the kids’ enjoyment, I eased back, tugging my hair away from my face. We weren’t a couple. We were . . . complicated.

His hands splayed on my back, and I paused. Bracing myself, I met his hazel eyes. His lashes brushed his thick brows.

“Promise me something.” His voice was pitched low, a caress. I shivered and he rubbed my arms.

“What?”

“The poem—can it be just mine?”

I nodded.

“I’m serious, Dahlia. I want to carry it around with me and know we’re the only two who’ve read it.”

The idea of him carrying my words, words I’d written for him, was surprisingly intimate. I couldn’t deny him, not with his eyes so bright with need.

There it was again: that fear of wanting Asher, wanting him forever, so very much.

I knew musicians. I knew all too well the temptations thrown at them with such consistency. Doug hadn’t cared for me enough to resist. The thought of Asher cheating . . .

An ache settled deep in my chest. “It’s the seed for my newest book.”

“These words.” His fingers caressed the paper, and I bit my lip. I wanted him to touch me like that. “When I read your book, I’ll know why you told that story. Our story.”

“Ours,” I agreed. Fear and pleasure bubbled through me.

He smiled as he tucked my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin there at my jawline. “Thank you.”

I nodded, unable to speak. He slid the piece of paper into his wallet, and I drew a deep, shuddering breath. He pulled out another couple pieces of paper. Catching my gaze, he winked.

“Come see this!” Mason said. He showed me the dragon he’d built with the pack of Legos I’d gotten him. Chocolate coated his mouth as he lay on his stomach, making robot noises as he walked his Lego creation across the plastic grass he’d taken out of his basket. Abbi and I laughed.

Abbi nibbled on a chocolate-covered peanut butter bunny and doodled with her phone.

Asher helped me to my feet. “What’s in your basket?” Asher asked.

“A notebook that fits in my purse and a gift card to the wine shop,” I said, shrugging.

“No chocolate?” Asher teased.

“I don’t eat it much.”

“Mom says it’s too sweet. Maybe you can get her to see reason,” Abbi said without glancing up.

“I’m pretty sure there’s something else in there,” Asher said, flicking at the fake grass so it crinkled. I played along, digging around inside. I pulled out a business-card-size piece of paper.

I pulled it out and read it. My mouth fell open. “Really?”

He smirked and nodded. “You have one, too, Abbi.”

“VIP?” Abbi breathed as she pulled a matching card from her basket.

“Absolutely. Keep ’em on you, and they’re good for any of our shows. See, I signed the back with the code Reggie needs to know these are legit. He’s our right-hand guy. He’ll remember you after the first show. You won’t really need ’em after that.”

Abbi squealed and hugged him hard. “That’s so awesome. Thanks, Asher.”

Mason looked up. “It’s no biggie. You just flash your card to Reggie, and he lets you sit in the green room or the front row.”

“Front row?” Abbi gasped. She fanned her face. “I’m so excited.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Asher chuckled. “I heard you tell your mom you want to come to Seattle.” His gaze was uncertain. “Whenever you’re in the city and we have a gig, I’d like you to come. You’ll always have all-access to our shows.”

“Thank you so much,” I said.

I settled back in his arms, and he dipped his knees. I rested my head against the hollow between shoulder and chest. My spot. My heartbeat escalated. I shouldn’t feel like I knew Asher well enough to claim a spot on his body. But I did.

“I’d planned to give them to you later as a thank-you for the weekend, but this seemed like a better time.”

“Perfect timing,” I smiled.

“So you’ll come to Seattle?”

I nodded, my lips mashed together in an effort to keep my emotions controlled. “Of course. Thank you.”

“Omigod, Luke’s gonna freak out,” Abbi squealed. She bounded up from her chair, eyes wide. “I need to call him. Can I go call him?” she asked.

I nodded. She ran up the stairs to her room.

“That was really sweet,” I said.

“So was all this,” Asher responded. He spread his arms to encompass the Easter baskets and the house. “I think you’d make a great songwriter. Those words—I’m getting chills thinking about them.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

I shook my head, but happiness bubbled up in my chest. “I needed to give you something important because you gave me back my life. My ability to hope.”

He tucked my hair behind my ear as he leaned in to murmur, “Same goes, Dahlia.”

* * *

I
made
a huge brunch because Asher and Mason were leaving late in the afternoon. Asher insisted on helping me with the dishes. I enjoyed the coziness of working together in the kitchen while the kids played the building game on the neglected Wii I’d bought Abbi a few years before.

“No fair, Mason,” Abbi moaned. “You’ve had more practice at this.”

“You’re older and should understand physics better than I do,” Mason responded.

My phone rang. “Hey, Bri. Happy Easter.”

“You need to sit down.”

“You left The Asshole?”

She snorted. “I’m not that brave. Don’t freak.”

“Too late. Did something happen to Mom?” The blood drained from my face. “Did The Asshole get you pregnant?”

“No, thank God. Which says something about my relationship. Now, will you listen? Someone must have followed him.”

“Followed him?” I asked. “Who?”

“What are you talking about?” Asher asked. He hung the dishtowel on its hook, concern building in his eyes.

Briar huffed. “There’s no way to feed this to you gently. There are pictures of you together. That first night you and Asher met. It looks . . . sordid. What they did with the pictures.”

My lips felt numb. The feeling, blessedly, traveled downward. I turned toward Asher. “Jessica knew you were coming here?” I asked him.

Asher nodded, a scowl forming.

Briar said, “The pictures are in today’s Seattle paper, but other sites have picked up the story,”

“What does it say?”

“Nothing nice.”

I stuck my hand out and asked Asher for his phone. He opened the web browser app and handed it over. “What site?” I asked. Briar named one of those news aggregator sites. If the link wasn’t to all the news outlets, it would be soon.

Supernaturals Lead Singer’s Wife Claims Affair is Last Straw
.

I blinked my way through the next couple of paragraphs, my chest tightening.

The article talked about how I was a lonely, sexually deviant writer who liked musicians. The writer suggested I put up dating profiles so I could take men to my bed to gather new fodder for my books. My date with Dale was detailed down to the type of coffee I drank and how I lapped up the attention from one of my fans.

Dale had messed with his phone. God, he’d probably recorded the whole conversation.

Black spots formed in front of my eyes. Asher wanted a normal relationship. He wanted poems and Easter baskets, and this . . . this is what the world thought of me.

“Oh,” I wheezed.

Asher moved behind me, peering over my shoulder. He snatched his phone from my hand. I tried to breathe through the rising panic. I could handle this. It was just my reputation. No problem.

“Jessica?” he asked. His voice vibrated with anger.

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure it mattered who’d sent the pictures. Jessica and Dale had already talked to the media. Anything I said now was a rebuttal.

The pictures looked bad. While I knew I was having a panic attack in one, to the outside world, Asher was holding me in a tight clinch, his head bent toward mine. He hadn’t kissed me, but it looked like he was about to screw me against the side of a building in a busy part of Seattle. Another showed us holding hands on the pier, us laughing in the surf.

“Fuck. Dale’s one of her boyfriends. They set you up,” he said after reading the full article himself. His voice was clipped, anger dripping from each sentence. “I’ll call the record’s PR head. It’ll be okay, Dahlia. We’ll work this out.”

I wheezed out a laugh. Sure. Once I was trashed all over social media.

“Don’t panic,” Briar shouted.

“I’m not,” I said, the response automatic. “Everything’s fine.” Then the phone slid from my hand. The anxiety burst through my chest. My lungs labored, failed to draw enough oxygen. I struggled against the overwhelming sensation, but the waves of anxiety were too big. Soon they’d be over my head.

Asher’s arms slid around me. He was warm and smelled of safety.

“You need to stop dropping your phone,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m getting you one of those heavy-duty cases. Listen to me, Dahlia, I know you’re panicking. I know it’s scary. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay. This is fixable.”

He repeated the words. How did he know what I needed to hear? He understood I couldn’t control these emotions. That, more than anything, helped the panic recede.

I dragged air into my lungs as I pressed my wet cheek into his shoulder.

“My phone’s not important,” I huffed against his chest. “Did I break it?”

Asher shook his head.

“Is Briar still on the phone?” I asked.

“Abbi’s talking to her.”

He nodded toward the other side of the kitchen. Abbi had my phone pressed to her ear, the other arm wrapped around her waist as she listened to my sister. Mason was still engrossed in his game. I was thankful he hadn’t seen me fall apart, hadn’t been scared.

“He does seem good for her. Totally calms her down,” Abbi said.

She was right. Asher did. Instead of pulling away, I pressed against him, but I had to say the words to him. “I-I’m so sorry I’ve complicated your divorce, Asher.”

“You didn’t. Jessica did. She told me she had insurance. I didn’t get that it was you. Us.”

I clung to him, hating what I had to do. I’d pushed aside my concerns about dating another musician. I’d gone so far as to build a fantasy of us, together. But life wasn’t that easy. Or that perfect.

“I’m not ready to push what’s between us,” I whispered. “I like saying we’re friends collaborating on a project. That we worked together this weekend.”

I looked up and caught the pain in Asher’s face. He sucked in his bottom lip but nodded. “Probably smart. I hate that Jessica’s upset you,” he said. He cupped my cheek. “I’ll call my PR team now that you’re okay. We’ll let everyone know that she served
me
the papers almost a year ago. Ask your sister for those pictures of her and Dale from the cabin, will you?”

He sighed, a heavy sound weighted down with defeat and guilt. I gripped his forearm, my nails digging in when he tried to step back. He inhaled but met my eyes. The sadness there . . . . My lungs compressed again, but for a different reason. I’d hurt him.

“I don’t want you to do that for me. I don’t want to create a bigger media storm for you and Mason.”

“I’m doing it for me,” Asher said. “For my band.”

I searched his eyes, but I didn’t see anything in there to give me pause. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” He glanced over at Abbi, who was watching us. “I meet the guys tomorrow, and we’re practicing all this week on the songs I sent them and maybe the ones you and I worked on. We go into the studio the following Thursday.”

I frowned. “That’s good, right?”

“Sure. But I won’t be around much, probably until that gig in Seattle.”

Ah. He was pulling back, too. I wondered if it was because of what I’d just said.

“I want to talk to you, Dahlia even if I can’t get out here to see you. Don’t shut me out. I can see you want to.”