I nod. “Yes. I love it.”

“It’s intense, right?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Aspen gives it to me every time I drink too much.” She leans in until her mouth is against my ear. “It’s called aspirin.” When she pulls back, the confusion on my face makes her grin. “Did you think you were high?”

Why else would I be feeling like this?

I sit up. “That wasn’t an aspirin.”

She falls onto her back in a fit of laughter, making a cross over her chest. “Swear to God. You took an aspirin.” She’s laughing so hard she has to fight to catch her breath. When she finally does, she sighs and it’s delightful, and did I just fucking say delightful?

She shakes her head, looking up at me with a soft smile. “It’s not drugs making you feel like this, Leeds.” She stands up and makes her way around to the front of the house. Again, I follow her, because if that really was an aspirin, then I’m fucked.

I am fucked.

I didn’t know another person could make me feel this good without some sort of substance running through my body.

Layla doesn’t go to a bedroom once we’re inside the house. She walks into the Grand Room, the one with all the books and the baby grand piano. When we’re both inside, she closes the door and locks it. My jeans and her dress are leaving a trail of water behind us.

When I pause and turn to look at her, she’s staring at the water pooling beneath my feet.

“The floors are old,” she says. “We should respect them.” She pulls her soaking wet dress over her head, and now she’s standing in the dimly lit room five feet away from me in nothing but her bra and panties. They don’t match. She’s wearing a white bra and green-and-black-checkered panties, and I kind of love that she didn’t put much thought into what she wore under her dress. I observe her for a moment—admiring her curves and the way she doesn’t try to hide pieces of herself from me.

My last girlfriend had a body that could rival a supermodel’s, but she was never comfortable with herself. It became one of the things that irritated me about her because no matter how beautiful she was, her insecurity was the loudest thing about her.

Layla carries herself with a confidence that would be attractive no matter what she looked like.

I do as she requested and remove my jeans, leaving on my boxers. Layla gathers our clothes and puts them on top of a rug that’s probably worth more than the floors, but whatever makes her feel good.

I look around the room, and there’s a brown distressed-leather couch against the wall next to the piano. I want to throw her on it and lose myself inside of her, but Layla has different plans.

She pulls the piano bench out and sits on it. “Can you sing?” she asks, poking at a few of the keys.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you sing onstage?”

“It’s Garrett’s band. He’s never asked me to.”

“Garrett? Is that the lead singer’s name?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is he as atrocious as his lyrics?”

That makes me laugh. I shake my head and join her on the bench. “He’s pretty terrible, but he’s not as bad as his lyrics.”

She presses middle C on the piano. “Is he jealous of you?” she asks.

“Why would he be jealous of me? I’m just the bass player.”

“He’s not lead singer material. You are.”

“That’s a big statement. You’ve never even heard me sing.”

“Doesn’t matter. You could be terrible, but everyone else still fades into the background when you’re onstage.”

“Just like the rest of the crowd fades into the background when you’re dancing?”

“I was the only one dancing.”

“See? I didn’t even notice.”

She leans in after I say that, and I expect her to kiss me, but instead she whispers, “Play me something,” against my mouth. Then she moves to the couch and lies down. “Play something worthy of that piano,” she says.

She crosses her legs at her ankles and lets one of her arms dangle off the couch. She runs her finger against the hardwood floor while she waits for me to start playing, but I can’t stop staring at her. I’m not sure there’s another woman on this planet who could make me want to stare at her without blinking until my eyes dry up, but she’s looking at me expectantly.

“What if you don’t like my music?” I ask. “Will you still let me kiss you?”

She smiles gently. “Does the song mean something to you?”

“I wrote it using pieces of my soul.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she says quietly.

I spin around on the bench and place my fingers on the keys. I hesitate for a moment before playing the song. I’ve never performed it for anyone before. The only person I’ve ever wanted to sing it for is my father, and he’s no longer alive. His death is the reason I wrote this in the first place.

I’ve never been nervous while playing Garrett’s songs onstage, but this feels different. This is personal, and despite the fact that there’s only one person in the audience right now, it feels like the most intense audience I’ve ever performed for.

I fill my lungs with air and slowly release it as I begin to play.

That night I stopped believing in heaven

I can’t believe in a god that cruel

Can you?

That night I stopped praying on my knees

But I don’t pray standing either

Do you?

That night I closed the door and closed the window

I’ve been sitting in the dark

Are you?

That night I learned happiness is a fairy tale

A thousand pages read aloud

By you

That night I stopped believing in God

You were ours, he didn’t care, he

Took you

So that night I stopped . . .

I stopped . . .

I just

Stopped.

That night I stopped.

I stopped.

I just stopped.

That night I stopped.

I . . .

When I’m finished playing the song, I fold my hands in my lap. I’m a little hesitant to turn around and look at her. The whole room got quiet after I played the last note. So quiet—it feels like all the sound was sucked out of the house. I can’t even hear her breathing.

I close the cover to the piano and then slowly spin around on the bench. She’s wiping her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Wow,” she whispers. “I wasn’t expecting that. I feel like you just stomped on my chest.”

That’s how I’ve felt since I first laid eyes on her tonight.

“I like how it ends,” she says. She sits up on the couch and tucks her legs beneath her. “You just stop in the middle of the sentence. It’s so perfect. So powerful.”

I wasn’t sure if she’d realize the intentional ending, but the fact that she does makes me all the more enamored of her.

“Where can I find the song? Is it on Spotify?”

I shake my head. “I’ve never released any of my own stuff.”

She looks at me in mock horror, slapping the arm of the couch. “What? Why the hell not?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” I honestly don’t know. “Maybe because everyone in Nashville thinks they’re a somebody. I don’t want to be someone who thinks I’m a somebody.”