She sniffed. “Only if writing lyrics on napkins and the back of take-out menus counts. When I’m stressed, that’s how my thoughts come out—in poetry, lyrics.”
“Totally counts. Some of the best songs out there were probably scribbled first on a bar napkin.” He lifted his palm, where she could see minute print along the fleshy mound beneath his thumb. “I’m partial to the writing-on-my-hand method when I get inspiration.”
She laughed and grabbed his hand, turning it so she could read the slightly smudged words. Bread. Beer. Cheese. “This is your grocery list.”
He grinned. “It’s a multipurpose notepad.”
She lowered his hand but didn’t let go of it.
He curled his fingers around hers. “So what’s it going to take for me to hear some of those songs you’ve written?”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You know,” he said, undeterred. “There’s this great guy who has a studio. He’s very good-looking and wildly talented. He’d probably be willing to cut you a deal to make a few demos.”
She gave him a small smile and shook her head. ?
?I appreciate that. Really. But I have no interest in resurrecting my singing career.”
He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “What about trying a new one as a songwriter?”
“Pike …”
“No, I’m serious. You could put together a few demos, try to sell the songs to a publisher. It’s always a long shot, but if the rest of your stuff is anything like the song I heard, you have a solid chance. Even the songs we’re working on at Bluebonnet are strong, and I know they’re based on melodies you originally came up with.”
She blew out a breath, the offer tempting in that way going on a trip to the moon was—fantastical but impossible. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m past the point of having time to chase a pipe dream. I’ve already got two jobs. I don’t need another—especially one that may never put food on the table.”
He put his hands back on the counter and eyed her. “Come on, Oakley, that’s bullshit and you know it. You’re writing the songs anyway. Laying down a couple of tracks wouldn’t take long. What could it hurt to try?”
There was no censure in his voice, but his earnestness was prodding at things she didn’t want poked, stirring up hope that she’d long put to rest. She had to remember that it was easy for someone with a pile of cash in the bank to spout off about chasing your passions and dreams, but Pike didn’t live in the real world. She did.
She slid off the stool and walked around the counter. He turned to face her, and she put her hands on his shoulders, meeting his eyes. “Pike, I’m willing to go away for a night with you. I’m looking forward to that and I like working with you at Bluebonnet. But this—my life, what I do with it, how I handle my daughter—is not your territory. So, back off.”
His expression fell then darkened, but he didn’t say anything.
She pushed up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’s late. I’m getting Rae and going to bed. Thank you for letting us stay.”
He didn’t kiss her back and he didn’t touch her. His open expression had closed fully—a tightly sealed door. “Good night, Oakley.”
She walked out of the kitchen and didn’t look back. She didn’t want him to see the tears that filled her eyes.
Stupid tears.
Ones that shouldn’t be wasted on long-dead dreams.
She got Reagan settled into the big bed in Pike’s room without waking her, curled up in sheets that smelled like him, and let the old, familiar grief drift away.
She’d gotten good at saying good-bye to that dreaming girl.
That girl had no place in her life anymore.
SEVENTEEN
Pike watched Braxton’s face change from intense and serious to a wide smile as the phone conversation went on. Pike and the guys had been rehearsing in the studio for a few hours, bouncing around a few new song ideas, but all had come to a halt when Harlan, their manager, had called.
The interruption was welcome. Pike had been having trouble concentrating all afternoon. Tonight was the night with Oakley, and he had no idea how to feel about it. Part of him couldn’t wait to get her out to The Ranch so he could finally touch her and not have to worry about who saw. But he couldn’t help being bothered by the line she’d drawn between them the other night. First, she’d turned down his offer to take her on a date. Then she’d shut him down when he’d tried to talk to her about pursuing her song writing. So it was okay for them to fuck but not to discuss real life stuff.
He should’ve been relieved. The woman wasn’t looking for more than a hot time in bed. That was how relationships usually worked for him. But hearing it from Oakley had stung. She’d said she didn’t want the rock-star treatment, but she’d lied. Maybe she didn’t want to have a flashy date, but she wanted the one-night stand. She wanted to treat this like some anonymous hookup after a show.