My top teeth grab hold of the corner of my bottom lip to ward off a smile. “Do you have more than one?”
With her gaze still pinned to mine, she shakes her head.
“Your tattoo looks like a bird in flight.”
“It is,” she whispers.
I look down so I can trace a fingertip over it.
That sends a shiver through her, which she punctuates with that breathy sound again.
Jesus, that sound is shooting straight to my dick.
“What’s the significance of it?” I ask in a low tone.
Her eyes search mine for something. Maybe it’s understanding or compassion. I possess an abundance of both, so I’ll offer her an out because the tattoo is none of my fucking business even though I want to know everything there is to know about her.
Before I can shift the subject back to music, she answers my question. “My mom’s name was Becky Byrd. The bird on my wrist is to honor her.”
Was.
That word. That one small fucking word that dictates a life that is being lived in the moment and one that has ended.
Her mom died.
I sense it from the way her eyes are darting around as if she’s looking for an anchor to ride out this wave of grief.
I’ve been there. I’ve searched endlessly for that anchor only to find it in my daughter’s eyes. I’m not drifting aimlessly in grief anymore, but it coasts through me sometimes when Stevie mentions her mom.
“It’s a beautiful tattoo,” I offer as I trace it again.
“Thank you.” A soft smile settles on her lips. “My mom was a singer too.”
There’s a renewed strength in her voice. Music must be her anchor.
“If you inherited your talent from her, I’m guessing she was an incredible singer.”
That widens her smile. “The best. She had a hit song a long time ago.”
I glance down. I’m still holding onto her wrist. She has yet to try and tug free of my grasp. “What’s the name of the song?”
She does one better.
She starts humming a tune that I recognize immediately.
“Sweet Night Sky,” I say in a low tone. “That’s the song, right?”
That stops her before she can reach the chorus. “You know it?”
I nod.
“My mom wrote it, performed it, and produced it.”
I finally feel her hand drift away from me.
She picks up the glass in front of her and finishes her drink. Her tongue swipes her bottom lip to grab a lingering drop. “That was a hell of a good drink.”
I huff out a laugh. “Nothing you say will convince me of that.”
Her cheeks blush pink again as she leans closer to me. “If I order another, you could try just one sip. I promise it won’t be as bad as you remember.”
I lean forward too until our lips are mere inches apart. “You can’t make that promise.”
“I can,” she says with reassurance woven into her tone. “People’s tastes change as they age. What you didn’t like when you were sixteen, you might really like now.”
I study her face before locking my gaze on her intense green eyes. “You might be right. What did you really like when you were sixteen, Astrid?”
Her eyes widen. “Kissing.”
Well, fuck.
I don’t know if that’s a confession, an invitation, or both. I do know that she’s bordering on tipsy, and if I take her sweet, lush mouth for a kiss, I won’t stop at just one.
As much as I want that, regret will soon follow.
When I kiss her, and I will, I want her fully aware of what’s happening. I don’t want her to have any regrets either.
She stares at me for a moment before she straightens in her chair. “On second thought, I think I’ll pass on another drink. I’m going to head home.”
Chapter Sixteen
Astrid
Way to sound juvenile, Astrid.
I silently berate myself as I slide my jacket back on.
Kissing?
I had to say kissing when Berk asked what I really liked when I was sixteen.
Why didn’t I stick to the tried and true response that always sees me through everything? I should have said I liked music back then. Instead, I attempted to flirt with the older, sophisticated man.
My reward for that?
I was shut down.
He didn’t come right out and tell me that he wasn’t interested in kissing me, but he didn’t make a move other than to stay silent.
Why would he want to kiss me?
I have no idea when his wife died, so maybe he’s still in the grief stage. For all I know, he’s involved with someone.
“Can I take you home?” he asks like the gentleman he’s proving himself to be.
I glance up to find him on his feet too. “I’m good. I can walk. It’s close.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he offers with a smile.
It’s likely a pity smile. He probably feels sorry for me. Women must make moves on him constantly.
“That’s not necessary, Berk.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “It is to me. I’ll settle up with the waitress, and then we can take off.”