“You mean like a therapist?”
“No, though you could benefit from one.” She bumped her knee against his. He let out an easy laugh. He was so much less intense than he’d been yesterday.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a writer and words are kind of my thing.”
“I noticed.” The way his gaze locked on her implied he’d noticed more than just her profession.
A chill skated down her spine despite the warm summer sun. Him noticing her was only fair since she’d done nothing but notice him since she’d arrived.
“I like to write alone.” He began strumming again, almost purposefully ignoring her. Just like that, he’d shut down. Smiling, friendly Cash was a memory.
“So do I. I’ll be inside if you need me.” She stood. He didn’t try to stop her.
“The kitchen island has outlets if you want to work at the counter. Otherwise, there’s an office upstairs. Doesn’t get much use. I mostly work out here or in the studio downstairs.”
“Thanks,” she said, not meaning it.
At the door, she paused when he started singing “Lightning,” the pull of his voice almost enough to make her linger and listen as he scratched out every heart-rending word. Almost.
Steeling her spine, she forced herself to walk inside.