Blue Horizons (A Horizons Novel Book 1) (11 page)

“No, it’s more than that.” He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to make a decision, and then he reaches out with one finger to hold one of mine.

He wants to hold my hand!
I wrap my finger around his.

“Thanks again for driving me home last night. I’m sorry about what happened outside . . . both times.” I drop my eyes to the ground. I know I should be feeling incredibly embarrassed by my behavior, instead I just want to laugh remembering my conversation with the girls this morning.

“No worries, I gather you have your reasons, which is your business, and that’s all right by me. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Hearing his kind and genuine words, my eyes immediately lift to his. Most people when they find out I have panic attacks and anxiety, they make me feel uncomfortable and awkward. They probe me with questions and offer unwanted advice. This is the first time I can ever remember someone just accepting me as I am, and he’ll never know how much this means to me. I already liked him before, and this just made him so much more becoming.

“Av! Are you two coming or what?” Emma yells from the outside.

“Yeah, she’s kind of persistent,” I giggle. “We should go join them.”

“Or we could leave them and just take off.” He tilts his head toward the front door, grinning.

“Nah, we never have guys around. They’re super excited.” Why did I just say that?

“Really?” He looks at me curiously.

I shake my head, not wanting to answer any more questions. For a brief second, sadness washes over his face and then it’s gone. He must realize it’s because of me.

“All right then, let’s go.” He drops my finger and I grab the plate of cupcakes.

“We eat dessert first,” I say nonchalantly.

“And now I like you even more.” He’s flirting with me and I blush.

Stepping out the French doors, both of us blink at the brightness of the sun and he sneezes three times in a row.

“Bless you,” I say at the exact same time he says, “Bless me.” He runs his hand over his face and then gives me a small one-sided smile. It surprises me how much his face transforms from a rugged expression to a youthful one, and really it’s all because of the dimples.

“The sun makes me sneeze.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Every time?”

“Yep,” he says flatly.

“That’s kind of . . . cute.” I smile at him and he cocks a smirk at me.

“Cute? Whatever you say.” His smirk stretches into a smile. I really like it when he smiles.

Walking down the steps toward the lake, like a gentleman, Ash lets me go first. I try to argue him on this, but he just looks at me like I’m crazy. What I find interesting is I don’t mind it. Yes, I know he’s behind me, and I can
feel
him behind me . . . and that's what usually triggers panic. Not this time though. That is until I feel his hand drift across my lower back and I instantly stiffen. He feels the change in me and drops it. I glance back at him and his lips are pressed into a thin line. I hate how my body reacts to being touched. The sad part is I really want him to put his hand there. It’s nice.

Suddenly, I don’t know how to act normal around him. Not that I am in the first place, but I feel awkward and this is hard. He shrinks the size of the space, sucks up all of the oxygen, and we are outside. I ruined that moment and I’m frustrated. I feel out of control and confused by the way I feel about him. How can I want him to touch me, but not at the same time? And really what does it even matter? In a couple of hours, he’ll be gone and this will be over. The last thing I need right now is to have a crush on some guy who I just met. I need to be focusing on my career and the girls.

“There you two are. Get lost?” Emma says as I set down the plate. “You know, last night we didn't formally meet. Hi, I'm Emma.” She holds out her hand to him and he takes it. Watching such a simple interaction between the two of them causes my stomach to tighten. I'm jealous of that touch; there’s no hesitation, and she so easily accepts it from him.

“Hi, I'm Ash.” He nods to Emma and Cora, looks at me, grins, and then back to her. I like that he acknowledged me in this conversation too.

His friend, Clay, chokes on his beer and starts laughing. “Ash! That’s what I call you.” I don't understand the look on his face or his tone.

“I know. I told her that’s what my friends call me.” Silence passes over our group as the two guys stare at each other. Ash’s expression says “Don't question me on this,” and Clay’s reads confusion.

Ash nods his head at his friend, and then his blue eyes land on me. Heat floods my cheeks. I probably shouldn’t have been watching their exchange, but what I caught on to was the fact that Ash isn’t his real name—it’s a nickname. So really, I don’t know anything more about him than I did last night, except he likes my cupcakes.

“Well, I like the name Ash, it suits you. I'm Cora.” His eyes leave mine and skip to her. She holds out her hand and he takes it. They smile at each other, and that pang of uncomfortable jealousy hits me again. This sucks and I hate this feeling. Pulling up the walls around me, I close off any feelings that might have been developing for him and take my seat in between the girls. Nothing good can come of it anyway, so there’s no use in thinking about it or him.

Closed off. That's how people have come to describe me and that's how I'm going to stay.

I COULDN’T WAIT to get out and stretch my legs. Mornings have always been my favorite time of the day. Most people like sleep, but I’ve never been one that needs much of it, so while the rest of the world is getting that last little bit of shut-eye, I’m outside running, enjoying the quietness of a new day. Whether I’m back home in Nashville, in some city during the tour, or here in the mountains, I love it.

Every place offers something different.

Whiskey loves mornings too. He loves to run. His only problem is that he likes to play chase. He chases squirrels, pigeons, cars, people—it doesn’t matter—so the fewer opportunities he has to come in contact with any of these, the better. The trick with him is to stop running or moving. If you stop, he stops. If you run, he runs, and he’ll always catch you, usually by tackling you down. On more than one occasion this has been a problem for us.

Stopping, I turn and stare out at the mist covering the lake. The glow beyond the eastern mountains has grown into morning light. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I can’t stop thinking about Ava and how much of a good time Clay and I both had spending the day with her and her friends.

I had hoped to get to know Ava a little more, but as we approached the outdoor living room area where Clay and the girls were sitting, the little brown-haired one—who I learned was Emma—stood up and moved one seat over, leaving the one between her and the blonde, Cora, open. It was an unconscious move too. She was in the middle of introducing herself to me and she just moved. Ava sat down between them and a pang of disappointment hit me. Looking on the bright side, sitting across from her gave me full access to stare at her, and stare at her I did . . . for hours.

Her wild, curly hair was pulled up into a knot on top of her head, she was wearing large hoop earrings, and the only trace of makeup I could see was lip gloss. She had on a long-sleeved, gray t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder when she moved and skinny jeans that were so tight they reminded me just how perfect her legs are. Most of the afternoon, she kept them tucked under her in her chair, but occasionally she would stretch them out in front of her, and damn, if I didn’t watch every move and twist she made.

I can’t remember the last time Clay and I just sat around a campfire and wasted away the day. Granted I’ve been hiding out and not doing much, but this was different. It was fun, relaxing, and the conversation flowed so easily. Not once did we talk about our day-to-day lives, and as great as it was to avoid all of that banality, in hindsight, I didn’t learn very much about her. She lives in New York City. She works with her friends. She has great taste in music and loves to bake, but that’s about it. I had been hoping for an opportunity to come up where she and I could slip away for a bit, but it never happened, and her friends kept her pretty much locked between them.

As the day slipped into the evening, Clay pulled his guitar out of the truck and played for the three of them. I didn’t even realize he had brought it, but this was the perfect occasion for it. The music was light and peaceful. Some of the things he played were older popular songs from artists like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, and some I had never heard, which meant he’s been working on new material over the last three weeks. Several times, his eyes flickered to mine. He knew what he was doing—he knew if he played enough, I would cave, wanting to hear more. And I did.

Right around ten, the girls started yawning. I would have stayed all night, but it was time to go. Walking back up the steps to the house, my gut tightened at the thought of not seeing her again, so it may not have been very original, but I did the only thing I could think of and gave her my cell phone number. At first she looked surprised, but then she smiled so sweetly at me, I had another urge to kiss her, and damn, it sucked that I couldn’t. Not yet at least.

I’m going to give her one month. If I don’t hear from her by then, I’m going to track her down somehow, by either getting her number from Emma—who I know will be talking to Clay based on their body language yesterday—or Emma’s parents. I’m not above getting stalkerish and using public records, such as the purchase records of Emma’s parents’ house to somehow find a way to get in contact with her. I don’t know what it is about her, but I’m interested enough to want to find out. She’s different and I like that.

Part of me thinks she’s not the type of girl to chase after guys—which is a welcome relief—but I still want to leave it in her hands. She’s shy, quiet, and in a lot of ways, standoffish, so even if the month passes, at least she knows that I want to talk to her and I’m not coming on too strong, too quick.

Even though I know she hasn’t called or texted yet, it doesn’t stop me from pulling my phone from my pocket and checking . . . nope, but what I do have is a missed call from Juliet.

Juliet.

Needing to face the music, no pun intended, I know it’s time to call her. Tapping her name, the phone starts dialing. She answers on the second ring.

“Will, you are so lucky you decided to call me back.” She’s pissed. I knew she would be, but I had been a little hopeful she’d cut me some slack. I hate making her mad, but she’s funny when she’s mad and I chuckle at her comment.

She huffs into the phone. “Don’t you laugh at me; it’s been months!” The faint strain in her voice lets me know she’s not just mad, she’s worried too. I hate that she worries over me, but it’s nice at the same time. Other than Clay, Juliet is the only other person I’ve allowed close enough for that to happen. In this industry, we meet a lot of people, but I can count on one hand the number of people who really know me.

“Yeah, I know and I’m sorry. I just needed some time to myself.” I wonder how many times I’m going to have to give this response over the next couple of weeks. I haven’t stayed completely off the grid; I’ve seen how social media and the tabloids have blown up:
Country singer, Will Ashton, shocks fans after his recent disappearance from the Phoenix concert. What went wrong? And where is he?
There’s a multitude of speculations, and unfortunately for them, the answer is really boring.

“Well, are you about done?” she asks, attitude winning out over concern. Attitude that I probably deserve.

“I think so.” I frown into the phone, looking out over the lake. The fog has started to lift taking with it the dampness in the air.

I hate the idea of leaving here. It’s funny how for so long I wanted nothing to do with being a country boy, and now that’s all I long to be. I want to be here where life is slower, roots are put down, and the air is clean. I’m so sick of watching life pass by out the front windshield of the bus, and I absolutely loathe the smell of exhaust. Once Clay and I sit down to talk about what happens next, I’m hoping he’ll agree with me that we can spend more time here and less somewhere else.