A Brand New Ending (Page 60)

She closed her eyes. Her voice rumbled from her throat, spinning out the lyrics of a song that bruised as much as it pleasured, her husky tones blending with a quiet emotion that was somehow more powerful than the crashing crescendos she was known for.

He held her as she sang, her back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. She sang for their past and for their unknown future, but most of all she sang for the present. She wanted to be in this moment, which she would never forget, with the man she loved.

The final stanza drifted away as quietly as it had begun. And she wondered briefly if Kyle had been right—if she’d been neglecting part of herself that needed to shine before it was lost forever.

“I used to hear your voice in my dreams after you left me. What song did you just sing?”

“‘City of Stars.’ It’s from the movie La La Land.”

He drew in a breath. “I saw that movie. I didn’t like the ending.”

“Neither did I. But it was necessary.”

His arms tightened around her. He tilted her chin up, and his gaze was fierce, possessing. He was a superhero bent on saving the day and giving her a happily ever after. “We can make our own ending. The one we want.”

She touched his cheek. “I love you, too, Kyle Kimpton.”

His gaze delved deeper, searching. Then he lowered his head and kissed her.

They didn’t speak again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ophelia rushed into his room, her face etched with the rare lines of panic. “I’m in trouble. I need your help.”

He sprung from his chair, still groggy from being ripped out of the scene he was writing, and clutched her shoulders. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I need your room. I just got a last-minute call from a group of snowboarders who want to book three nights. They’re paying top price. I need four empty rooms, but I’m short one. I’ve never been fully booked in early March. Can you move in with me instead?”

He relaxed, fighting a grin. It was rare to see his woman all hopped up about the inn since she was normally cool and capable, running a tight ship of ruthless organization that left little room for error.

“Of course. We’ve been spending every night together anyway, and I can write in your room. When are they arriving?”

“Tomorrow.” Her cheeks flushed, and curls escaped her topknot to curl wildly around her face. She was dressed in those heavenly, tight yoga pants he adored that showed off the lush curve of her ass and hips. She smelled of lemon polish and that honey-lavender lotion he could easily get drunk on. “I have a million things to do, but this could set me up with a nice cushion for the summer.”

“Let me know if you need me to help.”

“I’m calling Aubrey to come in for the cleaning and extra laundry. Do you think you can run into town for me and get some groceries? They’ve requested a March Madness viewing party in the main room. That’s basketball, right?”

He laughed. “Yes, but a roomful of men watching basketball sounds a bit scary.”

Her brows slammed together. “What happens? What do I need to be prepared for?”

God, she was adorable. And smart. And sexy.

“I’d just have some extra snacks on hand. I’ll pick up some hearty stuff that’s easy to stick in the oven and heat. Don’t worry—you got this.”

She dragged in a breath and seemed to calm down. “Thanks.” She moved toward the computer with curiosity. From all the time they’d spent together, she knew to never ask to read what he was working on. He had a terrible superstition about leaking creative juices if someone were to read his words before they were done. “How’s it going?”

Good. Bad. Past the slogging middle, with the end firmly in sight. He was beginning to slow down rather than speed up, which was his usual routine. It was as if the story had only one place to go, but he was fighting the true ending, forcing the characters into actions that felt foreign. But he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was becoming a wicked, tangled mess.

“Been better. But I’ll get there.”

She picked up the book to his right and smiled. “Whatcha reading, hot stuff?”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and quirked his brow. “Is there a chauvinistic comment about to emerge from those delectable lips? Something about men reading romance novels?”

She flipped through the pages, her face registering pure delight. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. It’s too delicious. This book looks good.”

“It is. Jill Shalvis is a master at contemporary romance. Emotion is key, and I like to tap into that segment of readers when I’m working in this genre.”

“And this one?” She pointed to another one in his pile. “Kristen Proby?”

“Her Fusion series revolves around a restaurant.” He shrugged. “What’s better than food, wine, and friendship? She’s also good at building in the family element, which is the core of a great story.”

“I’m impressed. Sorry, I should have never assumed you were reading them just for the sex. That’s narrow-minded.”

“Oh, I read them for the sex, too.” He gave her a wicked grin. “In fact, I’ll demonstrate what I learned tonight.”

Her giggle charmed him, even as she backed away. “Later, Casanova. I have too much work to do, and I’m a bit tired.”

“Too many late nights?”

“Maybe.” She gave him her own wink and sashayed out of his room. “But totally worth it.”

Damn right it was.

He sat back down at the computer. The past few weeks had flown by much too quickly, until he realized he’d gotten into a routine. He helped her with breakfast, chatted with the guests, and they shared their first meal of the day together. Then he wrote while she worked, and they reconvened in the early evening to eat, read, lounge by the fire, and make love all night long. The snow and cold shrouded them in a world of their own. Reality was a misty idea that had no place in the now. Because for now, everything was perfect. He almost wished the book would never get done. He had a few weeks left to deliver, and then he’d head west to take the most important meeting of his life.

He rubbed his head, refocused, and got back to the page. Ophelia’s words from last month drifted in his mind, reminding him how brutal it must have been to feel ripped apart by the world. The press hounding her, people snickering and writing lies. And the whole time, he’d been focused on his own career—annoyed she’d quit the show and caused a hassle. Shame burned through him, but he took it to the page and began to write.

“We need a rewrite.” Solomon threw the thick stack of papers on his desk in frustration. “I still don’t like the scene where Cassie and Jack kiss. It’s too emotional. I want it lighter and funny.”

Kyle frowned and blinked through gritty eyes. He’d barely slept the last few nights. He hated fighting with Ophelia, but it was as if there were a wall of ice between them. Every time they tried to talk, his irritation with her blew up. He was trying so hard to understand why she quit the singing show and didn’t seem interested in pursuing her dream any longer. Had she buckled under the pressure? Had she been a different person from what he’d imagined? All they did now was fight, or ignore one another. Still, he needed to find some way to communicate with her. They couldn’t go on like this.