Bear Treble (Highland Brothers 4) (3 page)

S
he sat
at the bar in the kitchen alone. She couldn’t believe Dylan had walked out. Not only did he walk out in the middle of their conversation, but he also barked out some kind of weird house decree. Who in the hell did he think he was? He couldn’t tell her what to do. She ran a multi-million dollar company. She had over a hundred employees. She had platinum records. She had an international tour that started in three months. She was Layla Love.

She swallowed another sip of wine and jumped from the stool. This wasn’t over. She was going to talk to him and make him understand how critical this was. Of course she was an artist. Of course she knew there was merit in the songs. But she had a brand and a label to protect. People counted on her for their livelihood—he needed to understand that too.

She headed in the direction Dylan had left and stopped at the door. It was low at first, but then she heard his voice over the guitar. The notes were strong against his words. She cracked the door enough to hear every note clearly. She closed her eyes as the words came spilling from him.

He wasn’t aware she was there. She could hear it in his voice—he was lost in the music. Belting out the lyrics as if he were pouring out the secrets of his soul. She froze, needing the door to brace her. It was powerful and raw.

When the song ended, she stepped on to the porch.

Dylan turned to face her. “That was beautiful,” she whispered.

He looked confused. His eyes darted back and forth. She could see the same anguish in his eyes she felt in the song. “You heard it?” he whispered.

She nodded, as a tear slipped down her cheek. She rushed to wipe it away. “When did you write it?”

His eyes dropped to the floor. “Now.”

“That happened just now?” She inched closer. His chest was heaving. The guitar was strapped to his giant shoulders.

He looked up. “I need to get it down.” He sat in the chair and started jotting down the notes and words.

“It’s for me isn’t it?” She wanted to reach out and touch him. She needed something to connect to the song that just came from this man.

“Yes.” He continued to write.

“What’s it called?”

His voice was low. “
Crave
.”

The way he said it almost had the same effect as hearing him sing. She wanted to clutch at her chest to stop the feelings ripping through her.

“I want to release it first. The very first one off the album. It has to be.”

And then he shot her a look that she knew if looks could kill, she’d be dead on this front porch.

She walked backward before turning for the house. Dylan had written other songs for her. But nothing had shaken her like that song. It rattled in her bones. It filled spaces in her heart. It made it hard to breathe. There was music. And then there was what Dylan had created.

And she had ruined the moment. Taken the precious gift he had created and reminded him why everyone thought she was a diva, devoid of human emotion. She wanted to take it back. Say something that mattered. Say anything but what she said about turning the song into a hit, but it was too late. The only thing to do was leave him alone.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor, leaving him to finish a song that lit a torch in her soul.

A
fter he finished
Crave
, he worked on another song. It was close to four when he finally rubbed his eyes and realized he needed to get some sleep. He carried his guitar and notepad in the house and locked the front door behind him.

He didn’t know what happened, but suddenly there was a flood of music ready to spring from his fingertips. He couldn’t get the notes and words down fast enough. He could see and feel it everywhere.

His bear growled as he took the steps. His mate was up there, sleeping in one of the many guestrooms. He shook his head. He would finish the album for Layla because he had to. He didn’t want to be blacklisted for breaking a contract. He didn’t want to ruin the professional relationship he had built with Billy. And he knew deep down he didn’t want to disappoint his mate.

But as soon as the album was finished, Layla would leave. She could ride off on her world tour. She could sing her songs to millions of people and rake in all the money she wanted. Because like it or not, that’s all she cared about.

He stopped in front of one of the closed doors. He didn’t have to open it to know she was sleeping on the other side. The ache pulsed under his ribs. His bear still wanted her. His bear didn’t care about her fame, or whether she was a high maintenance nightmare. He only wanted what he thought was his.

Dylan forced himself down the hall to his room. There were many times when he fought against his animal nature, but never more than this. His bear was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. Layla wasn’t the mate for him.

He knew what it meant to have a fated mate. To have the one woman meant only for him. An attraction so strong, he wouldn’t be able to resist her. He scowled over his shoulder at her door. To hell with fated mates. He was in control, not his bear.

He pushed open his door and dropped in the center of his bed. He needed sleep and in the morning he would finish the album. The sooner he gave her the songs, the sooner she would leave Highland House and be out of his life.

D
ylan had
no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes. He could hear music coming from downstairs. He rolled out of bed, aware he had slept in yesterday’s clothes. He lumbered down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Layla was making breakfast. She was singing to the radio, flipping pancakes on the hot griddle.

“Oh hey.” She smiled.

“Hey.” He scratched the back of his head. “What’s going on?”

“Breakfast, silly.” She went back to belting out the song on the radio. “Hungry?”

He thought it was possibly a mirage brought on by sleep deprivation. Sometimes when he wrote too many hours in a row he knew things got a little loopy. Not enough food, too much alcohol. But he swore he didn’t even finish one glass of wine last night.

“Sit,” she ordered with the spatula.

She had pulled her long hair into a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. He noticed the natural rosiness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked lighter and brighter without all the heavy mascara. He felt a pang in his chest. Holy hell, she was even more beautiful than she was yesterday.

He sat as she instructed and waited while she slid a cup of coffee into his hands.

“I noticed yesterday you drink it black.”

He nodded.

“Not sure about your pancakes, though.” She loaded a stack and placed it in front of him. “I found syrup, honey, and butter.”

“Honey,” he answered.

She slathered it on all the layers and returned it to him. “What are you doing, Layla?”

“I’m making breakfast.”

“I can see that. Why?” He couldn’t resist the hot food in front of him, not to mention the sweet smell of honey. He cut into the stack and took a giant bite.

She turned down the radio and placed her palms on the counter. “To say sorry, ok?”

“Sorry?” He had never had pancakes melt in his mouth like these.

“You know why.” She turned away from him and flipped over another batch.

He had no clue what was happening, only that he thought the Highland kitchen had turned into some kind of dream scenario. His mate was waiting on him, padding around the kitchen singing with an angel’s voice, feeding him his favorite food, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. He had to still be sleeping.

“I don’t.” He wasn’t trying to be stubborn.

She huffed. “Because of what I said on the porch. I didn’t mean it, Dylan.”

“This is because of
Crave
?”

She nodded. “I know I was a bitch.”

He shrugged. “You told me what you wanted. You wanted hits.”

“I did. I do. But, I shouldn’t have said it then.” She abandoned the spatula. “What I should have said is that I’ve never felt a song like that.”

“Felt?”

“Yes. I didn’t hear it. I felt it.” Her eyes locked on his, and for a second he didn’t think he could keep his bear’s chains on. There were loosening and slackening with every word she spoke. With every smile she gave.

“I’m glad you liked it. Then it’s a keeper.” He shoveled more pancakes in his mouth.

“Of course it’s a keeper. But it’s more than that. I don’t think I can explain it. Will you play it for me today so I can sing it?”

He stopped. It was one thing for him to get the words out. To open his soul to the music, but it was something else for her to do it in return.

“Just take it with you. You can record it when you get back to Seattle.”

“Please, Dylan.”

Her eyes softened, and he felt all the resistance he had sliding away. Fuck.

“Sure. After breakfast.”

S
he told
Dylan she’d clean the kitchen while he set up on the porch. She tried to remember the last time she did something this normal. There was always someone shoving a breakfast shake in her hand, or making dinner reservations for a group of friends for her. She didn’t wash dishes anymore, or serve pancakes.

She smiled, drying one of the plates with a kitchen towel. She paid people to do things like this for her. It was nice to feel normal.

Dylan was on the porch with a pair of guitars when she walked outside.

The air was crisp and clean as she breathed in a full breath. “It’s really beautiful out here.” She loved how the light filtered through the thick forest.

He continued to arrange the chairs and guitars. “It is. There’s a reason the house is out here.”

She wriggled her nose. “So no one can find the Highlands when they’re working?”

He grunted. “Something like that.” He turned toward her, his chest wide like a boulder. “Ready to get started?”

She nodded, scooting into one of the chairs he pulled out for her. She picked up the guitar. “I don’t usually play.”

“But you know how?”

She nodded. “My grandfather taught me when I was a little girl.”

“Hmm. I would have thought you added it as part of your show.”

She scowled at him. “I also play the piano.”

“Well aren’t you full of surprises?” She knew he was teasing her—maybe the pancakes had worked. He didn’t seem as annoyed with her.

He rested the guitar on his knee, twisting the tuning pegs between his large fingers. He paused for a moment, looking in her direction. “You look good holding a guitar.”

She felt the sudden blush against her neck.

“What else did he teach you?”

“Hmm?” she answered mindlessly.

“You said your grandfather taught you to play. Were you two close?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know the Layla Love rags-to-riches story.”

His eyes crinkled around the corners. “Should I?”

“Just play the song.”

“You’re not going to tell me?” he asked. She didn’t know there were people in the world who didn’t know about her past. It followed her everywhere.

She sighed. “All right. My grandfather raised my sister and me. You could say he wasn’t really prepared for it. He didn’t have a lot of money—none actually.” She stared at the tops of her boots. No matter how many times she told the story, it always made her feel the same way.

She continued with the tale, “He was the janitor at the church, and on Sundays he played the organ. I learned how to play on those days when he stayed late to practice.”

Dylan smiled, his white teeth peeking behind his lips. “Sounds like a man who loved music.”

She let a laugh slip. “We couldn’t tear him away. I don’t know how many times he forgot to feed us dinner because he was working through a song. He loved any instrument he could get his hands on. We would be the only people there—just listening to him play. Eventually he let me join him.” She could picture the three of them in the sanctuary with the dim lights surrounding them. “We’d take turns. My sister would sing and I would play. I think it was what got him through, you know?” She turned feeling the heat of Dylan’s eyes on her.

“Music soothes broken souls, Layla.”

“Can we play now? You can read my entire biography online.” She meant it as a joke, but realized maybe it didn’t sound that way.

Sharing those memories were hard, even if everyone else knew. It felt different sitting on the porch telling Dylan about her grandfather. They had had a complicated relationship. He loved her like a father, but she knew it put a strain on him to raise two young girls. She was only sad he never lived long enough to see her success. She could have done so much to repay him.

“Sure. Let’s play,” Dylan grumbled.

She reached for the lyrics resting on his lap. As her fingers drifted over his thigh she heard a distinct rumble spring from his chest.

Dylan immediately strummed a C chord, covering the sound with music. She stared at him, but his head was buried over the guitar and his fingers were working the strings.

She cleared her throat, steadying her breathing. As soon as she heard the notes, she launched into the words that he sang last night. Words that had cut right through her. The melody was beautiful and haunting. She was lost in the arrangement as he continued to play. When the music stopped she opened her eyes, looking at him.

His eyes were intoxicating. She knew it the first time she saw him, and she knew it now. They were dark and mysterious, like deep pools of coal.

“What do you think?” She was afraid to ask him.

He nodded, his jaw clenching with the motion. “I think you nailed it.”

Her lips twitched into a smile. Somehow his compliment meant more than any one she’d ever heard. “Thanks. I think it’s the song.”

“No. It’s you, Layla.”

There was something happening between them. She could feel it, and she almost thought she could see it. The way the fall air whipped around them. The way the sun dappled at their feet. The way the music spoke to both of them. His lyrics drifted from her lips as if they were one person singing together.

She shifted her knee so that it barely brushed against Dylan’s, bringing the guitar into her lap. Her fingers wrapped around the head. His eyes brimmed with the emotion from the song. She could feel it.

Her eyes lifted to his.

He craved her.