expression what he'd been thinking. He launched into the first few bars of "All My Ex's Live in Texas," more to distract her than anything.
She laid a hand on his arm. "Not that one."
He stopped abruptly, confounded by her touch. He could feel every one of her fingertips against the back of his hand, and his damn imagination had them sliding up over his arm to his shoulders, circling around to his back, seizing him hard and pulling him against her as she—
"Why not?" he growled. "You don't like George Strait?"
"I like him fine. I just want to hear one of yours."
"My what?"
"Oh, please." He dared a look at her and saw amusement twinkling in her eyes. A stray lock of blond hair had come loose and fluttered against her cheek; it was all he could do to resist brushing it away from her face, all the better to kiss her. "You don't think I know every single country standard, every song written in the last decade? I've got every writer worth his or her salt in my contact list. I've commissioned work for some of the top talent in town, and I know those songs by heart by the first time they're sung in public. And I know where that song you sang the other night came from, precisely because I've never heard it before."
"Oh yeah?"
" You wrote it," she said. "And now I want to hear something else you wrote."
He stared at her for a long moment, trying to decide whether to argue, tell her she was wrong, refuse to play this game. He could do it—he'd gone up against the best and won, his teenage sullenness beating even Gerald Warner, head of a Fortune 500 company, who never lost arguments. There was no way some hundred-pound bit of woman was going to wear him down. Chase Warner did exactly what he wished these days, no more and no less.
"If I could buy tomorrow in a store," he found himself singing.
What was he doing? "If I Could Buy Tomorrow" was a song he'd never sung for anyone, something he wrote the night his father was rushed to the hospital, his life slipping away fast after the heart attack that would kill him by morning. "Tomorrow" was all of his regrets and wishes in a few verses, the only outlet Chase had that night because he couldn't cry, couldn't do anything but stare at the gray-faced man in the bed, wishing everything had been different.
* * *
"Don't stop," Regina whispered.
Chase looked like he was being tortured. His handsome face was twisted in what looked like pain, and for a moment, she thought he would storm out of the tree house and leave her there. Instead, after what seemed like eternity, he continued.
"I'd take it to the register, and pay for it with wishes and regrets."
God, his voice was beautiful. It was low and lilting and seemed to reach every inch of her, from her ears to her heart to the nerve endings along her skin. "That's a money voice right there, honey," Meredith would say—often did say, when she signed a new client—but it also had the very rare quality of making her feel like he was singing only to her. That was something you couldn't train into a person; no amount of voice coaching or practice could—
"I'd trade today and yesterday for one more chance..."
He closed his eyes and paused, and Regina caught his breath and waited. Don't stop, don't stop , she urged him silently, wondering who he'd written the song for, what woman had inspired the melody that wound through that low register in a minor key, both achingly sad and sweet at the same time. A woman who'd left him?
But what woman would leave a man like this?
Her gaze drifted again to the loose threads around his shirt, the worn leather boots. A gold-digger, that's who. A woman who measured a man in terms of what he could buy, not who he could be.
Someone like her.
He opened his eyes and the moment was over. "And blah blah blah, a few more verses of that," he said casually, as though he hadn't just out-sung most of what passed for talent in the recording studios these days.
"You haven't sold your songs,
She laid a hand on his arm. "Not that one."
He stopped abruptly, confounded by her touch. He could feel every one of her fingertips against the back of his hand, and his damn imagination had them sliding up over his arm to his shoulders, circling around to his back, seizing him hard and pulling him against her as she—
"Why not?" he growled. "You don't like George Strait?"
"I like him fine. I just want to hear one of yours."
"My what?"
"Oh, please." He dared a look at her and saw amusement twinkling in her eyes. A stray lock of blond hair had come loose and fluttered against her cheek; it was all he could do to resist brushing it away from her face, all the better to kiss her. "You don't think I know every single country standard, every song written in the last decade? I've got every writer worth his or her salt in my contact list. I've commissioned work for some of the top talent in town, and I know those songs by heart by the first time they're sung in public. And I know where that song you sang the other night came from, precisely because I've never heard it before."
"Oh yeah?"
" You wrote it," she said. "And now I want to hear something else you wrote."
He stared at her for a long moment, trying to decide whether to argue, tell her she was wrong, refuse to play this game. He could do it—he'd gone up against the best and won, his teenage sullenness beating even Gerald Warner, head of a Fortune 500 company, who never lost arguments. There was no way some hundred-pound bit of woman was going to wear him down. Chase Warner did exactly what he wished these days, no more and no less.
"If I could buy tomorrow in a store," he found himself singing.
What was he doing? "If I Could Buy Tomorrow" was a song he'd never sung for anyone, something he wrote the night his father was rushed to the hospital, his life slipping away fast after the heart attack that would kill him by morning. "Tomorrow" was all of his regrets and wishes in a few verses, the only outlet Chase had that night because he couldn't cry, couldn't do anything but stare at the gray-faced man in the bed, wishing everything had been different.
* * *
"Don't stop," Regina whispered.
Chase looked like he was being tortured. His handsome face was twisted in what looked like pain, and for a moment, she thought he would storm out of the tree house and leave her there. Instead, after what seemed like eternity, he continued.
"I'd take it to the register, and pay for it with wishes and regrets."
God, his voice was beautiful. It was low and lilting and seemed to reach every inch of her, from her ears to her heart to the nerve endings along her skin. "That's a money voice right there, honey," Meredith would say—often did say, when she signed a new client—but it also had the very rare quality of making her feel like he was singing only to her. That was something you couldn't train into a person; no amount of voice coaching or practice could—
"I'd trade today and yesterday for one more chance..."
He closed his eyes and paused, and Regina caught his breath and waited. Don't stop, don't stop , she urged him silently, wondering who he'd written the song for, what woman had inspired the melody that wound through that low register in a minor key, both achingly sad and sweet at the same time. A woman who'd left him?
But what woman would leave a man like this?
Her gaze drifted again to the loose threads around his shirt, the worn leather boots. A gold-digger, that's who. A woman who measured a man in terms of what he could buy, not who he could be.
Someone like her.
He opened his eyes and the moment was over. "And blah blah blah, a few more verses of that," he said casually, as though he hadn't just out-sung most of what passed for talent in the recording studios these days.
"You haven't sold your songs,
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