Here With You (A Laurel Heights Novel) - By Kate Perry Page 0,12

she wanted to. She cleared her throat. "Get up. We're going to miss it."

"Miss what?" But he swung his legs over the side.

Averting her eyes, she pretended to be busy with her coat and scarf. "Sunrise. It's inspiring."

"I seem to have found plenty of inspiration here," he said, but he stood and reached for his jeans.

"Hurry up," she said, going into the kitchen so she wouldn't be tempted to peek at him. She made coffee and filled two to-go cups before he ambled in to join her. He wore way too many layers of clothes, but it was probably for the best.

She handed him his coffee. "You're driving."

"Okay." He took a sip and exhaled in pleasure. "This is almost worth being woken up pre-dawn."

"You'll thank me later," she said as she led him out of the house.

"Where are we going?"

"Coit Tower. Sunrise is beautiful from up there."

He glanced at her. "You've seen lots of sunrises from Coit Tower?"

Actually, none, but she wasn't going to tell him that. She just shrugged noncommittally and changed the subject. "I brought a notepad for you to write images down. I thought maybe you might find a strain that calls to you."

"Nothing's called to me," he said, subdued, as he unlocked her door.

"We'll get you on track, Grif." She put her hand on his arm. "Trust me."

His hand covered hers and he looked into her eyes. "I do."

They drove to Coit Tower in silence. Because it was so early, no one was on the road, and the parking lot was empty. They got out and went to the statue of Columbus in the middle of the circle.

It was as good a place as any. Nicole sat down on the wide stone ledge around it and extracted the sketchpads from her purse. She handed him the smaller, pocket-sized one along with a pen and took out colored pencils for herself.

"What's this for?" he asked as he accepted it, sitting next to her.

"To write down words or themes that come to you."

"Okay." He pointed at her pencils. "You still draw?"

"Yes. Sort of." She shrugged. "It helps me relax."

"I always thought you were a great artist."

"That's because stick figures were a challenge for you."

"True." He flashed her a self-deprecating smile. "I always expected you to go to art school."

"I went to Arizona State for a couple semesters. I didn't love the art program."

"What do you draw?" He leaned over as if to look at her sketches.

She kept the pad firmly shut. Her drawings were private. "We aren't here to talk about me. We're here to let you be inspired by the sunrise and to talk about your music."

He grimaced. "Watching sunrise is great, but maybe we can leave the music out of it."

"Why aren't you feeling the love?" She faced him, perplexed. "You and your guitar were together all the time in high school. What did you call it?"

"Wanda."

"Right." She rolled her eyes. "Remember that one girl you dated who was so jealous of the relationship you had with Wanda?"

"She was a nut."

"You're the one who names his instruments," she pointed out with a grin.

"Of course I name them. I have an intimate relationship with them." He sat back, stretching his legs in front of him. "My current guitar is named Tallulah, and I haven't touched her in weeks. I don't even feel like touching her, which is really messed up."

"Why?"

He looked at her as if he was trying to gauge what to say. Then he let his eyes shut as he dropped his head back. "I'm tired, Nic."

At first she thought he meant this morning, but she realized he was talking about life in general.

"At first, I thought I was just tired from touring," he continued, "but it's been weeks and I don't feel rejuvenated in any way. I feel a bone-deep weariness." He opened his eyes and gave her a rueful look. "I hate talking like this. I sound like I'm saying 'poor little me, the rock star.'"

She smiled. "It's better than keeping it bottled inside."

He nudged her. "Remember the time you thought you were going to die, because your mom told you that keeping your feelings inside was a sure way to explode and Mrs. Klinger wouldn't let you express in class?"

"Sixth grade was hell." She reclined next to him, resting against the metal railing behind them. "You wrote that song for me that year. It was your first song, and it was about red Jell-O."

"My first big hit." He chuckled. "I won the talent