The Rock Star's Baby Bargain - Lili Valente Page 0,27
Glad I brought my hiking shoes for later.” Blowing me a kiss, she says, “Good luck,” and wanders away toward the trailhead at the edge of the parking lot, looking so happy and relaxed, I can’t help but feel proud of myself.
I fucked that happy smile onto her face, and I intend to do it again as soon as possible.
A no doubt goofy grin on my own mug, I give my Gibson—Quinn, named after my first crush, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman—a quick tune and launch into the notes that have been skipping through my head since we turned off the highway. In a few minutes, I have the bridge solid enough to hit the record button on my phone and capture it for later.
I’ll inevitably end up tweaking it as the rest of the song comes together, but it feels good to have it locked and loaded. Catching songs is the only thing as much fun as catching fish, something my granddad taught me to love at a young age. Sitting beside him on the boat, I’d dangle my line in the ocean next to his and wait for the magic to happen.
Speaking of magic…
Tucking Quinn back in her case and locking the car, I go in search of Colette.
As I step onto the trail, the temperature drops by at least ten degrees. It’s hot in the mountains of Upstate New York this time of the year—a hell of a lot hotter than coastal Maine, even during the heat wave that gripped my hometown in the days before we left—but it’s beautiful in the shade. Perfect hiking weather, making me wish we had time to go for a real walk. But the caretakers are expecting us to check in between noon and two, and it’s already one thirty.
I find Colette about a half mile down the winding path, standing at the edge, looking out across the lake-dotted valley and the mountains on the other side. With the sun turning her hair platinum and illuminating her silhouette through her top and flowing skirt, she’s so stunning my first thought is that someone should paint her.
I love a well-curated social media feed as much as the next man, but there’s something about a painted portrait that puts photography to shame. Maybe it’s because the conversation between the painter and the subject goes on for so much longer than it takes to snap a picture or spice it up in Photoshop.
By it’s very nature, a painting has layers, depth, and a point of view a photo can never equal.
If I were painting Colette, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from paying extra attention to the parts that fascinate me most—the curve of her breast, the thoughtful tilt of her head, the graceful swoop of her neck. Anyone looking close enough would see that fascination, see my feelings for my subject as well as the beauty of the model herself.
Just like everyone who hears what I’m writing right now will know I’m falling in love with the girl in those songs.
There won’t be a chance in hell of keeping it a secret or explaining it away.
Yet another reason to keep Colette in the dark during the song-writing process.
There will be a time and a place to let her know that I’m falling for her so hard and fast it’s crazy. But when that time comes, I want her to hear it from me, not a song.
A song is created for public consumption, something I’ll share with my fans on the radio and every night that I take the stage. When I tell Colette I want a shot at her heart, I want it to be private, between the two of us, just her and me.
Even though I know it won’t stand a chance at capturing everything I’m feeling, I pull my phone out and snap a few pictures of Colette with her back turned. My phone is on silent, but sometime around the third pic, she seems to sense my presence and glances over her shoulder, a dreamy-sexy-happily surprised look in her eyes that makes me want to rush right back to my guitar and capture the spirit of that look.
Chip was right. I’ve got it bad. But when it feels this good, it’s hard to stress about it too much.
“Send me that later?” she asks as I cross to stand beside her. “I want to remember this moment. It’s so peaceful.” She links her arm through mine and kisses my shoulder with