Free Love Songs by Bernadette Marie Page A

play.
    Clara smiled as Warner dove into the song. The dark cords, his deep voice, the haunting lyrics of a love on the mend. The man was a musical genius.
    The song and his voice echoed through the house which only moments earlier had been so quiet. This was where he’d been all day she realized. The creative mind had shut off from the world and this masterpiece had been written.
    As the last chord of the song resonated through the air he finally looked up at her. His eyes were wide and he was waiting for her approval.
    “You wrote that today didn’t you?” She asked.
    He only nodded, his foot still propped up on the table. His guitar still balanced on his knee.
    “Warner Wright, I think you’re a genius.”
    “You do?”
    Clara nodded. “That was one of the most amazing songs I’ve ever heard.”
    His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Let’s record it.”
    Clara laughed. “Now?”
    “Yeah. I have my computer in the truck.” He set his foot down and held the guitar by its neck.
    “You don’t even know what time it is, do you?”
    Warner scratched the back of his neck and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He winced. “Eww, sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late.” He tapped his finger on the screen of his phone and scrolled through the list of missed calls. “I didn’t even know you called me.”
    “Obviously.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “You need a shower.”
    He looked down at himself. “God, I am a slob. But my apartment is clean.” A line crept between his brows. “But all my clothes are dirty and in the back of my truck. I forgot to go to the Laundromat.”
    Clara covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. This certainly was going to take some getting used to. The creative mind, she’d learned, was very disorganized.
    “You have your laundry with you?”
    He nodded.
    “Go get it. I have a washer and dryer.”
    “Right. Thanks.” He propped the guitar up against the couch, set his phone on the table, and fished his keys from his pocket. A folded up piece of yellow paper came with the keys and he set it on the table. Obviously it had been what he’d written the song on.
    Clara watched him as he hurried out to his truck.
    Oh, they had pegged her—her brothers and Darcy. Warner Wright was just her type.
     
    As Warner carried in his laundry Clara buzzed around the kitchen.
    “That’s the last one. I’ll pay you back for the use of the washer.”
    She set a plate down on the table with a sandwich on it. “Eat. I’ll bet you haven’t done that all day either.”
    His stomach growled as if on cue. “You’re right. I cleaned my apartment and wrote. As productive as I was—I wasn’t very productive at all.”
    “Sit. I’m going to start that laundry and you’re going to relax.”
    Warner sat down and picked up the sandwich. Bologna? Did people in real houses really eat that? He’d never been one for the strange meat, but it was cheap enough for him.
    He bit into the sandwich and began to feel the drain of the day settle into his muscles.
    The noise from the other room of Clara loading the wash machine twisted guilt in his belly. But the realization of the moment kicked in. Never in his life had a woman taken care of him. Clara had known him a week and there she was making him sandwiches, listening to his songs, washing his clothes.
    He rubbed the stubble on his chin. His grandmother never even washed his clothes. That had been his job.
    No woman had ever listened to his songs with that same spark in their eye either.
    Clara hadn’t been mad that he hadn’t answered her. It was as if she understood that he’d completely lost track of time—of everything.
    She walked around the wall from the laundry room with one of his shirts. “You’re not going to actually wear this shirt again are you?”
    She held up a T-shirt he’d had since—well he wasn’t sure since when. “Of course.”
    Clara shook her head. “I assume it used to be black. It is a