“Objection. Leading the witness.”
“Patty …”
He exhales loudly. “I came on tour for a lot of reasons, but the number one reason is money. I have a dad who needs surgery and a failing bar. Making up with Nash falls somewhere after that.”
I almost shake my head at the news about his dad. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
“It’s gonna work out,” he says with a quarter-smile that makes me realize I don’t want to push him anymore. I want to understand him.
I half-smile back. “I didn’t realize you two had … unfinished business. I wish you’d have told me.”
His brows thread together, and when he speaks, it looks like every word is taking a toll. “I don’t like who I was then. I never felt like I could be myself around Nash. I wanted to impress him too much.”
I can’t imagine you wanting to impress anyone,I think. But then I remember how he acted with my parents only last night. He was open and easy, complimentary and almost … deferential. He clearly liked them. How might he have acted if hedidn’tlike them? Or if he didn’t like himself around them?
Sympathy thaws me the rest of the way. “I could put in a good word with Nash for you if you’re hoping to reconnect. We text sometimes.”
He blinks hard, and I wonder if it’s about me texting with Nash. And I also wonder why that possibility feels like a fist squeezing my heart.
“I’d rather you don’t,” he says. “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to say to him when I see him. The last thing I need is him gearing up for a different conversation than I am.”
“Gearing up? Does he have a temper?” I ask, suddenly wary. I don’t do tempers. For all of my dad’s faults and my mom’s missteps, neither of them has a temper, and I can’t stomach people who fly off the handle over a mistake, big or small.
He barks a laugh. “Does ice have a temper?”
“Sorry?”
“No, Connor’s not the type to flare up. He has the patience of an icicle.”
This isn’t as comforting as I want it to be. “Because icicles are famous for their patience.”
He snorts. “Maybe the metaphor needs work.”
“Seriously. You’re making me rethink that song we’re co-writing.”
He laughs and then releases a heavy exhale. “So we’re co-writing a song?”
“If you’ll allow it,” I say. Then I add, “I’ll make sure you’re paid.”
His forehead screws up for only a moment, and then he gives another quarter-smile. “I’m not sure you can afford me,” he says, and I laugh. “Thanks for letting me meet your family, by the way. I like them a lot.”
“Whoa,” I say, reaching my hand up to put it on his forehead. “Are you feeling okay? I’ve never heard you say thank you. And you’re talking about liking people?” His forehead is warm to the touch, and for someone who’s always cold, I want to keep my hand there to let him heat me up.Itup. My hand.
He chuckles and takes my hand, releasing it quicker than I wish. Again, because I’m cold. Not for any other reason.
“Enough. I like my family. I like Rusty and his friends. I even like Ash.”
“Liking Ash is like liking oxygen. Only idiots don’t.”
He snorts. “I like your music.”
I make a show of gasping to cover the very real fluttering in my stomach. “Someone get the fainting couch ready. I’m about to pass out from shock. Patrick O’Shannan loves my music.”
“I said like, not love.”
“Nice try. You love it so much, you dance along to it. You can’t get it out of your head. You sing my lyrics in the shower.”
“I’ll see myself out,” he says, turning for the door like he’s serious. But he stops himself a split second before I grab his bicep to stop him. He turns back around closer than I expect, and suddenly, his golden eyes drop from mine down to my mouth.
