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“What tour thing?” I ask.
“We’ve been invited to go on a five-month, multi-city tour with four other bands, including Threat Alert,” Adam explains.
“Threat Alert?” I echo. The name doesn’t sound familiar.
Davis snorts, one hand on the doorknob. “She has no idea. Landry listens to the radio.”
He says radio like it’s a dirty word, but it’s true. I listen to pop hits. What can I say? I’m a pleb.
“‘Destiny’s Here?’” Adam supplies. At my continued blank look, his lips twitch slightly and then he hums a few bars. “‘I ran away, afraid to stay, now destiny’s here.’”
The words barely register as I stare at his beautiful mouth.
“Landry?” my brother prompts.
I jerk my head toward Davis. “Yeah?”
He frowns. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Um...” What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the tour with the other band. “I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s a new song,” Adam reassures me.
“If it’s not in the top forty, I doubt she’s heard it.” Davis clucks his tongue in dismay over my musical ignorance. “I’m going to get my gear. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” I start, but he moves so quickly I end up talking to his back.
The door closes slowly behind him, leaving me alone with Adam.
I brush a nervous hand over my hair. I slapped on some lipstick in the car, using the parking lot lights for illumination as I peered through my broken glasses at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is stick straight, but the last time a brush made contact was about six hours ago. I probably look less appealing than gum at the bottom of a shoe.
All those hot looks I thought I’d read in Adam’s eyes were probably ones of horror mixed with concern.
“Shit. I forgot why we came back here.” Adam heads over to the desk and leans down, rummaging through a bag sitting at the side. Standing up, he holds out a worn gray T-shirt with a little U logo. “It’s clean. I promise.”
“My shirt’s dry now,” I lie. It’s sticky and damp as hell, but I’m not about to admit that.
“You sure? It can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s fine.”
His hand slowly lowers to his side. Something almost like disappointment flits across his face, but I chalk that up to my crappy vision.
“So, Landry, if you don’t like music, what does get your engine running?” He dumps the shirt into the bag, then leans his butt against the desk and folds his arms across his chest.
My eyes drop to his forearms, which are nicely defined. Every part of him is nicely defined, from his biceps to his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and solid legs. If I could put together my ideal man shape, like some sort of sexy Mr. Potato Head, it’d end up looking exactly like Adam. And now I’m about to tell him that I’m a nerd.
“I write code. Computer code.”
He gives me an encouraging smile. “That’s cool. You must be smart.”
“Um, I guess?” I never know how to respond to that. When someone compliments Davis on his singing, he invariably says something cocky like, “I know.” I need to adopt that attitude. If I had his confidence, I’d sashay over to Adam, drag my hand down his muscled chest and lick the sweat off his neck.
But I don’t have that confidence. My limited experience with guys can be categorized into two columns: the jerky one I dated in college and the scary one who stalked me after I got out.
“No guess about it.” He pushes to his feet and approaches, stopping only a step away.
I can feel the heat of his body, smell the clean sweat of his under-the-lights workout. This close, I can make out details of his upper arm tattoos—bold lines and elegant swirls glide together in harmony. It shouldn’t work, but it does. The tattoos serve to highlight his sexy body, making me want to trace my fingers and tongue along the lines until I reach—
