Her laugh comes out bright and disbelieving. “You had a country phase?”
“In my defense, it was contagious.”
“Explain.”
“It was the early Broncos years. Half the locker room had terrible taste and it spread like a disease.”
She laughs hard enough that her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and I hate how the sound of it makes my chest constrict. “I'm so sorry. That must have been hard for you.”
I snort. “I survived it.”
“You got lucky.”
I shake my head. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What did you listen to in college?”
She makes a face. “Can’t we keep talking about your tastes?”
“You’re dodging the question.” I tear my eyes off the road for a second to glance at her sitting sideways in the passenger seat, leaning on the door. “I’ll assume your taste was bad, then.”
She huffs a little, offended breath. “It wascomplex.”
I snort. “Complex?”
“Yeah.” She sighs and looks out the windshield again. “I liked a lot of indie bands. Acoustic men whining about winter and the girlfriend that left them, as if it definitely wasn’t their fault. Things like that.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“Excuse me, it wasart.”
“It sounds like depression with a guitar.”
“So does Nirvana,” she retorts, pointing at me. “But I did have one very aggressive pop era that I will not be apologizing for.”
I look at her. “Aggressive how?”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t worry about it.”
“So we’re talking normal pop?—”
“—Grayson—”
“—or full bubblegum glitter-mania?”
She groans and drops her head back against the window. “I’m not answering that.”
“Then I’m going to assume the worst.”
“You're annoying.”
“You’re evasive.”
“Sue me.”
I glance over just in time to catch the smile she’s trying to hide behind her hand, and for fucks sake, it hits me harder than it should. I still like making her smile, even if she's trying to hide it.
