“Just a little.”
“And gaming or watching movies are your favorite hobbies?”
He shrugs. “There was never much time or energy for anything else.”
“What changed and made you want to leave? If you don’t mind me asking.”
He thinks it over. “There have been days I didn’t want to go into the room and write. When I would’ve rather been somewhere else. But never when I fucking hated the idea. It wasn’t even that I didn’t know what to write about. I just didn’t want to do it anymore.”
I nod and take a sip of the brew.
“The pressure of having everyone standing around waiting for you to produce new songs. I don’t know…it just wasn’t in me.”
“Now you have your days to do as you please.”
“And I’m apparently spending it with the sort of monster who puts sweet toppings on a biscuit.”
“Get out of here,” I say. “Mascarpone and honey on a biscuit is amazing. You wait till you try it.”
“Such a travesty is never passing my lips. You’re a monster, Junebug. Biscuits are made for gravy.”
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Can you remember at what age you first felt the spirit of evil enter your body and give you such bad taste in food?”
I don’t mean to laugh so loud. But it happens. “You’re the worst. Wait. Is that why I like you?”
“Guess it must be,” he says casually. And he tries not to smile.
People are looking at us. Which makes sense since we’re being raucous. Some are sitting at the tables outside Grind. Others are across the road smoking in front of Town Hall. But they turn away again, returning to whatever they were doingbefore my loud-ass laugh disturbed the peace. Or they mostly do. Some give Nash second glances. Nothing out of the ordinary.
And the expression on Nash’s face is hopeful, and it’s a beautiful thing. He needs this break from stardom and all its trappings. I don’t know how long we can realistically keep his identity on the low down. But I am one hundred percent willing to try.
“This is all some perverted lumberjack fantasy for you, isn’t it?” asks Nash.
“So don’t try on the flannel shirt. You could have picked out clothes yourself.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it.” He pulls back the curtain separating us and huh. There’s a lot of skin on show. Like, he’s half naked. I’m confronted with his pecs and nipples and the soft, dark tufts of his underarm hair. And the way the sight makes me catch my breath is a terrible, wonderful thing.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“About what?”
“The jeans.”
My gaze drops to his belly button and the light dusting of hair leading down. He has a treasure trail. Clothes shopping with him was such a bad idea. Because denim sits on his hips and frames his thick thighs just so. The man has not been skipping leg day, and it shows. And I absolutely positively will not stare at his crotch.
Something seems to be stuck in my throat. My heart or my libido or I don’t know. But him and his body have got me in a stranglehold. This is not good.
And then, just to make everything worse, he leans in and says, “Your cheeks are pink.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Not really.”
“You don’t think? It feels warm to me.”
He reaches for a white tee without further comment. Lighter colors suit him. His muscular arms and thick shoulders seem more pronounced now. And he’s standing taller, as if there’s less chance of him being recognized. Or maybe he’s proud of how hard up he’s got me.
