Page 43 of The Beat Match

She joined him on the floor and forced the book closed. They were both kneeling, surrounded by a rainbow of scattered pens, like kids in a playroom. “I started this book when I was young and frustrated. If I was annoyed with you, turning that angst into art was a way for me to let go and move on.”

A line sank between his brows, deep and troubled. “When I’d call you Squirrel?”

“Sometimes.”

He glanced at the closed album. “And now? Why do you still deface pictures of me?”

He looked up and searched her eyes, the open curiosity so unguarded she debated telling him the truth. Because I have feelings for you. Because every picture of you and Rosanna cuts like a knife. Because when I go to sleep at night, I imagine how your skin would feel sliding against mine.

“Because things are changing between us,” she said.

She couldn’t read his reaction to her confession. She had no clue if he sensed her deeper desires. His chest expanded, his upper body tilting slightly forward. An eternity later, he said, “I feel it, too. I hate it.”

The distance between them? Or living with this unquenched desire? “So what do we do about it?”

His gaze strayed, dropped to her lips for a beat. Pulsing heat overtook her body as he reached forward and brushed her hair over her ear. “We order takeout. Then we scrapbook and maybe watch a movie. We talk and hang out and work through whatever this is.”

She knew what this was for her. She just wasn’t sure what this was for him.

If he weren’t dating Rosanna she’d ask. She’d put herself out there and demand to know if he’d been turned on when they’d kissed because of the adrenaline rush of the stage or because of her, if their moment of intimacy in his sound room had been as discombobulating for him as she suspected. She’d ask and she’d force his answer. But he was dating another woman.

“Scrapbooking it is,” she said.

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13

“Pass me the scissors. And that Bahamas ad.” Wes was on the floor, long legs stretched out under Annie’s coffee table. He clenched a green marker in his fist as he glowered at his scrapbook page.

“If you keep making that face, it’ll stay that way.”

“Why does the glitter get everywhere?” He rubbed his eyes, defeated. “It was supposed to stay in the clouds.”

“Because your man-hands are too big for delicate work.”

He accepted the scissors and ripped magazine page, then shot his big mitts in the air. “So, you finally admit I have strong, masculine hands.”

“I admit nothing.” Including the fact that scrapbooking with Weston Aldrich was Tickle Me Elmo fun. “Your ego doesn’t need the stroking.”

He pointed at the wonky palm tree filling half his page, the jagged airplane he’d cut and pasted. “My drawing skills are up there with a three-year-old’s, my scissor abilities aren’t much better, and I have no clue how I got glue in my arm hair.” Lip curled, he picked at his forearm.

This really was the best night ever. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were a crazy smart executive, a crazy talented DJ, and a crazy amazing scrapbooker. Challenges keep you grounded.”

“You said this would be fun and relaxing. What part of me looks happy and relaxed?” He brushed a stray thread off his cheek and wound up with green marker smudged on his skin.

Definitely the best night.

She smoothed down the ribbon on the corner of her piano page. The keys were made out of various materials, some soft, some silky, a few out of leather. She’d created a scrolling music sheet with buttons and string to indicate the notes, all glued next to a photo of her piano student Joyce. It wasn’t as creative as some of her pages, but she loved bumping her fingers over the textures, reading the image like Braille. If only reading Wes were as easy.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbled as he tried to shake a partially glued piece of paper from his thumb.

“You’re trying too hard to make your page perfect. Let it be whatever it will be.” She peeled the paper off his thumb and stuck it in their garbage pile. “But don’t you dare touch that Vogue page. I dream of wearing that dress and will not have you destroy it.”

He picked up the open magazine and scanned the image. Black scrunched lace was layered over a bold cherry printed maxi dress. Fun. Flirty. Classic Betsy Johnson. The model was posing for a perfume ad, but the dress was the real standout.

“I can see you in this,” Wes said, sounding irritated. Because of the dress picture or his art project, she wasn’t sure. His attention slid back to his scrapbook. “What’s the point of doing something I’m bad at?”

She lifted one of her Sudoku books from the table. “Do you ever see me getting frustrated because I can’t finish these pages?”