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He must have seen the intention on my face, because he cups my cheek and pulls me up against him. “You’re looking good there in that little skirt, Gwennie.” He rocks his hips against me, just to be sure I feel how turned on he is. “You want to fuck before Jamie gets here?”
I wince at the word—fucking is totally not how I’d like to describe sex—then shake my head and laugh. “She’ll be here in five minutes, you lunatic.”
“It could be a quickie.”
“No one’s that quick.”
In fact—especially not Elvie. Especially not lately. When we first started having sex our sophomore year of college, sometimes he would come before he even got all the way inside. Now sometimes it takes him longer than me. I push that thought away. Models aren’t allowed to feel insecure about their looks. I pat Elvie’s itty-bitty beer pooch. “It’s going to be a long five days without you. I hope New York is amazing.”
“It won’t be the same without you.” He looks down at his big belt buckle, frowning as he rubs it. His green eyes lift to mine. “You could still come, you know. Back-up sing.”
I push my hand at his face. “You arrogant asshole. I’m the star,” I say in a dramatic Southern accent.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Too good to back-up sing for Elvie Wesson.”
“Damn right I am.”
He taps his fingertips against his mouth and frowns at me. “You know…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.” He slaps his jeans and twists his handsome face into a hillbilly duh look. “I know!” He snaps his fingers. “You’re the lady on the billboard!”
I shove his shoulder. Elvie topples toward the couch, and just as I can see his face tighten with embarrassment, we hear a car horn in front of my house.
My house.
I glance around my beautiful space, and Elvie huffs. He doesn’t say anything—he never does—but there are these times when he makes me feel like some kind of big, gross giant: when I wear heels, or when I can reach something he can’t. As if it’s my fault I’m tall for a girl, and he’s short for a guy.
Jamie beeps again, and Elvie gets my suitcase while I shoulder my purse and carry on. He gets the front door for me, and we step outside without a word. Our breaths make pale clouds. I find myself smiling as I turn to lock the door. It’s cold here in Nashville, but not as cold as it will be where I’m going. I can’t freaking wait.
I take a small step back, admiring my little house. My dream. The little wreath on the door. I get chills as I think of going back to the studio. To work more on my album, which combined with my movie and modeling income, helped me buy this house.
My album!
Elvie frowns at me, and I flick him on the arm.
“Daydreaming all the time,” he drawls.
“About the studio,” I say.
“Aww, I gotcha.”
But he doesn’t. The only son of one of country music’s most beloved duos, Elvie cut his first record when he was 9. He’s had a CD in Wal-Mart since last year. A Christmas CD since the year before.
Next year, I’ll have my own album too. My eyes tingle a little as we walk to Jamie’s schmancy SUV, a Cadillac SRX. As Elvie opens the trunk, Jamie gets out of the driver’s seat and throws her arms around me.
We both squeal, and Elvie covers his ears.
Jamie lets me go and jabs him in the arm.
“What is it with you women and the hitting?”
She shrugs and looks him over. “You look nice, cowboy.”
“Singing at the Bluebell.”
“Oh yeah, Gwenna told me about that.”
“Gwennie.” He settles my suitcase in the trunk and shuts it. Then he wraps his arms around me.
“You two. Get a room. Oh wait, I’m taking your girlfriend with me.” Jamie sticks her tongue out.
