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He’s tucking a lock of red hair behind my ear. I’m gazing up at him like a lovesick puppy.
It’s a pretty good photo, you know. Maybe I’ll get a copy printed.
“Go again,” Tudor says at the desk beside me, pressing a button and speaking into a microphone. We’re in a recording studio for the day, tucked away safely from the crowds for a few precious hours while Run Along Ruby works on their next album, and the songwriter’s dark curls get wilder and wilder the more he rakes his hands through them. Tudor’s having a long day.
I chew on my thumbnail, debating showing him my laptop screen. Tudor’s a good friend, easy to talk to… but no. He’s busy working. And I should be, too, what with the articles I have due next week, but here I am mooning over an intrusive press photo instead.
Tragic. I’d better get cooler about this, because if Dex and I are as serious as I hope we are, this is only the start.
“Jefferson,” Tudor clips into the microphone, his voice sharp with thinly veiled impatience. “You’re half a beat behind the others.”
Through the thick glass, my father rolls his eyes and waves a hand, muttering something to West at his drum kit. They’ve been at it for hours already, and tempers are fraying inside the recording booth. Even without a single noise bleeding through the walls, it’s clear from the band mates’ jerky movements and the harsh sets of their jaws that they’re cranky. Grown men who need a nap.
All except Dex. His dark eyes track me through the glass, focused and hungry. It’s like he barely registers the tension swirling around him.
I turn back to my laptop, hiding a smile. Yeah, I think I will get a copy of this photo.
And who cares about one gossip post? Who cares what anyone thinks about Dex and I? We’re both adults, and we’re not hurting anybody. Soon enough, a new scandal will break and the world will move on.
My fingers race over the keyboard, the muffled quiet of the studio my only soundtrack as I work through my next article. It’s a travel piece about the area of Amsterdam where we spent a few days last week, and soon I’m scowling at my screen with concentration, caught up in the spell I’m trying to weave with my words.
A stray thought nudges the back of my brain: it could be kind of great, touring with Dex and working on my writing at the same time. There’s so much inspiration out there. So many things I could learn about the world. And then I’d be with him always, sharing our days and nights.
I press my lips together, a blush climbing my throat.
I really, really want this to work with Dex.
* * *
The studio door swings open mid afternoon, the musicians clattering out of the doorway with muffled curses and tired eyes.
“Coffee,” West grumbles, striding toward the exit.
“A fucking smoke,” Jefferson agrees, elbowing the quiet bass player at his side.
Dex comes out last, rolling his stiff neck and offering me a small smile, dark eyes appreciative as they roam over my body. It’s not like I’m wearing anything special today—just black leggings and an oversized plaid shirt—but Dex looks at me like I’m a model on a photo shoot.
“Hey, baby,” he says quietly, crossing to my side.
“Hey.” Am I blushing again? Jeez, when did I get so shy? “Oh, look at this. Mom sent me the link earlier.” I bring the gossip post up on my screen and spin the laptop to show him, fighting a grin.
I expect a trademark Dex Kincaid grunt.
Maybe an eye roll, or even a chuckle.
I don’t expect the way his big, craggy face falls, dismay etched on every feature.
“Fuck,” Dex mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks like someone ran over his cat. Completely destroyed. “Fuck, London. You want me to get this taken down?”
Can he even do that? And… why bother? We’ll have plenty more photos of us taken together, right?
Is it really so freaking bad?
“I mean… it’s not an ugly photo.” I tilt the screen just like I did earlier, like the image might change somehow into something Dex likes. “And we’re just standing together. It’s barely anything.”
Maybe I won’t print a copy. Damn.
“There’ll be rumors.” Dex winces, rubbing again at his jaw. “People will know something’s going on, London. They’ll sniff it out, because people always do. We need damage control.”
