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Gray eyes flick up to mine. “No?”
“No, I don’t wave at strange men in the flies. Do you always stare at merch girls?”
There’s a beat—a pause where he’s preternaturally still, watching me. Half a breath where shivers race down my spine and primal instincts crackle to life in my brain, my muscles tightening up again, ready to flee.
Then the songwriter’s mouth quirks, and all my tension bleeds away. “No. I don’t.”
“But you stare at me,” I point out. Because I want it on the record, okay? I want his confirmation that yes, he does watch me, and I’m not going nuts. I haven’t hallucinated his gaze out of loneliness and sheer wishful thinking. “You watch me all the time.”
He nods. “I do.”
Simple as that. Just—I do. No denials or excuses. No reasons offered or apologies given.
It’s… refreshing. In a bonkers kind of way.
“Why?”
This time his smile stretches wider, a teasing glint in his smoky eyes. “Why do you think, Carmen?”
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