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“Holy crap,” James coughed out, pacing back and forth. “We have to go! This is it. This is the kind of shit that makes and breaks people. We’re going to LA next week come hell or high water.”
Hazel celebrated just as wildly as us guys, because she could tell how much it meant to us.
“This is it,” I said to her, pulling her into a hug. Pulling everyone into a hug. “This is the moment that changes our lives.”
We proceeded to get shit faced and danced the night away as we slammed on the drums and howled at the moon like the freaking animals we were that night. After the guys headed home, Hazel and I stumbled into the house, and she kept singing the lyrics to my song, swaying side to side. Hazel Stone made the cutest drunk girl in the world, and when my lyrics fell from her tongue?
Instant fucking man boner.
As she stepped into her bedroom, I followed, not even walking to my own room to change.
She quickly turned toward the door. “Hey, Ian,” she hollered, not knowing I was steps behind her. She crashed into my body and giggled, covering her mouth. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were so close.”
I moved closer.
She didn’t step away.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“Sorry,” she replied.
We didn’t even know what we were apologizing for. Maybe for our proximity? Maybe for our drunkenness?
Maybe for our hearts?
Shit, I wanted to kiss her so bad my chest physically hurt. I was drunk and high on life, and Hazel Stone was the most beautiful human in the whole goddamn world, and I wanted her lips against mine.
She placed her hands on my chest and looked up to meet my stare.
Did she feel it?
Did she feel my heart beat and how it was beating for her?
“I’m so proud of you, Ian. You deserve this. You deserve all of this.”
“I want to take our songs,” I confessed. “I want to play for him the songs you helped me write.” Over the past couple of months, Hazel had helped me create dozens of songs. Being around her, working with her, came so naturally. To the outside world, the two of us probably seemed like polar opposites, but to me?
To me, we made perfect sense.
She inspired me in ways I’d never been inspired. She pushed me to create songs in a way I’d never considered. She challenged me; she coached me. She was my muse. She was the music.
She was ... closer.
She was so much closer than she had been mere seconds ago. Had I pulled her toward me? Had she moved in on her own? How did my hands land against her lower back? Why didn’t she try to pull them away?
“Confession: I want you,” I breathed out, knowing that rejection was a possibility, but I felt drunk and brave enough to not care.
“Confession”—she swallowed hard—“I want you too.”
“You’re drunk,” I whispered.
“I am,” she replied. “You’re drunk too.”
“I am.”
Her stare shifted away from my eyes to my lips and then back up again. “Play those songs. They’re yours, after all.”
“They’re ours,” I disagreed. “They are ours.”
