AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of his hands on my skin. Now that’s all I can think about.
I wonder if I’ll even be able to relax enough around him to enjoy the festival, but I’m glad I invited him. If anyone needs to have some fun, it’s Coen Highsmith.
♦
I don’t knowif Coen’s enjoying himself. He’s not having an awful time because his expression has been pleasant, and he joins conversations when directly posed a question. Otherwise, he’s observant and listens intently.
His quiet nature sets the tone that he doesn’t want to talk about himself, and everyone has been respecting it.
By everyone, I mean mostly Ann Marie and Xander, although Hayley, Erica, and Hank are flitting in and out. They like hanging around the stage for the music while we’ve spread our blankets near the back of the crowd, under the shade of some oak trees.
Not that we’ve sat still the entire time. The Cherry Springs Music Festival invites an eclectic array of performers. They’re all local to Pennsylvania or nearby states. It’s not a massive production, but the music is good.
Several songs have induced me and the ladies to dance, mostly alternative and punk. And it’s not really dancing—more like laughing and jumping around. I invited Coen to join us, but he was very vocal about his lack of dance talent and declined. Not that we girls have talent, but we don’t mind making spectacles of ourselves. It’s probably why when Cici and her crowd walked by, they called us weirdos, but it bounced right off. They called us that throughout our childhood and adolescence because we didn’t come from the right families, we didn’t wear trendy clothes, and we were in band or ran the art club. None of us dated jocks, we were far too uncoordinated for cheerleading or any other sports, and yes, I was even on the debate team, although I hated it. I only did it to build my résumé for college.
In essence, those activities—and refusal to do what the in crowd does—results in being labeled as lame and as far from cool as can be.
But Cici’s derision didn’t stop us. We laughed, jumped around more, and made bigger spectacles of ourselves as themusic blared. At one point, I looked back at Coen lounging on the blanket and chewing on a blade of grass as he watched us with a slight smile.
No, not watchingus.
Watchingme.
And it made me a little self-conscious because he’s a famous athlete who most women would kill to have look at them just once, but his eyes are on me, and I don’t know why. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.
But I didn’t let it stop me from having fun.
When the set is over, Ann Marie and I head over to the blankets. Erica and Hayley take off with Hank for more beer.
“Where’s Xander?” I ask Coen breathlessly as I plop down beside him, sitting cross-legged. I reach for my beer and sip, grimacing because it’s grown warm, so I set it aside.
Coen nods over his shoulder. “Talking to some friends, I guess.”
“I’ll be back,” Ann Marie says and trots off to join Xander, leaving Coen and me alone.
I glance around at the crowd. Although we’re on the back fringes, still plenty of people nearby. “No one seems to recognize you.”
Coen bought a festival ball cap when we arrived. He doesn’t want the attention, and I don’t blame him. I’ve read enough articles to know that while he was the golden boy of the Titans before the plane crashed, his reputation took a hit after. Anyone who recognizes him might ask for a friendly autograph—or cuss him out for getting suspended. Some articles have opined the Titans could’ve made it past the first round if he’d been playing.
“Not sure if I’m not being recognized or if my asshole reputation over the last few months is scaring people away.”
The way he’s lying on the blanket, rolled onto one hip with his elbow supporting his weight, makes him look so casual and carefree, it’s hard to remember he’s got issues.
I grab a blade of grass and wind it around my finger. I don’t know how to have a conversation with him. By all accounts, he can be intimidating. While he says he wants to be my friend, the way he watches me makes it clear that friendship isn’t the thing driving him to pay attention to me. We still have this wall between us in the form of a contentious tree line.
How can we ever be friends?
“Tell me about your art,” he says. “Is that how you make your living?”
Safe enough subject, I suppose, especially since it’s about the here and now and not about my future plans. “Well, I graduated from the Savannah College of Art and Design four years ago. My degree is in painting, but I concentrate on watercolors. And currently, I make a living by posting my art on retail sites where customers can print it in a variety of ways and I earn a commission.”
“You mean, like, they can print it with a frame or on a canvas?”
“There’s that, but also on totes, cups, mouse pads, phone cases, novelty items.”
He makes a sound of surprise. “I didn’t even know such a thing existed.”
“You can have a set of breakfast coffee mugs with my watercolor of the Allegheny Reservoir that I finished this week or a huge canvas to hang over your couch.”
