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Declan: SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.
Declan: WHO IS SHE?
Declan: You’re seriously texting us about a woman? I think we’re the ones who died, M.
Flynn: Damn.
Miller: When’s the wedding?
Declan: Seriously. When was the last time you gave a shit? When was the last time you ever talked about a woman aside from to tell us you had a great lay the night before?
Miller: Even though we could hear you in the fucking tour bus.
Me: Fuck you guys.
Declan: We love you, too, B!
I shove my phone into my pocket and shake my head, smiling. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to suddenly text vomit about Isla to my friends, but I just needed to say something to someone.
I look up at Isla as she moves her head in time to the music, twisting her hips back and forth every so often as she shuffles through the inventory. I try to not stare at her perfect, peach-shaped ass, but it’s no use. It’s like her ass has a goddamn magnet on it that’s tugging at my eyeballs. There’s nothing I don’t like about what she’s shown me of herself. And her body is top-notch, which doesn’t hurt anything, either. She’s got curves in all the right places, thick thighs, and perfect hips. I refuse to imagine myself behind her, refuse imagining what she’d look like with those jeans down around her ankles.
A security guard taps on the window, pulling me away from my dirty mind and signaling me that he’s going to run next door and grab a coffee. The storefront has floor-to-ceiling windows and there’s no real way to hide from the public when I’m working in here. I glance outside and see the growing crowd just standing out there, gawking at me like I’m some caged animal.
Sounds about right...
Isla and I haven’t talked since the earlier fiasco—aside from me assigning her the task she’s working on now—and it’s pretty damn safe to say that she isn’t my biggest fan right now. I’ve been going back and forth in my brain all day trying to be okay with this, but I’m not. We clearly got off on the wrong foot. Either that, or she just hates men in general or dickhead rockstars who don’t know how to keep their tongues at bay.
It’s probably better that one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen hates me. I can’t ruin her if she doesn’t let me.
Six
Isla
Hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home
to which you can never return; a home which maybe never was.
___________
The door to the shop opens, bells ringing, but I don’t turn to see who it is. Bordeaux is up at the front. He can handle it. He sure seems to know everything, anyway. Oh, and he has no problem making up bullshit nicknames for people he hardly knows. What a sweetie. Sugar, I scoff.
I hear Bordeaux’s voice, his smoky tone, deep and welcoming. At least he’s respectful to the customers.
“Thanks for stopping in. Have anything in mind that you’re looking for today?” Bordeaux’s voice is intoxicating, no matter how pissed off I am at him, and that’s annoying to me. So, so annoying. I make a mental note to listen to their album. I’ve heard them before, but I’ve never really dug into their sound. From the singles I’ve heard on the radio, their stuff is decent, but I want to know more.
Another voice sounds from up front, answering Bordeaux’s question, “Not really here to shop, I was hoping to talk to Isla.”
I freeze, bent over out of view from the front of the shop. The blood beneath my skin boils, and I fan myself with my hands. I waft air to my face as fast as I can, feeling like I’m about to pass out. I know that voice, the happy-go-lucky tone that radiates throughout the entire shop.
That is the voice of my ex-fiancé. That is Manuel’s voice.
Fuck. No, no, no, absolutely hell to the no, no, no.
My head is in my hands, and I’m still bent over in a frog-like position when I hear footsteps approach. I quickly spring to my feet, not accounting for the shelf that I ducked under in the first place. My head slams into the wood and I fly backward with the momentum, falling on my ass. I clench my eyes shut as I grasp at my head, trying to bring some semblance of comfort.
“You’re standing right there, aren’t you?” I ask, not opening my eyes, wanting to be anywhere but here.
He waits a beat and then answers me, “Hi, Isla.”
