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But I don’t, because a good haircut a personality change does not make. I learned long ago her type was everything I’m not. Smarmy, classically good-looking lead singers like Drake, not snarky, scruffy, soft guys with bad eyesight and poetry accounts.
When I make it back to the duplex, I see a light on downstairs, confirming she’s made it home, and once I’ve climbedthe stairs and closed the door to my loft behind me, I hear the groan of old pipes letting me know she’s in the shower.
I pause too long, my feet frozen in place, listening hard and allowing myself the split-second assault that familiar groan stirs behind my eyelids… steaming hot droplets of water mixing with peekaboo suds and chasing one another across and down the smooth bare surface of her skin, the pulse of the showerhead massaging her toned muscles, tight from travel, as she lets out a tiny moan of relief or maybe even bliss before…beforeI’m rapidly shaking my head to rid myself of the fantasy and grab a couple of wineglasses as I head out on the balcony to wait.
Maybe noise-canceling headphones would be a good investment. Or one of those white noise machines.Alexa, play something annoying whenever my neighbor turns on the shower and let’s reverse-Pavlov this shit in the bud.
And then it’s seven and I can hear her steps on the metal fire escape as she makes her way up toward me. A moment later, her tantalizing fresh-from-the-shower scent reaches my nose a split second before the rest follows. Her shiny blue-black hair pulled off her forehead in a clip but left long around her shoulders. When she first came to Nashville months ago, Lorelai’s hair was a deep chestnut shade, but since then, she’s back to embracing her natural black-as-night waves. I’m glad. The contrast suits her. Now, her dark brown eyes crinkle with happiness. Her small, athletic frame is stunningly on display in a pair of well-worn jeans and a plain white tee. I put down the glasses and wine just as she’s throwing her arms around my neck in greeting.
Hell.
I shouldn’t be caught off guard because this is classic Lorelai. She’s always been generous with her affection when it comes to her friends. I manage to hold tight, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing. Truthfully, I give good hugs. I learned from Melissa, who, despite our more conservative parents, hugged me long and often. “Squeeze the toxic masculinity right out of you,” she’d say.
For what it’s worth, I do not lose myself in this particular hug, closing my eyes or swaying in place like a masochist. Much, anyway.
Lorelai pulls back and tugs me toward the small wrought-iron table for two, pressing me to sit before doing a double take at my appearance, her full bottom lip finding its way between her teeth and making me sweat in long-ago memories.
“You got a haircut!”
The thing about the scruff—it wasn’t much more than Astroturf on a mini golf course, but it knew its job and it covered the rising pink.NowI remember. I, Craig Huckleberry Boseman, blush more than a debutante with wardrobe malfunction.
Fuckin’ a.
I try to play it off. “Yeah, well apparently Burldoeshave one other trick up his sleeve.”
The corner of her pretty mouth lifts as she takes the bottle from my hands and gestures with her head to my kitchen before saying in an easy-breezy way, “I like it. You look hot, Huckleberry.”
I choke out a “Thanks” before mentally punching myself to get my shit back together, shifting my focus to the wayLorelai’s jeans hug her curves and her simple white tee rides up ever so slightly, revealing a strip of smooth pale toned waistline. A waistline that was wet only minutes ago.
Which is the direct opposite of helpful…
She pours the glasses, thank fuck, and I hustle to the kitchen, realizing I left Melissa’s biscuits and gravy on the kitchen island. I grab the Tupperware and a couple of forks and join her back on the balcony, holding out the leftovers.
“Melissa’s been hell-bent on figuring out a decent gluten-and dairy-free biscuits and gravy recipe for when you visit… This one doesn’t suck, though I swear it tastes better cold for some reason?”
We settle in on the iron chairs and sip from our glasses as she pries open the cold leftovers and digs her fork in. She takes a bite, her eyes immediately rolling to the sky and a heady groan coming from the back of her throat. The sound shoots tingles through my veins straight for my groin and I quickly prop my ankle over my knee to hide any evidence. Blushing and getting sprung like a seventh grader at his first coed pool party. Two for two, Boseman.
Lorelai offers me a bite and I wave her off. That’s just what I need, to share her fork and imagine her taste on the tines.
She finishes, licking her lips clean and wiping with a napkin before taking another long sip from her wineglass.
“I love your sister.”
I laugh. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”
“So… I got an email from Jen,” she starts, changing the subject. “While I was in Michigan.”
I don’t bother to hide my judgmental eye roll. Lorelai knows how I feel about her so-called agent. “And?”
“And she’s prepared this sort of ‘apology tour,’ hitting up all the key country radio stations and executives. She wants me to go in there ready to grovel and promise to never, ever think for myself ever again.”
“Did she phrase it like that?” I ask, amused despite my annoyance at the nerve of Jennifer Blake.
Lorelai sighs, pulling one knee to her chest and resting her heel on the chair. Her toes are painted a deep dusty pink, and while I’m not usually a foot guy, I could easily compose a song about Lorelai’s cute toes. I won’t, obviously. But I could.
“Just about,” she concedes wryly. “She seems intent on this course. Doesn’t see much chance of a career in country music without it.”
I don’t offer my opinion. This isn’t my choice and it’s not my career. It’s Lorelai’s, and I know how much country music means to her. She’s not ready to walk away and I respect that. “Is that the route you want to take?”
