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I swallow and nod. “If you’re okay with that, of course.”
He looks at me, lips pressed together, considering.
Cars honk at us with vehement abandon.
“I want to see your bachelor pad.” I put a little more resolve into my tone. Then some teasing. “Where does the infamous Jace Blackmore live?”
He shifts his foot to the gas. “Infamous? Hardly.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You didn’t even recognize me when we first met.”
“That’s only because I don’t bother with the faces of the musicians I listen to.”
“Okay. Well, others don’t recognize me either.”
My mouth drops. “What about half an hour ago?”
He grins. “That was a total fluke.”
“Good for you then. You can go anywhere, do anything, and still have a reputation as a slayer guitarist.”
“I don’t have that reputation.”
“Yes, you do,” I exclaim. I hate it when people downplay their strengths. “Why else would Shane want you to be his brand ambassador? He could’ve pulled it off on his own—”
“You sound hangry.”
He’s right, plus we don’t really need to talk about his skills or his relationship with Shane. I’m not his therapist. Nor am I his girlfriend. Not even a friend. I have no business telling him how to feel. Except I do tell him, don’t I? Hm.
Blackmore slides his SUV into a tiny driveway. Realizing we have arrived, I take a look around his neighborhood. Quaint, squat ramblers line both sides of a narrow street. Dim lights glow on front porches. No fences or gates. No guards. No lurking paparazzi. We’re smack in the middle of average Portland suburbs.
Blackmore must think my reaction to where he lives is hesitation to get out. “Stay for as long as you can stand it, leave whenever you want to. Or leave right now. Up to you.” He drops his car keys onto my lap, gets out of the car, and skips two steps at a time as he jumps onto his small front porch where two petite bushes in yellow ceramic pots sit on either side of the door.
Every nerve tightened to its max, I stick the keys into my shorts pocket and swing the car door open. What do I have to lose?
“Remember,” Blackmore says with all seriousness as we come in, “you are free to go whenever you wish to.”
That’s nice of him to give me the choice like that, and…
I slow down. He must be earning well. His band is one of the top-notch alternative rock establishments in the world. But, “Thisis your place?”
“I have a villa in Malta for when I’m not recording or touring,” he deadpans, flipping the lights on.
“I can’t tell. Are you serious or not?”
Blackmore closes the door. “I don’t have any villas. This is it. I grew up here. Judge it and my real estate investment decisions all you like.”
“I’m not judging.” Feet clad in socks, I shuffle across the light gray laminate. This kid-like walk is something I do all the time at home, but his house is so tight and narrow compared to my father’s mansion. When I reach for Blackmore’s ceiling, it’s only about four inches away from my fingertips.
He crosses a tiny sitting room furnished with two white armchairs and a cubic coffee table and goes deeper into the house. “Let’s see what I can find to feed you.” Everything he does, every word he says comes with utmost ease, filling me with jealousy to the tips of my toes. I’m a stranger to him. Shouldn’t he hide his private life from me? Such confidence.
“I have…” He throws the door of a shiny black fridge open. “Hm.” He discards a sloshing container into a trash can, then slams the fridge side shut and flings the freezer door open.
“Huh.” For the first time since I’ve met him, Blackmore’s face takes on a puzzled expression. He stands pinching his lower lip between his fingers, which is cute beyond anything.
“Did I call it with the whole bachelor pad joke?” I tease him. “Admit it. You have got not a single crumb around here.”
