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I stepped close to her and gently touched her elbow. Even though we were still practically strangers, I felt the strong urge to comfort her. “I know a place we can sit and get a drink. We don’t even have to talk if you don’t want.”
She nodded with relief. “I don’t want to go home and face my parents just yet. I don’t want to face reality.”
My phone pinged, and I glanced down at the text from Hudson — a car was waiting out front.
Just then, a high-pitched shriek emanated from someone to the left of me. “Oh, my God! Knox!”
It was time to leave. Out of the periphery of my vision, I saw Hudson rising to intercept the teenaged shrieker who was making a beeline straight for me. Thankfully, my lass seemed to be lost in thought as I hastily guided her out of the restaurant and into the waiting cab.
She didn’t speak during the short drive to the jazz club, just stared forlornly out the window. When we arrived, the club was already fairly full, so the hostess seated us at a table near the back of the room.
The atmosphere was perfect. The crowd was relaxed, mesmerized by the elegant female vocalist in the spotlight, who was crooning into the microphone with her sultry voice. Behind her, the band played popular cover songs with a Bossa Nova flair. I focused on the guitar, but the seamless blend of music from the guitar, piano, bass, and drums accompanied by the saxophone and perfected with the various percussion shakers soon enthralled me as a whole.
We were sitting on the same side of the tiny table so that we could both watch the band. Blue and purple lighting enveloped the club, creating a cozy and romantic atmosphere, but my lass was still shell-shocked. She wasn’t paying attention to the music. When our drinks arrived, I scooted my chair closer to hers, so that I could drape my arm over the back of her chair. She didn’t object or flinch away from me, so we both sat in silence while the band played song after song.
I had almost finished my second beer when she finally turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.”
I kept my voice low even though we were near the back of the club and wouldn’t be disturbing anyone by talking. “What for?”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind when you showed up tonight.”
I couldn’t keep my eyes off her lush lips. God, I wanted to kiss her. “This is perfect.”
“You like this band?” she asked.
“I love it. I love all types of music.”
She leaned a little closer to me. “That’s right. You’re a ... what did you call it? A music producer?”
So, she had been listening when I was talking to her dad. I hadn’t been sure. I thought she had been too busy stewing in her anger at me for showing up.
When I didn’t answer right away, she continued, “And you said you travel — you go on tours with bands. With popular bands? Like actual rock bands?”
“Yeah.” I squirmed a bit. I should come clean. Let her know I was the guitarist for a hugely popular band. But every single girl I’d met in the past five years had wanted to be with me only because I was in a rock band. They didn’t give a shit about me. I was interchangeable with my four other bandmates for all they cared. Mostly, it didn’t bother me, but it was certainly refreshing talking to someone who didn’t know. She wasn’t trying to get into my pants solely to boast about it on social media. Unfortunately, she wasn’t trying to get into my pants at all.
She laughed, amusement lighting up her entire face. “So, basically, you’re a roadie.”
I lifted an eyebrow at her dig. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Uh-huh.”
My fingers were tracing little circles on her shoulder. “And what do you do, Jellybean?”
“Ugh, don’t call me that!” she protested. “That’s what my dad calls me, even though I’m not ten years old anymore.” She rolled her eyes but then answered my question. “I’m a marketing associate for an international cosmetics company.”
My lips tipped upward. “Ahh. So you play with makeup all day?”
Her mouth fell open in shock, but then she giggled. “Touché.” It was the first look of genuine happiness to flit across her face since I’d met her, and I wanted to make it happen over and over again. Christ, she was achingly beautiful.
The waitress came by and asked if we wanted another drink. I looked over, deferring to her, but she shook her head. “No, I should get back home soon.”
I had to hide my disappointment. I didn’t want to let her go just yet. The night was young, and I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with her. There was something about her that intrigued me beyond reason.
She took a sip of the cocktail she’d been neglecting. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell my parents the truth. It was supposed to be a harmless little fib, but what I did seems extra cruel now.”
It made little sense to me. A girl like her would have no trouble getting a boyfriend. “Why did you make up a fake boyfriend tale to your mum?”
“I did it to get her off my back.” She huffed out an exasperated breath of air. “My mother was always so worried about me living out here in L.A. She was constantly pestering me, asking me if I’d met anyone. She didn’t believe that I could be happy on my own. So, instead of dealing with all her nagging, I made up a fake boyfriend, and voilà, she stopped hounding me so much. It sounds so pathetic, I know. Especially now that I know that she’s been going through so much the whole time.”
