“Angie?” Ten steps toward me. “You are my date.”
I stop scrubbing the wet trails from my cheeks.
“I assumed you wouldn’t come over if I asked you after”—he rubs his earlobe—“after I shut you out, so I told Nev to text you something to make you come over, and since she owed me for her movie date, she agreed.”
A rough, masculine voice trickles through the hidden ceiling speakers. Say that you don’t want me, say that you don’t need me, tell me I’m the fool. I close my eyes for a moment and absorb the music, let it center me. When I open them, Ten is staring down at me, worry lancing his jaw.
“I thought you were never going to talk to me again,” I croak.
He shifts his gaze to the darkness beyond the window. “Angie, my mother is a moot point for me. She’s ruined so much, but I don’t want to let her ruin this.” He points to me, then to himself. “If I step away from you because of her, then I let her win. And I don’t want her to win.”
“So you want to be with me to one-up your mom?”
He returns his gaze to mine. “I want to be with you because you’re like an earworm, Angie. You’re all I can think about. I might even need to get new friends, because Bolt and Archie are tired of hearing about you.”
I let his words sink in, but they don’t. They just float there, in the air between us. “I suppose you thought that because I love music I might find your analogy romantic, but it contains the word worm, so”—I wrinkle my nose, even though I’m not truly grossed out or mad—“yuck.”
He laughs, and that gets a grin out of me.
And a confession. “Try as I might, you’re always running on a loop inside my brain too.”
His laughter transforms into a grin. “Look who’s spurting out analogies now.”
I smile, but then I don’t. Then I cross my arms because I’m suddenly nervous.
Ten scratches the back of his neck, and then he shifts. He’s nervous too. “So … do you want to try this?”
“By this, you mean whatever’s in that pan?”
His lips quirk up and down and then back up. “Among other things.”
“I could eat.” Actually, I probably can’t. Not with all those butterflies flapping inside me.
He steps a little closer. “I wasn’t really talking about food.”
My arms loosen, fall to my sides. “I wasn’t really either.”
His hand rises to the back of my neck, hovers before settling. Slowly, he tilts my face up. And then his eyes are on mine, and his mouth’s a breath away. I wrap my arms around his neck and then I press up on tiptoe to bridge the chasm between us.
His lips open mine gently, as though he doesn’t want to frighten me, and then one of his arms slides around my waist, presses me closer. All of him is rigid except his mouth.
His mouth is heartbreakingly soft.
His tongue darts out, touches mine, and I tighten my arms around his neck. His teeth clatter against mine, and his stubble chafes my jaw, but he’s still not close enough. I’m not the only one thinking this, because he scoops me up. I gasp, but he swallows up my surprise. I hook my legs around his waist as he walks over to the sapphire island, where he deposits me as though I were made of glass and air instead of flesh and songs. I tug him closer, and still he isn’t close enough.
After a long, long time, he eases his lips off mine. “I thought you were going to run out on me.”
The sound of his hoarse voice sends goose bumps skittering over every inch of my skin. “Whatever you were cooking smelled too good to run from,” I whisper. I totally considered running.
He chuckles, and it’s the sexiest sound anyone on the entire planet has ever made. And then he imprisons my mouth again. If he keeps kissing me, keeps tugging on my lips, tongue, teeth, he’s going to drag my heart right out of my chest. After another delicious moment, he rests his forehead against mine, runs his large palms over my jean-clad thighs.
“I was so afraid you’d leave,” I whisper.
His jaw is flushed, and his lips swollen. “In all seriousness … between Nev and you, how could I?”
Nev! Ten’s kisses made me forget other humans walked this earth. I jerk my face toward the kitchen entrance and press my palms into his chest to put a little distance between us. “Where is Nev?”
“She went out to dinner with Dad.”
“So we’re alone?”
His eyes shine as though dipped in glitter. “Yes. I suspect we have another hour before they get home. I told her to keep Dad out of the house as long as possible.”
“She had me so worried with that text of hers.”
He cups my jaw and just stares at me. Correction. Stares into me. His fingers trail down the sides of my throat, gather my hair, and push it off my neck. He kisses a spot below my earlobe, and I shiver. How is he so good at kissing? I wish the answer was that he was born that way, but I’m unfortunately not that naive. He’s had training. Can he tell I haven’t?
“Where’s your car?”
“In the shop.” His words are a little muffled.
“You got into an accident?”
“No.”
“Did you finally trade it in for a bicycle?” I tease.
He chuckles as he pulls away from my neck. “It’s getting outfitted with a bike rack. Don’t know if you heard, but Nev got Dad to buy her a bike.”
I smile.
“Plus”—his voice is both sweet and coarse—“I can’t have my girlfriend turning down rides with me because her bike doesn’t fit in my trunk.”
My pulse roars in my ears. Who is this boy? “Stop. You’re going to ruin me for all other men.”
He shoots me that perfect, half-tipped grin of his. He thinks it’s a joke, but it’s not.
My stomach suddenly growls so loudly, it drowns out the music. Ten pulls me down from my perch and tugs me toward the stovetop to stir our meal again. I’m surprised my legs hold me up since they feel like Twizzlers.
“Can’t believe you cooked for me. Can’t believe you cook period.” I sniff the pot’s simmering contents.
“Osso buco alla Milanese with homemade fettucine,” he announces.
“Are you for real?”
“I can’t sing for my life, but I can cook. Or so I’m told.”
I smile stupidly up at him. And then I don’t smile anymore because I feel like crying all over again. I thread my hands through his spiky hair and drag his head back down to mine. Before my lips touch his, I say, “Thank you for tonight … and for staying … and for not making me choose.”
“Choose?”
“Between your mom and you.”
His expression turns a little grave, but then he kisses the corner of my lips. “I like you more than I hate her. Go figure. I just hope that someday, you’ll like me better than her.”
My heart squeezes and squeezes. What I feel for Ten is so different from what I feel for Mona.
He whispers, “I shouldn’t have brought her up.”
But he did. And now all I can think about is her. “Ten…”
“Here and now. Let’s just enjoy the here and now.”
“Okay,” I whisper, as he drags his lips over mine.
If he can push Mona out of this moment, then so can I.
But I can’t.
How can a stranger hold so much power over me?
This perfect evening with Ten becomes bittersweet, because it feels like borrowed time.
Here and now, I remind myself. Here and now.
48
The Clashing Stones
As Mom and I walk into the Landmark Hotel the next morning, I check my appearance on my phone’s camera app, afraid I might be glowing like a white shirt under blue light. Besides pink cheeks and a hickey that I’ve camouflaged with concealer, I look normal. Okay, that’s a lie. My eyes are so shiny they seem greener, and the dimple on my chin looks more pronounced.
“Sorry I agreed to this brunch without asking you,” Mom says softly.
“It’s f
ine, Mom.” In truth, I’m crazy nervous. I haven’t told her about Ten. Did Ten tell his dad about me?
The Dylans are already seated at a round table when we arrive. I shake Jeff’s hand, then casually wave to Nev as I lower myself into the seat next to Ten. When Ten drapes his arm on the back of my chair, my spine locks tight and I lean forward.
Jeff eyes Ten’s arm, then eyes me. And so does Mom, but neither says anything. Impulsively, I palm my throat, the spot with the hidden hickey, and keep my hand there.
Ten leans toward me and whispers, “Relax.”
I jerk and knock over my water glass.
Ten smirks and so does Nev. As a waiter sops up my mess, I jiggle my knee. Ten clasps it, but his touch has the inverse effect of calming me. I brush his fingers off before my mother, who’s sitting next to me, can see them.
A few minutes later, as Jeff tells Mom a story about the naughtiest but cutest thing Nev did when she was three, Ten’s hand returns to my leg. I angle my legs away from him, then cross them.
“If you don’t stop,” I whisper, “my next glass of water will end up in your lap, and it won’t be an accident.”
Ten has the audacity to chuckle. I’m dying, and he thinks it’s funny. I feel hot and tug at the collar of my navy T-shirt.
“So I heard you decided to stay, Ten?” my mother says, as a waiter deposits a bread basket and a pitcher of coffee on the table. “What changed your mind?”
As I pour coffee into my cup, Nev asks her brother sweetly, “Yeah, whatever changed your mind?”
My hands jerk, and coffee splashes onto my lap. “Shoot.”
When Ten grabs his napkin and rubs it against my thigh, I bang my knee into the table.
Cheeks on fire, I spring to my feet and mumble, “I’ll be right back.”
I can feel all four of them watching me as I make my way up the stairs to the bathroom, where I lock myself in a stall and bang my head gently against the door. “Oh, why did I agree to come?”
I should’ve faked a stomachache.
“You and me both, hon.” A loud flush detonates from the stall next to mine.
Water runs in the sink. I flush even though I didn’t pee, then walk out of the stall, and freeze.
My jaw drops a little. Okay … a lot.
The woman stares at me in the mirror without pausing in her application of red lipstick. Satisfied, she smacks her lips together. “Hi.”
My mouth hasn’t closed yet. I try to force it, but my mandible must be severed from the rest of my face.
The woman turns from the mirror. Her honey-brown hair is so shiny it’s almost blinding. It flows in loose curls over a sheer seafoam blouse that makes her eyes look green … an illusion. Her eyes are topaz-colored like Ten’s.
“Mona Stone,” I blurt out breathily.
She cocks her head to the side the exact same way Ten does and observes me with eyes that are shaped like Nev’s.
Nev, who’s sitting downstairs.
I stare at the floor as though it suddenly became transparent, as though I’m going to find Ten and Nev and Jeff and my mom all peering up at us.
But then I jerk my gaze back up to Mona. Is she aware that her family’s in the hotel? Is that why she’s here … why she’s talking to me?
“Didn’t mean to startle you, hon.” She smiles, her white teeth setting her face aglow.
The bathroom door snicks open, and I swing my attention toward it, terrified it’s Nev or Mom, but it’s a woman with messy brown curls wedged underneath a headpiece and purple-framed glasses sitting on her nose. “Mona, they’re ready for you on set.”
“On set?” I find myself asking. I can’t believe I just talked.
Mona tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. Shiny rings wink from almost all her fingers. “I’m filmin’ a new music video. Want to come watch?”
I blink at Mona. Is she testing the strength of my allegiance to the Dylans, or is she simply that kind? “I, uh…” I am dying to go, but Ten will never speak to me again. “I’m in the middle of brunch,” I blurt out.
The assistant’s eyebrows arch up so high they vanish underneath her mess of curls. I bet no one’s ever turned down an invitation from Mona. I don’t see why anyone in their right mind would. Or maybe she’s surprised by Mona’s casual invitation.
“Talkin’ ’bout brunch, Mona…” The assistant glances at me. “D’you need the bathroom much longer?”
“Um. No. Just have to wash my hands.” I lunge to one of the sinks and turn on the water.
“What about brunch, Kara?” Mona asks.
Her assistant lowers her voice, probably imagining I won’t be able to hear her over the gushing water. “Your ex and children are here.”
Mona’s bronzed skin turns the color of wax. “Here?”
“They’re having brunch downstairs.” Kara glares my way.
I jerk my gaze to my hands, concentrating on creating the thickest layer of foam in the history of handwashing.
Kara says, “Good photo op.”
I freeze.
I don’t hear Mona’s answer, but her thick hair shifts from left to right as she shakes her head no. I’m so relieved by her refusal that I let out a rapid breath. I turn off the tap and dry my hands.
Nev’s hair is as thick as her mother’s and almost the same shade, perhaps a tint darker than Mona’s caramel brown.
Mona.
I still can’t believe I’m standing so close to Mona Stone, sharing the same air. After I toss my hand towel in a wicker basket, I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Nope. Not a dream.
I want to stay longer, but unless I feign stomach cramps and rush back into a stall, I have to leave. As I pass by her, I finally find my voice. “Thank you, Mrs. Stone. For inviting me onto your set.” And for not agreeing to a photo op.
Mona’s no longer smiling, but I sense that has everything to do with her family being one floor below where she’s standing.
“Bye, now,” Kara singsongs as I finally leave.
I’ve never disliked someone instantly, but it’s the case with Kara. As I return to the restaurant, I wonder if the people who work for big stars are all like her—disagreeable and calculating. But then I thrust Kara out of my mind and run through every millisecond of my encounter with Mona.
What stays with me is that she was thoughtful and empathetic, nothing like the uncaring monster Ten paints. But then his portrait of her is biased, and colored by grief.
I slide back into my seat.
“Manage to get the coffee out?” Jeff asks me.
The coffee! I forgot all about it. I stare down at my jeans, then back up at Jeff, and then at my half-full cup.
Ten nudges his elbow into my side.
I look up at him. His features are larger than his mother’s, but the resemblance is so striking. How could I have missed it? It’s not like he hides his face behind a curtain of hair like his sister.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Uh.” I swallow. “I think I might be coming down with something,” I lie, my pulse twitching with guilt.
“Want me to drive you home?” he offers.
I want to say yes, but then I glance at Mom, whose brow is so ridged with concern that I swallow hard and shake my head. I don’t want my weird behavior to reflect badly on her and affect her relationship with her client. “It’ll pass.”
But it doesn’t pass.
I’m so quiet and distraught through the rest of the meal that I’m certain once Jeff finds out his son and I are dating, he’ll advise Ten to dump me. The thought adds to the edgy energy short-circuiting my system.
Borrowed time.
49
The Devouring Melody
As we wait on the sidewalk for the valet to bring us our respective cars, Nev touches the sleeve of my wraparound sweater and cocks her head to the bloating crowd of rubberneckers on the other side of the street. “You think there’s a celebrity staying at the hotel?”
My hands shak
e, but they’re mostly covered by my knit sleeves, so I don’t think Nev notices. Still, I inch them even farther up until only my nails are visible.
Ten sidles up next to me. “It’s done.”
My breath catches. “What’s done?”
“Brunch with my dad. You survived.”
Of course … That’s what he thinks put me on edge. “And he’ll never invite me after today. I was so spacey and a total klutz.”
Ten has his hands stuffed inside his jean pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for my hand. He tried during brunch.
“Want to go”—he shrugs—“do something?”
My pulse soars at his suggestion and incapacitates my brain from forming a verbal response. Glancing over Ten’s shoulder to make sure our parents are not paying attention, I nod.
“Can I come too?” Nev asks. “Please … pretty please. I’ll do anything.” She presses her palms together and bats her eyelashes at her brother.
Ten glances at me over Nev’s head as though to check if it’s okay. Like I would ever exclude her …
“We could go bowling,” I suggest.
“I love bowling!” Nev gushes.
I smile. “Do you like bowling, Ten?”
A small smile flicks his lips up. “Hope you’re not the competitive type, Angie, because I’ve never lost a game.”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” I answer sweetly.
Like a sunrise, the intensity of his smile turns up and up until it burns away my residual stress.
“Yay!” Nev slings her skinny arms around his waist.
“But after…” he murmurs. He points to me and then to himself, and my heart skips a long beat.
I give him a jerky nod.
“Hello. I’m right here,” Nev says, body still attached to her brother’s.
He pats her shoulder. “I can feel that, you little sloth.”
She presses away from him and sticks her hands on her nonexistent hips. “I’m so not a sloth.”
“You hang on like one,” he says.
She scowls, but I don’t think she’s offended. “Would you call Angie a sloth if she hugged you all the time too?”
Not Another Love Song Page 22
