“Is there something else on your mind?” she asks.

I shrug, feeling like a fish out of water. “I’m far from perfect, Hendrix. I was rude to you earlier and—”

“And you already apologized. No grudges, remember?”

“Yeah but . . . I have a way of testing people. Pushing them to see how they’ll react.”

“You mean if they’ll run,” she says evenly.

I nod. The admission is easier when the dark masks the shame in my expression. “Maybe I was doing that to you.”

She smiles. It’s bright and brilliant and so very obvious in the darkness as she holds up her ring finger. “Well, this makes that kind of complicated, huh?”

I appreciate her ability to see I’m uncomfortable and add levity to the moment. “True.”

“I’m still here, Jase. It takes more than that to scare me off.”

Why do those words lighten the pressure in my chest? “Parents really know how to fuck a kid up sometimes,” I say. Why the hell did I just say that? “I should go.” It’s my turn to be flustered. “Sorry to wake you. I—I just wanted to thank you for dinner.”

“Don’t go.” Her words stop me. There’s a quiet plea in her voice almost as if she too, needed the interaction that I went looking for. “Stay. Talk to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hendrix

He looks like a dream. One marred with shadows but that owns the light somehow. His arms are crossed and a pair of sweats hang loose on his hips.

His eyes say yes, but his body falters, hesitating at my request.

Probably much like mine did earlier when he dropped that bomb on me. The me wanting you and not being able to have you part.

I scoot back against the headboard, tugging the blankets over my lap. Sleep has been hard here. Sure I crash into slumber at some point, but these hills are too quiet, too still.

I’m used to the city—the hum of traffic, the rumble of trash trucks, the occasional scream of someone cussing their ex out on the street below my apartment. That? That’s a lullaby.

“Can’t sleep?” I love his voice like this. A little low, a lot rough from what I can assume were his hours in the studio.

“No. It’s too quiet here.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I can yell profanities down the hall. Play the drums outside your door. Go on long, rambling delusional tirades to make noise. Would that help any?”

“Tempting,” I tease.

“I know a thing or two about tirades. I promise I could unleash one like you’ve never heard before.” He shrugs and gives me that boyish smile.

I huff out a laugh and pat the bed beside me. “Come sit. Tell me about the song you were working on.”

His jaw ticks. “It’s shit.”