Lola looks like she might pass out.“Oh my God, that would be so cool.”
Then his gaze cuts to the door.One glance.That’s all.But it’s enough to make my entire body go hot and restless.I know that look.
“Can we go?”he asks, voice low and smooth—like velvet pulled taut—filled with everything we’re not saying.
“You’re going with him?”
“It’s just lunch.Catching up with an old friend,” I toss over my shoulder like it’s nothing.Like I’m not practically vibrating inside.
But this?This isn’t lunch.
This is a slow burn beneath my skin.This is anticipation curling through me like smoke.This is the unmistakable hum that exists in the liminal space between reminiscing and fucking against the wall of his hotel room with no apology.
Because the way he’s looking at me?
It’s not friendly.
It’s not casual.
It’s devouring.
Calm down, Kit.It’s just a meal.You have plans to meet someone else soon, remember?Someone who might actually be good for you.Someone who hasn’t wrecked you and rebuilt you and haunted your music for more than a decade.
Sure.But when is that going to happen?
DeadStrings might live in Seattle.Or Portland.Or ...what if it is Seattle?He could be anyone—maybe even one of our regulars.A guy who lingers in the jazz aisle too long, always looking for an original press or a bootleg recording.Perhaps he’s the one who asked if we had a vinyl copy ofRumourseven though it was playing on the turntable right in front of him.
Should I ask him if he prefers CDs over vinyl?That’s a dealbreaker.I need someone who believes vinyl is sacred.That it outlives us all.
“You okay there?”Roderick asks.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking myself out of the spiral.“Just wondering where we’re going.”
“There’s this restaurant nearby,” he says.
We walk silently for a beat, our steps side by side but never quite touching.Not physically, anyway.But my whole body is aware of him—his scent, his nearness, the memory of his hands.
The grill is tucked away on a side street, understated from the outside but charming as hell inside.Like The Ivy in L.A., but less flashy.Warm wood, rich colors, no patio—just cozy booths and a giant chalkboard wall announcing COOKING CLASSES STARTING MONDAY.
“Everyone wants to teach people how to cook these days, huh?”I nod toward the board as we step inside.
“What?”he asks.
I nod toward the chalkboard.“The sign.”
“Oh.Yeah.I registered.”
I blink, surprised.“You did?”
He grins.“Yeah.Food’s good here.Figured I should at least learn the basics.I’m practicing the art of learning the mundane stuff, remember?”
God help me.Even when he says mundane, it sounds dirty.He could do filthy things while boiling water, for example.
“You know what’s funny?”I slide into the booth.“A friend is doing the same thing and dragging his brother along while he’s at it.”
“I mean that’s the way to do it.If you’re going to take on a new venture, do it with someone you can torture.”He smirks.“Like Julian.”
That makes me laugh.Because picturing Julian in a cooking class with Roderick is so absurd, it could cause a cosmic imbalance.Like setting fire to the syllabus just for fun.
