“So, tell me about your job,” I say, trying my hardest to pretend this is a real first date.
Jaxon huffs out a breath, then throws his head back and laughs. My eyes follow the line of his throat like it’s the edge of a cliff—dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to look away from.
Focus, Izzy.
Jaxon has a great laugh when he decides to let it go like that, and I can feel my cheeks start to burn with the attention it garnered from everyone in the restaurant.
“You know,” Jaxon says when he finally stops laughing, “I think you’re the first person who has ever said that to me.”
“Okay, well, sorry for trying to have a normal conversation with you,” I say, tracing the condensation on the outside of my beer bottle with one finger.
“Don’t be sorry,” Jaxon says, reaching over and placing a hand on my leg.
My stupid heart is beating so hard at the contact I can barely hear when he says, “People never treat me like I’m normal. I appreciate it.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
He takes a long pull from his drink, and I studiously avert my eyes, unwilling to be sucked in by the vortex his long, strong throat creates. “It’s pretty hard to complain when I’m selling out concerts every night around the globe.”
“Maybe for you,” I say. “I, on the other hand, am fantastic at complaining. Complaining about being a rock star seems pretty easy. Long hours.Waytoo late of nights. Why can’t concerts start at two in the afternoon? Fans who try to steal your pubic hair...”
“Come on, don’t remind me of that!”
“I’m just saying, it seems worthy of at least a bit of complaining.”
Jaxon nods. “You might be right.”
We sit in companionable silence for a few seconds before Jaxon asks, “Is a country music star the same thing as a rock star? I always make sure I say I’m a musician since it seems pretty conceded to go around saying I’m a rock star.”
I consider it. “While I think there may technically be a difference—rock music versus country music and all—I’m going to go with no. You’re still a musician who plays huge concerts and has groupies. It’s the same.”
The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. “You’re being awfully nice to me tonight, Iz.”
“Izzy,” I say automatically. “And I promise I’m not actively trying to.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re just a nice person?”
I tilt my head from side to side, considering. “I think so.”
Jaxon laughs yet again. “Why do you sound so disgusted by it?”
“Nice is so bland. So…vanilla.” As soon as I say the word, I know it’s true. It turns out, I might be the one to blame for all my past relationships lacking a certain, let’s call it…explosiveness.
“Not true at all,” Jaxon says, leaning toward me, just slightly. “Nice is the first sip of coffee after a shitty night’s sleep. It’s the hardest thing to be in a world where everything is a point of contention, and no one cares to get to know you on a personal level.”
As he finishes his sentence, Jaxon’s eyes come alight, and I know that look. So, I hand him a couple of napkins as he takes his pen out of the pocket before quickly jotting words down.
A lot of words.
Four napkins’ worth of words, in fact.
Luckily, the server drops our food off during napkin two, so I at least have something to do while he writes.
I have zero regrets about ordering a Hawaiian pizza, as the mixture of warm pineapple and Canadian bacon mix in my mouth. My sisters both hate it, so I almost never get it. Luckily, Jaxon is the only other person I know who is at least willing to get it with me.
“Fuck, Iz,” Jaxon says when he finally stops writing. “I think you might really be my good luck charm.”
“Izzy.” I roll my eyes. “And yes, yes, we’ve been over this. I’m sure it’s me.”
