He looks at the ceiling. “It’s notbad. But it’s not top-ten quality, and I know it.”
“How about sometimes you do things just because you love them? Who cares how many people are watching from theaudience if you’re enjoying being on stage? Who cares how many records you sell if the joy was in making the record itself?”
His brown eyes flicker over my face. “You know you’re fucking irresistible?”
My stomach collapses in on itself, my breasts tighten, and my vagina clenches while I try to not suck in a massive breath of surprise.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t say that.”
You’re fucking irresistible.
He absolutely did too say it.
And it has my brain suddenly tripping over itself, trying to analyze what he means while my heart turns into a caffeinated squirrel.
I wish I could read his mind.
And it’s not the first time I’ve wished I could read his mind.
We’ve been at his house at the same time for approximately three weeks over the last year, total. Despite how much we’ve texted, I likely haven’t personally interacted with him more than a dozen times.
But sometimes I imagine he’s looking at me the way I’ve seen Cooper look at Waverly. The way I’ve seen Levi Wilson, another former Bro Code member and currently a solo pop star on hiatus, look at his wife.
And that’s why Levi’s on hiatus.
For his wife and her three kids that he’s taken as his own.
The idea that Cash would look at me like he cares is all in my imagination, and even if it wasn’t, I don’t need a relationship.
I’m too busy taking care of myself for a relationship.
“You think I’m irresistible?”Shut up, Aspen. Shut. Up.
He stares at the floor and mutters back, “How can you not know you’re irresistible?”
My heart stops and my breath trips.
My brain tries to tell me that my ears heard him wrong, but they didn’t.
I heard him right.
It’s even more obvious when he says, louder, “I like you.”
“No.”
He half grins, then shakes his head.
Andoh my word.
His cheeks are turning pink. Even when he’s lit only by the orange glow of the fire, I can tell he’s blushing.
My heart starts beating again, far more rapidly now. It’s skipping through spring tulips.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do. I like you. And I shouldn’t—wouldn’t—say it, but the fire is all we have aside from body heat to stay warm. So I owe it to you to tell you that I like you, and I’ll do everything in my power to stay on this couch, but if survival instincts kick in, I might—get closer. And it might be uncomfortable, but I won’t do anything intentionally inappropriate. I just…thought you should know.”
This man—my friend—my mentor—my landlord—is sitting mere feet from me, hasn’t had a drop of wine, and is telling me he likes me and we might have to snuggle to get through the next few days.
When I like him too, no matter how much I don’t want to, because I still need a few months of a place to live before I have the cash in my bank account to buy myself a house.
