Axel moves to the kitchen and grabs two bananas from the fruit hanger. He tosses one to me. “This’ll hold you over until we get there. Wouldn’t want you to starve.”
I catch it, grinning. “Thanks.
“See? I’m not completely heartless.”
“Debatable,” I quip, but there’s no bite in my voice—only a warmth I don’t try to hide.
Chapter
Five
Axel’s handsrest easily on the steering wheel as he guides his 1963 Corvette through Nashville traffic. The low hum of the engine vibrates through the seats, smooth and confident—just like him.
When we’d gone out to the garage earlier, and I saw the car, I wasn’t surprised. I recognized it as a Corvette, but Axel—with the faintest note of pride—told me it was a Sting Ray split-window coupe,painted in a rich navy with a metallic sheen he called Daytona Blue.It fits him perfectly.
I remember how Axel always loved cars and was forever tinkering with them, which makes sense considering his dad owns a tire shop. Yes, I spent far too much time observing this guy from afar.
The Corvette suits Axel. He’s perfectly at home behind the wheel, the city lights flashing across his profile, catching in his hair and the line of his rugged jaw.
He gives me a sidelong glance before turning his attention back to the road. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Yeah, you bet. We’ve had a busy day so far.”
He nods. “I was thinking we could nail down that one song tomorrow, then start a couple more. We’ll work in a few traditional Christmas carols too.”
“Sounds good.” I pause. “Hey, do you think you should bring in some other people to play or sing with us?” I don’t like the thought of Axel depending solely on me. There’s no way I can perform at the benefit, and I’ll end up leaving him high and dry.
“Nah. We’ve got this,” he says exuberantly.
“What about the one song where you play trumpet? Isn’t it hard to switch back and forth with the guitar?”
He throws me a small grin. “I’ll manage.”
“So … none of your band members want to help out?”
The change in him is immediate. Even in the dim light of the dashboard, I sense tension rolling through him.
“No, we’ll be fine.”
I bite back another question, but my curiosity festers. I want to know why he split from his band—not just for the article, but for me.
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Tell me about your family.”
My heart beats faster. “My family?”
“I assume you have one?”
“Nope. I came from apes,” I answer in a deadpan tone.
“Ha ha,” he says dryly.
How much can I tell him without giving myself away? “My dad sells insurance.”
“Oh?”
“Home, auto, property—all the boring stuff.”
“And your mom?”
