My brow shoots up. “You notice that?”
“Observing is the gateway drug to worrying,” she volleys, throwing my words back at me. “Remember?”
I huff. “You’re dangerous.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
We sit there for a minute, the morning stretching open around us. The woman in the pool climbs out, wrapping herself in a white towel, and disappears inside. The guy with the tablet leaves. The staff member finishes perfecting the symmetry of the chairs and vanishes too. It’s just us. Empty pool. Empty sky. My body full of nerves.
“You ever think about quitting?” she asks at last.
“Music?” I blink in surprise.
“Running,” she clarifies. “From whatever that was. From yourself.”
“Every day,” I admit. Then add, “Don’t worry. I’m too stubborn.”
“Good.” She smiles, small but real. “The world would miss your talent.”
The compliment hangs there. I look at her, really look. The line of her jaw. The way her mouth curves when she’s trying not to show what she’s feeling. The shadows under her eyes from too many late nights and not enough dreams that don’t involve alarms.
I want to kiss her again. Well, not again. Still. I shift closer on the lounge chair, our knees almost touching now. She doesn’t move away. Her breath catches just a bit.
“I can’t seem to get you out of my head,” I confess. The words feel like dragging barbed wire out of my chest. “On the bus. With that camera. With your damn rubber bands.”
Her gaze flicks to my hair, then back. “You threw one of them away.” Her mouth pulls down into a frown.
“You took up residence.” I shrug. “Plus, I’m an asshole.”
“Won’t argue with that.” Her voice softer now. Less armor. “You’re not easy, you know.”
“Good.” I chuff. “That makes us even.”
Her lips part, just a fraction. The part of me that remembers the elevator, the almost kiss, and the, go to your room before I do something stupid speech, starts yelling again. The other part, the one that remembers her that night on the bus, drunk and vulnerable and pissed at herself and still, somehow, kind, wins.
I lean in. Not all the way. Just enough that our shoulders brush, where my mouth is just close enough to feel the ghost of her exhale. “I want to kiss you. I do. But, if I kiss you,” I breathe out, “it’s not going to be because I’m drunk. Or pissed. Or trying to make you jealous.”
Her pupils blow wide. “What makes you think I’d let you kiss me at all?”
My mouth curves. “Your face in that elevator last night said everything required.”
She almost smiles, then catches herself. “You’re insufferable.”
“Probably,” I crack a wide grin.
“I don’t…” She swallows. “I don’t get involved with people I work with, Dean. It complicates things. Messes with the story. Blurs lines.”
I nod slowly. “And, I don’t do relationships.”
“I’m not asking for one.” Her response instant. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Me either.” I stare at her. “That’s the problem. We both want something that would probably burn us both.”
For a second, we just sit there, breathing the same patch of air, surrounded by all the things we’re not saying. Then she drops her head back against the cushion, breaking eye contact. The spell fractures, but doesn’t fully fade. “Take me somewhere,” she requests.
I blink. “What?”
“In the city,” she clarifies. “Somewhere that isn’t a dressing room or a press junket or a tour bus. You’ve been on the road longer than me. You must have a favorite type of nowhere.”
