It’s not what I expected. It’s somehow more dangerous. “You trust me to do that?”
She snorts. “No. But I trust me. And I trust my feet. If you try anything, I’ll kick you in the shins and walk myself back to the hotel.”
I grin, surprised by how good it feels on my face. “Fair enough.”
She stands, slipping her boots back on, stuffing her hard drive into her bag. She tugs a T-shirt over her head, then slings her camera strap over her shoulder.
“Well?” she prompts. “You coming, or are we starting our co-dependent rooftop staring contest again?”
I push up from the chair, shoving my hands into my pockets. “There’s probably a record store somewhere that doesn’t suck. Locals always have one.”
“Lead the way, rockstar.” She grins. “And no promises I don’t take pictures.”
Chapter Twelve
Sadie
I Think He Knows
Taylor Swift
The record store smells like dust, nostalgia, and the kind of vinyl that should come with a warning label for how many feelings it can yank out of you. Sunlight slants through the front windows in wide amber streaks, catching on floating dust motes and the metallic edge of a display stand featuring the “Rock Legends: Midwest Edition.”
Dean is beside me, tall and unfair, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans as he scans a rack of used CDs with an intensity that feels… personal. Like he’s searching for ghosts only he can see.
I’m pretending to look at a bin of alternative vinyl, but I keep stealing glances at him over the tops of album covers. He’s relaxed today. His shoulders loose, mouth soft, expression open in a way I haven’t seen since, well, ever.
Maybe it’s the lack of fans. Maybe it’s the sleep. Maybe it’s the rooftop confession he probably regrets and I haven’t stopped replaying. But there’s something warmer in him today. And it’s magnetic.
He pulls out a record and glances my way. “This one’s you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? And what exactly does ‘me’ sound like, Ross?”
He flips the case to show me the cover, handing it to me; it’s all dark blues featuring a silhouette of a woman walking through rain, the title Thunder in Silk.
Huh. Okay, rude of my heart to flutter over a poetic album name.
He shrugs, like he didn’t just drop a metaphor all over this narrow aisle. “Strong. A little moody. A lot honest.”
My face goes warm. “Or maybe you just like the cover,” I counter.
“Maybe.” He smirks. “Maybe not.”
I put the album back before I start staring at it like he wrote the damn thing himself. We wander separately but orbit the same spaces. I snap pictures of vintage posters on the walls, and he drifts behind me now and then, close enough for body heat to register but not close enough to be obvious.
When the bell above the door jingles with a new customer, Dean subtly shifts, putting himself between me and the entrance. Naturally protective. Not even thinking about it. And I hate that I notice. I hate even more that I like it.
He reappears at my side with a vinyl in hand. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
He nods, jerking his head toward the door. “Found a place a block over. Looks tragic. The kind of place you’ll love.”
“I find it concerning how confidently you say that.”
“Trust me.” He grins. “You look like you appreciate tragic things.”
God, he has no idea.
