When the front door shuts down the hall, I slam the drawer closed and race back to the rest of my waiting meal. It doesn’t matter how sweet a guy is with his dog, he’s still a guy. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s that no matter how sweet someone seems, they can still turn around and slap you in the face. Every man has a drawer of secrets in some capacity. They’re all hiding something. Decker and Callum are one and the same. They’re guys who love the attention of women. I can’t blame them, but I refuse to be the next conquest—for real, at least.
“Lena?” Decker calls.
“I was, uh… using the bathroom!”
He unhooks Princess’s collar, his brow knitting when I finally waltz up to the expansive island. “You know there’s a half bath right off the kitchen.”
“No, but I do now.” I offer a smile and jump back on the barstool to finish my sandwich.
He eyes me suspiciously as I sink my teeth into the other half of my sub. It’s even better than I remember it being five minutes ago, but despite the delicious distraction, I can’t keep my mind off of the drawer. Who does that? Who collects that crap like some kind of serial killer? I wonder how many morehabits he has like that, habits that could embarrass me publicly, could make me look even more like a fool than my little music hall encounter with Callum did. Habits that could destroy my already threadbare reputation. All this tells me is he’s way too wrapped up in his past for anything meaningful. Which means he’s probably the type to string girls along. What a dog. Princess strolls over and licks my leg. No offense to her, of course.
Decker leans over the island, unwraps his sandwich, and takes a bite so big herbed oil dribbles down his chin. An awkward silence rises between us as I watch him stare down at his food, his jaw clenching and unclenching with each chew. Nothing but the sound of mastication and Princess’s clicking claws fill the space. As much as I don’t want to talk to him, I need to get back to the studio soon, and if I don’t build some kind of rapport with this monstrosity, I can pretty much kiss my cover-up goodbye.
All it takes is a few weeks, Lena. Maybe a couple of months at the most. Play nice. Save face. Keep everyone happy and move on.
Swallowing my bite, I clear my throat. “So.”
His green eyes meet mine from behind his sandwich. I can’t help but feel like he’s nervous for some reason.
I forge on. “What do you like to do for fun?”
“Besides practice?” A gusty laugh bursts from his lips. “I’m kidding. Karaoke.”
I freeze mid-bite. “Karaoke?”
“Yeah. Me and the guys go to The Malted Mule every Thursday.”
“Every week?”
“Well, we try to. We can’t always make it, obviously, but in the offseason, we do. And if we don’t have a Thursday game during season, we go.” He grabs a napkin and finally wipes theoil from his chin with pink cheeks. “Those usually suck though cause we don’t drink much during season.”
“Sober karaoke?” I stifle a laugh.
He lifts a shoulder, taking another bite.
“Yikes.” The laugh I’d been holding in finally explodes from my lips, and I try to rein it in. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
He runs a hand down the back of his neck, his rock-solid shell of confidence starting to crack. “It started when Aleki’s girlfriend was a waitress there. Before they were dating.”
“Aleki?”
He arches a brow. “My buddy. Maleko Aleki. He’s on our O-line.”
“Sorry, not a big football girl here, despite whatever my mom led your manager to believe.”
He frowns at me. “So you just let them say anything they want about you?”
I grab a napkin and subtly dab my own chin. “I’ve learned to let it ride. Everything’s easier for me if I just let them take the wheel.”
He snorts.
“What else am I supposed to do? Go out at all hours of the night doing karaoke?”
“Better than getting bossed around by a bunch of people who are using you.”
I drop my sandwich, unsure of how to respond. Sure, my mother benefits from my job—I’m the reason hers exists—and yeah, I’m paying Antonia a hefty sum to keep my career and appearance afloat. But all of it’s worth it. I’ve gotten what I’ve always wanted. Writing my own music and performing has been my dream ever since I picked up my first guitar, and if the articles and sold-out shows are any consolation, I only stand to gain more popularity. Whatever they’re doing—whatI’mdoing—is working. Who is he to say otherwise?
“Better than keeping a weird drawer of secrets in my bathroom,” I counter.
