“Chicago is your new home?—”
“A temporary one,” I remind her, but she barrels on.
“I want you to love it here. I have six months, and I’m very confident in my persuasion skills. Dom says I’m quite convincing. And I only get you for one night before you move in with that weirdo.” She pauses, then adds, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us? You’re so far out of the city, and you don’t even know the guy you’ll be living with.”
This isn’t the first time she’s tried to talk some sense into me, and she’s definitely not the only one. Turns out most people think finding a roommate on NestQuest is… unwise. But my savings are drained from my stint on reality TV. Contrary to what people think, it’s not a paid gig. And I refuse to mooch offthe only two people I know in this city, especially when they’re still in the honeymoon phase.No, thanks.
Plus, I found my Nashville roommates on the site, and that turned out fine.Ish. Dale comes home drunk too often, and Lucy and Will are terrible at keeping both their arguments and lovemaking at a normal volume, but I expected a couple of hiccups with a shared house. I picked that place for the same reason I picked this one in Chicago: it’s cheap (in this case, free) and close to work.
It’ll be fine.
“Sure, I do. He’s just some old businessman who’s obsessed with his cat and out of town a lot. I’ve already hit it off with his assistant?—”
“You could make friends with a fly.”
“Give yourself more credit.” I grin, checking my lip gloss in the mirror. “You’re at least a butterfly.”
Mia laughs, and I take way too much pride in that. She was a tough cookie to crack initially. Maybe opposites don’t only attract in love, but in friendship, too. Where she’s closed off and prickly, I’ll talk to just about anyone and I’m usually smiling while I do it.
“It’ll be good,” I continue. “I’ll barely see the guy. I’ll be at the studio most of the time, anyway.”
She goes quiet, and when she speaks again, she still doesn’t sound convinced. “I don’t like it. If you change your mind?—”
Her voice cuts out, and I glance down at the black screen. Looks like my phone has checked out of this road trip, too.
I grab my wallet and my notepad. Is inspiration going to strike in a gas station convenience store? Unlikely. But I’ve been staring at a blank page for what feels like eons, and I’m not about to risk missing my muse.
I jot down “eons” as I lock the Bronco with a double chirp and head toward the entrance.
Eons… universe… you’re the eon of my universe—absolutely not. I scratch all of it out.
The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I jump back a step.
“Shit, sorry,” a deep voice mutters as its owner nearly knocks me over. I guess what they say about Northerners being in a hurry is true.
My gaze connects with brown eyes, partially hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. A few dark blond curls slip forward, falling against his forehead.
“Oh. Hello,” I cajole, because I’m… well, me.
He blinks, lips parting like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. He pushes his glasses up with the back of his wrist, his other arm loaded with way too many Gatorades.
Something about it, the awkwardness, makes me stay in the doorway a beat longer.
His brows pull together. “Do I know you?”
“Don’t think so.” I smile.
“You look so familiar. I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”
One day, I hope to be someone people know, but for now, “aspiring” is still a required prefix for country singer.
“I’m new to town, so I doubt it,” I say. This guy, a mix of athlete and college professor, doesn’t strike me as the type to watch reality TV. And that’s the only place anyone might’ve seen me. Well, that and… “Unless you’ve been barhopping on Broadway recently.”
“Nashville?” His gaze drifts down my body in a way that feels more curious than creepy, then snaps back up, catching on my notepad. He gives a small shake of his head. “Nah. Are you a reporter?”
“Do you often get reporters ambushing you at gas stations?” I study him, coming up empty. Though to be fair, I don’t watchmuch TV. Or movies. Or sports. So my odds of recognizing a celebrity are slim unless they’re a musician. “Are you famous?”
He chuckles, it’s warm and deep, and I want to hear it again.
