“I know the rules Tenley and I love following them, remember?”
I just nod, suddenly eager to have this conversation end.
It’s a warm, breezeless night. The smell of salt hangs in the air because of the proximity of the ocean. The sky appears star-less because of the light pollution, and just plain old regular pollution, which is depressing. I like how I can see the stars just about any night in Silver Bay. Suddenly, I’m a little homesick. For the old rickety house that Tate and I share in the off-season. For my mom’s homemade chili. For Aunt Callie’s gossip sessions over tea. All of it.
“Do you ever get homesick?” I ask as we wait for the elevator in the lobby.
“All the time,” Nash says and smiles. He’s even more handsome when he smiles. The crinkles by his eyes, the lilt to those straight stern eyebrows, the way his wide mouth softens. He looks… downright kissable. I mean, not by me. “I miss hearing the ocean hit the rocks outside my bedroom window. I miss the creak of the floorboards on my back porch. I miss the taste of S’mores ice cream from the stand near the beach. On a sugar cone with sprinkles.”
I gasp and put a hand on my chest. “You eat ice cream?”
“In the off-season,” he admits and rolls his eyes at my drama. The elevator doors open and he holds out his hand to keep them open as I enter. It’s a gentlemanly gesture he does without even thinking about it and… well, it’s not his most grating trait.
“Jimmies.”
“Who is Jimmy?’
I smile up at him. “Sprinkles on ice cream are called Jimmies.”
“Nah. That’s some backwoods Maine thing.”
“It’s fact,” I insist.
He laughs. The doors open and he lets me out first. I try not to let my ovaries notice his chivalry. Our little sexy flirtation from the arena parking garage feels like it happened eons ago now. The moment is definitely over.
"You tired?" he asks as I pull back the curtain I installed on the opening to his office slash my bedroom. It's the same color as the yellow wall, and easily removable with a tension rod for when I'm out of here.
I drop my purse and jacket on the convertible sofa, which I didn’t bother to make back into a couch today because we weren’t filming, and I like the scowl on Nash’s face when he sees it not put back together. “Not tired. Just… gonna chill in here. Give you your space.”
He looks around the room, and there’s a flicker of disappointment. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
He walks down the hall. I sigh and drop onto my unmade bed. What I want is for Bryce Achilles to disintegrate into dust. What I want is to not be trapped in a fake marriage. What I want is…
The entire loft starts to fill with guitar riffs I don't recognize. I look up in the corner of my room and see the speaker sitting on top of one of the bookcases. Of course, he has surround sound. I get up off the bed, listening. I don't exactly have a choice. It's super loud. It's not bad… Although the lead singer's voice is weird and the drums are intense. The lyrics are rambling and yet poetic. I slip out of my sandals and wander barefoot down the long hall. Nash is not in the living room or the kitchen. I start up the stairs.
I find him at the foot of the bed, his back to me. He’s bopping a little to the song. His suit jacket is lying on the pristinely made bed, the blue tie he wore tonight in a little pile beside it. His elbows are out and I realize he’s undoing his dress shirt. He shrugs out of the shirt and lets it fall to the floor.
Two things hit me about Nash in this moment. He doesn’t have a single, solitary tattoo. And he has a really decent voice. Good, even. He bends to pick up the shirt and notices me at the top of the stairs. He stiffens and swears. “Jesus. You scared me.”
“Who is this?”
“The band?” I nod. “The Hip.”
I stare blankly. He stares back in fascination. “You don’t know The Hip? The Tragically Hip?”
“No.”
He picks up his shirt and tosses it on the bed. “Your uncle Luc is Canadian, right? And close to my dad’s age?”
“French Canadian,” I verify. “But he basically grew up in Maine. He was raised by the Garrisons, essentially. Now back to the band. And the fact that you have a singing voice.”
He looks suddenly and completely sheepish. “I don’t. I just really dig The Hip. I can’t not sing along.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Canadian icons.”
I watch him but he’s stopped undressing, even though he’s got his hand on his belt. His eyes are on me. I feel studied, but also admired. It’s equal parts nice and disconcerting coming from Nash. This attraction to him is really unexpected. I drop into the metal and leather chair off to the side of the foot of his bed. “So I dare you to tell me your favorite Tragic Hip song.”
