I’m too busy staring at his hands—as he continues to pluck at his guitar like it’s an extension of his body—to remember what he’s asking. “What about me, what?”
“What do you want to do when you grow up...?”
“Penelope.” I give him my name since I have his. “And I’m studying speech pathology.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed a speech pathologist for a speech delay when I was little, and I want to help people—like me—learn to communicate with the world.”
His fingers stop gliding across the strings. “That’s fucking beautiful.” He pauses, his eyes twinkling. “Almostas beautiful as you are.”
My face heats. I’m sure we’re not the only ones in this room by now. There are probably people behind me, but I’ve tuned everything out. In the other rooms of the house, the thump of music makes even the air vibrate, the picture frames on the walls of whoever’s house this is rattle and shake to the beat.
On my way in, two kegs were being brought in by a crowd of burly, obnoxious dudes, and when I passed through the kitchen to come into this study-type-room, there was a giant dispenser of fruit punch. I’d bet a hundred bucks that it wasn’t virgin.
But sitting here in a musical bubble with Tate the blue ghost, time seems to be suspended, protected from the brash college party going on around us. He nudges my leg with his knee, sending sparks dancing through my body and making my breath catch.
He stares at my leg where his knee bumped me as though he felt something too.
When my eyes meet his, my heart skips a beat, the thump-thump stutters for just a fraction of a second, and I want to smack myself in the chest for being so dramatic.
He nudges me again, and if I’m not mistakenhisbreath catches at the contact.
He looks up at me with heat flickering in his eyes. “I want to kiss you.”
CHAPTER 2
Penelope
Tate draws my attention back to him as he sets the guitar on the couch and stands up. He hesitates, pausing as though he’s waiting for my permission.
“You do?”
He nods once, and a lock of hair slips down his forehead.
“I’m not ready for you to kiss me.”
His face falls.
“Yet.”
Hope and lust shimmer in his eyes, and he sits down again, picking up his instrument. “Okay, Pitstop. Hit me. What else you got?”
“Pitstop?” I scrunch my face up in confusion.
“You know... Penelope Pitstop?” When my face tells him I don’t actually know, he continues. “She’s a cartoon character from an old cartoon that was remade a few years ago. Wacky Races? Dastardly and Muttley?”
Those two are vaguely familiar, but I make a mental note to look up this Penelope Pitstop chick when I get home.
“Who’s your favorite artist?” I keep probing. I’m past wanting to find his flaws, now I just want to know the answers to all my questions, I want to know everything about him.
“The Beatles.”
Epic choice. Damn. I was hoping he’d pick someone I hated.
He levels me with a deadpan face, pointing his finger at me again. “Your turn, because that one’s fucking important.”
Swallowing, I steel myself. “Stevie Nicks.” Everyone always makes fun of me when I say it out loud because what college kid likes Stevie Nicks? Like no one has ever been influenced by the musical selections of their parents before.
