Is that what she thinks of me? That people are only nice to me because of my celebrity status? That I don’t have genuine connections with people and people can’t simply like me for me?
Is she right?
“Sorry,” she says, her hand darting out to touch my wrist. “I didn’t mean anything bad by that. Guess I’m not used to hanging out with celebrities.”
“Is that why you’re hanging out with me?” I ask, worried about the answer. Because even if we’re only starting to get to know each other, Ithought she didn’t care about the fame. I thought she was seeingme.
“No.” She gives my wrist a squeeze before letting go, and the absence of her touch now feels inexplicably heavier than the touch itself did. “Honestly, I’m sorry. I think I’ve been making assumptions about you since I met you, and that’s not fair.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. It happens all the time.”
“It’s not fine,” she insists, angling herself toward me.
She pulls one leg up onto the stool and tucks her foot underneath her other thigh. Naturally, this draws my attention to her thigh. Both of her thighs, if I’m being honest with myself. She’s wearing dark jean shorts that hug them perfectly. The hems are frayed, and I wonder if the little loose threads tickle her skin. I imagine how they’d feel under my thumb if I ran it across them.
They look soft.
So does her skin.
My gaze travels to her top now. The bottom is cropped and rolling up a bit. It makes me think she cut it herself, as well as the top of the shirt, which is cut at an angle, revealing one shoulder, a black bra strap, and a lot of her collarbone.
A weird feeling starts stirring inside me, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is.Attraction.I’m attracted to her.
So... okay. I guess that answers one major question I’ve been asking myself lately.
She clears her throat, and when my eyes jolt upward to meet hers, she smiles as if I wasn’t being a creepy weirdo. “Can we start over?”
“Sure,” I say, still a bit dazed from the internal revelation.
She takes a large sip of her drink before setting it back down and sweeping her finger through the condensation on the glass. “All right, so tell me about yourself. Minding my own business has always been my policy, but I’m afraid this ridiculous town might be rubbing off on me, because I’m really curious about what your deal is.”
“What do you mean?” I ask nervously.
“For starters, why are you staying at a small-town inn with no end date in sight? Don’t you have a huge house somewhere?”
“I do,” I tell her, picking at a corner of my coaster.
When I don’t say anything more, she shakes her head. “Right, sorry. You don’t owe me your story. I just wanted to know more about you.”
I consider it for a moment, then angle myself so we’re both facing each other. Resting one boot on the rung of my stool, I cross my legs. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
With a laugh, she says, “Believe me, my life can’t be anywhere near as interesting as yours.”
“Everyone has a story,” I press. If I’m going to explain what I’m doing here, I want to feel like I’m getting to know her too. Like I’m not the only one exposing myself.
“Okay, Strawberry, but I’m warning you mine’s a boring one.”
“Strawberry?” I tuck an unruly lock of hair behind my ear. I’ve been called plenty of red-related nicknames because of my hair, but I don’t think anyone’s used that one before.
The hair falls right back in front of my face, and she reaches out for it, twirling the end around her finger before letting it slip away. “It’s not because of your hair,” she says. “Not the color.” She leans in closer and lowers her voice like she’s telling me a secret. “It’s because you smell sweet like strawberries.”
I’m afraid my face might be as red as a strawberry now, judging by the heat I feel on my cheeks. But her words don’t make me uncomfortable. They make me...yearn.
Sitting here, with her watching me intently, I’m suddenly yearning for something I don’t quite understand, and therefore, will probably never get to have.
Addison leans back in her seat, giving me more space as she takes another sip of her drink. She doesn’t look like she’s expecting any kind of response from me. “Anyway,” she says, “I grew up in Chicago and lived there most of my life. So living here has been quite the change.”
“Why’d you move?” I ask, trying my best to pay attention to what she’s saying while my mind is still stuck on the way she whispered,You smell sweet like strawberries.
