“Take a deep breath, June.”
“I don’t need to take a deep breath. I am fine.”
He gives me a half smile, lazily scratches at his abs, and says, “Yes you are.”
“God, you’re confusing. Aren’t we respecting Grandma’s wishes and not making things complicated?”
“Sure. I mean…there’s the stick to be considered.”
“So, stop flirting with me, Nash.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a drawl. “Me behaving like a fuckboy makes you smile. And I like seeing you smile. I also like it when you ogle me, in case you were wondering.”
“No one is ogling anybody, thank you very much,” I say primly.
“Whatever you want, Junebug.”
And my gaze goes to the floor because there are definitely no funny, beautiful fuckboys down there. The ground is totally safe territory.
“You know what I really miss is my hat,” he says.
“Saw you wore one in most of your pictures. Where is it?”
“Back in Nashville. I knew I’d be too recognizable with it, but leaving it behind hurts. It was like cutting off a limb.” He frowns at the worn pair of black leather cowboy boots on the ground. “Should I get new boots?”
“How attached are you to them?”
“They were made especially for me. I’ve gone around the globe in them more than once.”
“Do as you please. I doubt anyone’s looking at your footwear.”
He grunts. “Hiking boots and sneakers seem to be big around these parts. Might as well grab some. Can’t believe you looked me up online.”
“I wasn’t supposed to?”
“I’m joking,” he says. “It’s normal to be curious. Got any questions?”
“Who did you write the song ‘Lady Caroline’ about?”
He just laughs.
“There are so many chats hypothesizing her identity.”
And he doesn’t answer the question. We’re in the back of a clothing store beside the dressing rooms. Nash gives himself a once-over in the mirror propped against the wall.
“I don’t know,” he says. “How do I look?”
“Good. I mean…you always look good. But yeah…you look good.”
“Your cheeks are pink again.”
“Shut up.”
His grin is entirely too self-satisfied.
Me and my stupid mouth and stirred-up hormones. Ugh. Time to stare at the floor some more. Sex had become a perfunctory thing with my ex. Another sign we shouldn’t have been together. Neither of us were putting in the effort.
In other news, Nash and his music have been sending me to sleep lately. Which is not to say it’s boring. But it is the last thing I play at bedtime. The quieter, slower songs he sings. He has a low speaking voice with a rough edge. I would happily listen to him recite the manual for the dishwasher. And hearing him sing is everything. Though he doesn’t need to know that. He already has me blushing on the regular.
