“I have to strenuously disagree with you there. Carbs should always be taken seriously.”
“Do you think they name their starters things like Doughlene and Ryehanna?”
I smile. “Then there’s always the pickle, jam, and chutney club. Or how about the paranormal research group? Bet they’d be interesting. You could actually ask Johnny Cash what he thinks about you wearing color.”
“That would be amazing.” He pulls a credit card out of his back pocket. But not just any card, one of those exclusive black, invitation-only ones.
I cover it with my hand before the shop assistant can see. “Normal people don’t have those, and they’ll see your name. Do you have anything else?”
He shakes his head. “Left my phone in Nashville too.”
“Let me get it and you can transfer the money.”
“I appreciate that. This attempt at a new life owes everything to you and your grandma.”
I give him a wink. “You’re in safe hands.”
“Speaking of which, we should probably hold hands on the walk back.” He gives me the most dubious grin in all of time and space. The man is not the least bit serious. “Maybe even make out some on Main Street. For authenticity’s sake. Just to bolster our story. What do you think?”
“Let me ponder it for a minute.”
My smile doesn’t seem to sit on my face quite right. Time to shove my feelings for him down into my darkest recesses. Again. Because I wish he wanted to kiss me. And I wonder what it would be like to place my hands on his skin. But these are just rebound or crush-type sensations that aren’t the least bit helpful, and are best ignored. As he himself admitted, this fuckboy flirtation routine is no more than nonsense.
“No.”
“Dammit.”
And me and my fake ex-boyfriend head on home. Without any physical contact.
CHAPTER FOUR
We greet the new day with a smoke alarm screeching and the scent of burned food filling the house. Nash is opening the windows wider and waving a kitchen towel around to dispel the acrid air. Meanwhile, Grandma sits at the table watching the brouhaha with a serene expression. Her short gray hair is neatly styled and she’s wearing a yellow linen sundress.
“You were right, Audrey,” he yells over the alarm. “The pan was too hot for scrambled eggs. Starting with cereal would have been safer. Maybe work my way up to toast. Take this cooking thing one step at a time.”
Thankfully the smoke alarm stops. The way the sudden silence rings in my ears. I was brushing my teeth and tying my dark hair back into a low-slung ponytail when it started. Wandering out in my pajamas is right out with a rockstar in the house. He may have spent part of the other night asleep beside me, but it would feel too weird to me now. Just showing up as my usual morning mess. So it’s jeans and a navy tank top for me.
And not even the alarm can dim his masculine beauty. The hard lines of his face in the morning light are a sight to see. It’s therapeutic to remember the video of him on various red carpets I watched the night before. He’s as unobtainable as can be. Ordinary people such as myself can only stare at him from afar. Say, the length of the kitchen table.
I give Grandma a kiss on the cheek, and she says softly, “Don’t eat anything he tries to give you.”
“Got it.”
Grandma’s home is usually an oasis of calm under her complete control. Nash, however, is like a hand grenade lobbed into the middle of her domestic bliss. The funny thing is—shedoesn’t seem to care. The woman has zero fucks to give about him turning her usually bright and airy kitchen into the sight of an egg-burning, toxic-meltdown chemical disaster. I am starting to see how she worked for a rockstar all those years. She is simply unflappable.
Nash examines the frying pan and the sludge of his burned breakfast.
I smile and say, “Maybe scrape the solids into the trash.”
He gives the pan a dubious glance. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just throw it away?”
“Most certainly not,” says Grandma. “It’s Le Creuset. Give it to me.”
I, meanwhile, start dealing with the empty coffee pot situation. Someone needs to talk a certain rockstar into buying a proper coffee machine for the house. Talk about increasing the morning happiness ratio around here.
I spent the rest of the day working when we returned from the coffee shop and clothes shopping yesterday. And he went for a drive last night to clear his head while Grandma and I watched a movie. There was a vague vibe that he was giving us some space. Probably a smart move when it comes to Grandma. I enjoyed having bonding time with her.
But her footsteps were definitely heard in the hallway at around midnight. She has a lighter step than Nash’s. And she paused outside each of our rooms, as if she was checking we weren’t together. It made me feel sixteen again, when parents at sleepovers would keep a keen eye on us in case we were getting into trouble.
