I’m sure it was. Who could blame me, though? Weston Basham was a sexy beast.
Weston grabbed a couple of paper plates from the cabinet and started dropping hot waffles onto them.
That was when my phone rang.
I leaned over and snagged it off the counter, glancing at the screen. Rodney Storm. My drummer.
“Hey, Rod,” I answered, hooking my heels behind Weston’s thighs so he couldn’t wander far. “What’s up?”
“Hattie! Hey. Hey, hi.” his voice came through, quick and bright. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”
“Nope. Just having breakfast. What’s going on?”
“So, funny story. I’m actually in your neck of the woods.”
I blinked. “You’re in Odin?”
Across the island, Weston went still. He didn’t look up from the butter he was spreading, but I felt his attention shift to the phone in my hand.
“Yeah! Crazy, right?” Rodney laughed. “My cousin lives over in Panama, and with the tour on break, I figured I’d come visit. Then I saw online that you were spotted around here, and I thought—hell, small world. Want to grab lunch?”
“You saw online that I’m here?” A little worm of unease wiggled through my belly. So much for laying low.
“Some fan account posted a picture. You were at a gas station or something.” He said easy breezy. “So? Lunch? My treat. At that little diner?”
I chewed my lip. Rodney had been my drummer for four years. He was steady, professional, always on time, never any drama. If I was being honest, we weren’t super close—he was quiet, kept to himself mostly—but he was part of my crew. My road family.
“Sure,” I finally said. “The diner on Main Street sounds great. One o’clock work?”
“Perfect. See you then, Hattie.”
I ended the call and looked up at Weston, who was watching me with his brows pulled together and the butter knife in his hand, looking like he was contemplating using it for something other than slathering yummy goodness on our Eggos.
“Who’s Rodney?” he grumbled.
“My drummer. He’s in town, well in Panama actually, visiting his family and wants to grab lunch.”
“Are you gonna go?”
“Uh. Yeah.” I plucked a waffle off my plate and took a bite. “He’s my drummer. We’re friends.”
He grunted.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Did you just grunt at me?”
“Babe.” He set the knife down and planted his hands on the island on either side of my hips, boxing me in. “You just told me last night that some sick fuck is sending you threatening messages. He knows your phone number. He knows where you live. Do you really think it’s safe to be out and about on a lunch date?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a date.”
“That’s not the part I have a problem with.”
“Weston.” I framed his face with my hands, waffle and all. “Rodney has been my drummer for four years. He’s driven me to the airport. He’s held my hair back when I got food poisoning in Tulsa. He is the least threatening human being on the planet. He wears cardigans, honey.”
“Ted Bundy was charming, too.”
“Oh my god.” I dropped my forehead against his chest, laughing. “Are you jealous?”
He grunted.
