Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
It's everything.
Writing is the only thing that keeps me sane, whether it's a journal entry or a work for hire song. I need all the opportunities I can find. I really need this one.
Right now, in the room where I spent a million summers, with the possibility of kissing Damon Webb hanging in the air—
My thoughts are a mess.
I scribble until my brain is empty, then I get up, get ready for bed, fall asleep in the white sheets.
And, sure, I dream about walking in on Damon naked. And, yes, in my dream, I join him in his bedroom, and he orders me out of my clothes, and I wake up flushed and panting.
But I can get over that.
Even if I have to kiss him.
After I move through my morning routine, I head downstairs and check my texts. Daphne promises to stop by after lunch. She is not taking sides in whatever it is we're doing here, and she expects both of us to play nice. Or at least not murder each other.
Which gives me a few hours to convince Damon to go along with this plan. But what the hell does Damon actually want? There's money, here. There's success.
And there's music.
He cared about that once. There must be some part of him that still wants to fall into a melody. I just need to remind him.
Now, where the hell is he? There's no music upstairs. The TV is off. The piano is empty. And beautiful. Really, is there anything more beautiful?
The wind blows through the massive room, sending the smell of salt into my nostrils. And something else too. Chlorine.
Sure enough, I turn toward the backyard, and I see him lounging in the aqua water, all tall and tattooed and tempting. It should be illegal for someone so annoying to be so handsome. And broad.
When did he get so muscular? He has abs now. And that v-line at his hips is begging for my fingertips.
Shit.
I'm rhyming my attraction.
This is not an I Want You song. This is a game, and I'm winning.
I need to get my feelings in order. To put my hate and desire aside and focus on what matters, convincing him to play my fake boyfriend.
I take a deep breath and let out a steady exhale. I do the conscientious thing and fix coffee for both of us. He takes his black. I think. He can always add cream later. He can't take it away.
I pour the java into ceramic mugs and bring them outside.
Damon turns as I approach the pool. He looks me up and down, studying my boxer shorts and my oversized band shirt, and he smiles. "A friend of yours?"
Yes. I'm supporting a friend from college. She's got a great indie rock band. They're not taking over the airwaves, but they have a small, loyal fanbase. Why does he have to say it like I'm obnoxious for supporting a classmate? Is he that unaware of the concept of friendship? "Are you jealous?"
"Let me guess. She plays piano, and she sings about her broken heart?" He uses the same tone. The you're a parody of yourself, Cassie Steele tone.
A long time ago, I would have read affection in it. My best friend's older brother teasing me.
Now, I hear the judgment.
I try to push past it. I try to stay friendly. After all, I'm not here to tell him to fuck off. I'm here because I need his help.
It's horrible, but it's true.
I shrug as if I don't notice the sharpness in his voice. I sit in the lounge chair on the right, set our coffees on the ground, push his toward the pool.
He moves toward me. "She plays guitar and sings about her broken heart?"
Ugh. Why does he say it like she's just so pathetic for pouring her feelings into her songs? And it matters she's a woman. Of course. I talk without thinking. "As opposed to all those guys who never play guitar or sing about their broken hearts?"
Damon stops at the wall. He reaches for the coffee. "It's not an accusation."
"Tell that to your face." Ugh. Why is he so difficult!
"You don't like my face now?" He shoots me a wicked smile.
How about I sit on your face? Would that shut you up? Shit. No. I will not think sexy thoughts about Damon Webb. I will not. "You look like your dad. I like him."
He nods sure, that's it, confident, collected, cool as a cucumber. There are no signs of strain on his face the way there was last night. He's not the old friend who understands my pain. He's the asshole who lives to torment me.
"Have you been having dirty thoughts about my father?" He raises a brow, teasing. "What would Daphne say?"
"No, he's a billion years old," I say.
"A silver fox," he says.