Page 72 of Sounds Like Love
“I think I found the new love of my life. I would marry this pizza.”
“It’ll never treat you wrong. Always asks before paying for dinner. Opens the car door for you. Doesn’t talk about its fantasy football league until atleastthe third date …”
“Wow, talk about a keeper.”
I cheers’d him with my slice. “Best pie,” I repeated. He marveled at the cheese pull as he got another slice. Then, because my curiosity got the better of me: “So, how was your yesterday?”
“Fine.” He sounded nonchalant, but I could feel the sudden spike of anxiety in the back of my head—hisanxiety. “I just had a long chat with my manager. Wanted to ask what the hell I’m doing on a beach in North Carolina.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I was kissing a girl.”He thought it so casually as he inhaled another slice.
I choked on my pizza. “Okay, that’ssonot fair,” I gasped. He handed me a bottle of soda that came free with the pizza, and I chugged it. “And that wasonce.”
He quirked an eyebrow.
“Twice,” I corrected. “And they were both mistakes.”
“Horrible mistakes,” he agreed breezily. “The sand, the surf, the way you tasted like cherries.”
“Cheerwine,” I replied. “It was the cherry soda.”
“The way the moon reflected off your hair—”
“The moon was a paid actor,” I joked, and reiterated for the second time, “and we both agreed that it was a mistake.”
He made a noise, whether of agreement or disagreement, I couldn’t tell. Come to think of it, I was the only one who said it was a mistake. But Sasha couldn’t possibly …
“Couldn’t what?”he asked coyly.
I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, me and you? I’d throw off your whole image.”
“Why?”
Because I wanted more than just one night, and he clearly found inspiration in different people. He’d only find so much in me. He would get bored. But I couldn’t say any of that, so I teased, “I’m not exactlybad boymaterial.”
He snorted. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly abad boy.” He made a face at the words. “Not even close.”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen you on a motorcycle …”
“Or wearing leather,” he pointed out.
“You don’t have any skull tattoos anywhere, do you?”
“Not a single one,” he replied, crossing his heart with his pinkie finger. “And truth be told, I don’t even drive. I haven’t in over a decade.”
I whistled. “InLA? That’s so bold of you. Lemme guess, you take helicopters everywhere?”
He smiled, though it was hollow. “I just have a driver. And I don’t take highways anymore.”
“Why—oh.” My eyes widened as I realized, suddenly feeling awful for teasing him. “Your wreck.”
I’d been a senior in high school when he wrapped his Corvette around a telephone pole and spent months in the hospital. Shortly after, Renegade disbanded. There had been rumors that it was because he refused to return after his accident, but they’d never been substantiated. Gigi was sure there was more to it than that.
I’m so sorry, I’d forgotten, I told him, my mind reeling.
“It’s okay, bird,”he replied gently, and this time the smile on his face was genuine. “Remind me to show you my souvenir one day. It’s pretty cool—I can say that now, since I survived it.”
