She laughs and sets down her glass. “You’ll be happy to know there’s a low pulp situation going on. We’re safe here.”
“Thank God!” I bug my eyes and delight in the way her lips lift in a comfortable smile. Not forced or guarded. I like this Lexi. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since we met.”
Her shoulders straighten just the slightest and I can’t help but kick myself for chasing away some of her ease. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want. Just call me curious.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but her lips twitch up with the trace of a smile. “Shoot.”
“Why Marx?” The words leave my mouth and I instantly regret the question.
Her eyes drop and her jaw hardens with her frown. She studies the patterned Formica table and traces her fingertips along the silver plated fork and spoon atop her paper napkin.Fuck. She was just starting to open up. Talk to me. Now she’s like ice. I should apologize. Or make a joke. An inappropriate one about her luscious breasts. Yes, then she’ll get angry. Angry I can do.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns.
My gaze snaps up to watch her still playing with the silverware. “Okay.”
“Swear it.”
I reach my hand across the table and set my fingers next to the napkin. “Pinky promise.” I wiggle my finger and her lips soften as though she wants to smile. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Her pinky slides along mine, and the soft brush of her tiny finger against my much bigger one kicks up my pulse. Her hands are so delicate and skilled, and fuck if my dick isn’t already making my tight jeans irritably uncomfortable. She squeezes her finger and I barely lock mine with hers before she pulls her hands back into her lap.
“I was a child. I can’t be held responsible.” She glances around the room before her gaze settles back to me. “But I had a major crush on Richard Marx.”
“The singer?” I press my lips together because I’m certain there’s a smile stretching across my face.
Lexi’s glare confirms my suspicion. “Not a word. You promised.”
“I won’t. It’s cute. What were you, like five?”
“More like twelve.”
“But you’re only twenty-three, right? Wasn’t Marx big in the late eighties, early nineties?”
“Yeah, well, my mom loved his music so we listened to it a lot.”
“You’re telling me your stage name is a shout out to the guy who romanced millions of women with his piano and soft rock ballads, all from a little childhood crush?”
“Don’t judge, okay. I was a kid.” Even she can’t hold back a laugh.
“Not judging, just finding the connection rather shallow for a woman who does everything with great meaning.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to compliment or insult me.”
I wink. “Compliment. Go with the positive.”
“You’re delusional.” She throws up her hands.
“Says the Marx diehard fan!”
“Look. It’s more than that,” she grumbles and when I tilt my head she shakes hers, her next words leaving her lips in a rush. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this ... When I was a young girl I had this ridiculously famous rock star dad. One who was a horrible father. One who never remembered to call or visit, and who made my mom cry herself to sleep. One who made her waste her entire youth devoted to a man who didn’t give two shits about us.
When I listened to “Right Here Waiting,” I used to pretend that my dad wasn’t Richie Sands. That my mom had gotten it all wrong. I imagined my father was Richard Marx and he was singing that song to us—my mom and me. That he loved us.” She gave a short pause. “So as soon as I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name to Marx.”
“Two big stacks.” Our server interrupts by setting down our plates with a clatter. “Refills?”
“Yes, please,” Lexi answers. However, I can’t seem to move my gaze from her eyes. The green shines a little too brightly under the florescent lights while she pours way too much syrup on her pancakes. She continues with her meal as if she hadn’t just shared something completely intimate and personal.
“Syrup?” Lexi holds the jug over my stack and I quickly grab it from her hands.
