He could take any seat, but he slides into the bench, close enough that his knee grazes mine. “So, what’s in the notebook?” He raises his eyebrows with his stare.
I lift mine right back. “What doyouthink’s inside?”
“Espionage.” He levels me with a playful glare. “It’s always the most unassuming characters who work for the government.”
“Yep. You caught me.” I give in to a soft laugh. “I’m jotting down all your dirty secrets for our national security.”
“Really?” He cocks his head as if he’s actually concerned.
I’ve never shared this with anyone, but I realize I want to tell Leighton about my writing. Maybe it’s the safety of a late night confession but I’d like to believe I’m embracing the woman I want to become. I’m ready to be braver, bolder. “I write things. Poems? Songs? I don’t really know. The words just come to me.” I trace the edges of my notebook, unable to meet his gaze.
I’m a work in progress with the brave thing.
“Can I see?”
Swallowing my fear, I slide the notebook into his hands.
My silly romantic ramblings are something I’ve done for years, but I didn’t write them for anyone, or anything. Like everything I’ve shared with Leighton, it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating to hand over my notebook. His fingers don’t open the pages until I murmur my consent. “Okay.”
He reads. And reads. And reads.
With each flip of another page my anxiety grows. Does he like them? Think I’m an utter fool? Lord, I never should have shown him. I clear my throat, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. “They aren’t really—”
“Shh.” He holds up a finger, his gaze trained with laser focus on the paper.
Did he reallyshhme? Heshh’d me! Where in the ever lovin’ world does he think that’s an acceptable response? I cross my arms over my chest.
His gaze finally lifts. I try to discern his expression but come up empty. He sets the notebook in the space between us. “Where did you learn to write?”
I glance to the front of the bus and then back to him. Is this a trick question? “Elementary school.”
He rolls his eyes and lets loose a chuckle. “Smart ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“These lyrics.” He points at the notebook. “At least, I read them as lyrics. They’re emotive. Deep. Full of passion.”
“Yeah? They’re not crap?” This time I hold his gaze and brace myself for the other shoe to drop.
“You’re serious? You have no clue?” He raises his voice and shakes his head. “They’re fucking amazing. Like, I want to wake up the rest of the band right now so we can write a song with you.”
“You’re only saying that because . . .” My voice trails off, not exactly sure how to finish that thought. Because he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Because he’s only being kind?
“Because we got tattoos together?” he offers with a grin.
“Leighton.” I mean to chastise but his name leaves my lips full of longing. Ugh. I shake my head. “You have to be nice, so I don’t know whether I believe you.” I drop my gaze to the table.
“Opal.” He reaches forward, lifting my chin so I look him in the eyes. “I’mveryserious about music.”
“You really think they’re songworthy?” The hope in my voice begs for affirmation. I hate that I need it, but I do.
“Iknowthey are.” He leans forward and the space between us narrows. His conviction bleeds past my insecurities and seeps confidence into my dreams. Could I really write a song?
More pressing, though . . . Is he about to kiss me?
His gaze doesn’t waver but for a momentary dip to my lips. They’re dry under his stare and I press them together, which draws his attention again. He leans closer, a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough that his scent fills my nostrils. He’s fresh and clean, with a little mixture of something that reminds me of the ocean.
My lashes flutter, heavy with lust and desire. I want Leighton to kiss me. It’s not the first time I’ve imagined it, but after spending the day together, this moment seems fated. Romantic. Perfect.
