We fall into an easy quiet for the rest of the drive, the way we do on our balconies sometimes. His arm rests on the console between us, and I reach over and turn it so his injured hand is palm up. I’m not worried about it, but I couldn’t have stopped myself from touching him if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. Probably what I need is a hug from Ruby when I get home to chase off the vibes of the Brower house, but Josh is herenow.
I feather my fingers over the skin around the bandage. The warmth helps.
“Still look okay?” His voice has a slight rasp.
“Looks good.” I should let go, turn away, think about other things. The lyrics that keep trying to be something in my brain. The show we have coming up next weekend. But I don’t. I just let my fingertips play over and around his palm, straying too far from the bandage to pretend that it’s about first aid anymore.
He says nothing else, only keeps his hand where it is, his eyes on the road like he senses watching me will scare me off. He’s right.
When we turn into the Grove parking lot, the minor jostle of moving from asphalt to concrete breaks the spell, and when Josh pulls into his space, my hands are in my lap, my eyes fixed out the window.
We get out and walk to the sidewalk, me near our gate, him by his. Light leaks from our living room into the kitchen, but the kitchen light itself is off. Josh’s condo is dark.
He flips his keys around on his finger. “Thank you again for doing that.”
“I got brisket. No thanks needed.”
He nods then hesitates before he steps toward me, sliding his keys into his pocket and reaching toward me. I let him, his hand closing around my wrist, a soft touch as he pulls me in, like he’s making sure I know I can walk away. He draws me against his chest, the top of my head not quite reaching his collarbone. It puts me at the perfect height to hear his heartbeat, strong and steady.
“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve bought me so much peace of mind over the last couple of days. Presley can be disruptive, and it’s been so good not dealing with her. I think she gets it now.”
“Glad to be Presley deterrent.”
His quiet laugh rumbles against my ear. “It’s more than that. You’re just . . . it’s been good.”
I wonder what he left out in that pause. “No problem.”
“I’m not sure what happened at pho, but . . .” He leans back and I tilt my head up to see what he wants. “We could pretend some more. It’s pretty fun.” He hooks a strand of hair that’s fallen into my eyes and tucks it behind my ear.
I go still, eyes searching his in the dim lights of the parking lot. For a second—no, even less—I consider it, an image flashing through my mind of how it would feel to turn my face into his palm, to step back into the warmth of his chest. Instead, I give a small laugh and I hope it hides how much I’m rethinking my decision to go with him. I keep a smile on my face and step away.
“Nice try, Josh. But unless you can smoke a brisket like Gramps . . .”
His head drops in mock dejection. “He’s a master. I don’t have a shot.”
I pat his arm and turn for my gate. “Text if your snakebite acts up.” Then I slip into the condo, fighting the urge to check if he’s watching me go.
Chapter Sixteen
Sami
Ipushthroughthedoor of Nine-Nine Studios and try to figure out what to do about my nerves. I don’t want to subdue them—they feed my performances. But this isn’t a live performance; it’s our first chance to record in a real studio. The point isnotto sound too raw.
The guys are coming in behind me, lugging their instruments. A buzz vibrates from them, even Rodney, who betrayed his excitement by the constant tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel as we drove over.
We’ve agreed we need to use myPretty Womanwindfall to pay for the recording. They think it’s a work bonus. And it’s notnota work bonus, technically. I had to work to get it. We’ll put our tailgate festival pay toward an initial T-shirt order, but we want to have some high-quality tracks to point Gentry Hawk to if Night View is willing to hook us up.
If they aren’t, well . . .
I guess one of us is going to have to get up the guts to introduce ourselves to her and hope we don’t put her off too much to listen to our music.
But it all starts with a good session tonight, and three of us have never been in a real recording studio. I’m one of them. My perception has been shaped entirely by TV and movies.
A guy my age, maybe a little younger, behind the front desk looks up with a polite smile when we walk in. “You Pixie Luna?”
“We are,” I confirm.
“I’m Jethro, the engineer. Let’s get you set up.”
