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Jett scribbles a message on the napkin before handing it back, ruffling his hair afterward. “Stay cool, buddy. And remember, practice makes perfect.”
An infectious grin spreads across the kid's face as he clutches Jett's autograph to his chest. Jett holds out his fist, and the boy eagerly bumps it.
“Thank you so much!” the grandmother gushes, beaming at Jett.
“Thanks for stopping to say hi,” Jett replies warmly, standing back up.
Seeing this sweet, down-to-earth side of him does things to me. I'm lost in a daze until Jett's touch on my elbow startles me back to reality. “Ready to head up?”
I blink, cursing my traitorous insides for turning to mush. “Uh, yeah. Lead the way.”
In the elevator, I steal a glance at him from beneath my lashes. “You're good with kids.”
“It's the least I can do. Those kids are why I do this, you know?”
My heart flips. Damn. He's even hotter when he's being sweet. Stupid, sexy, genuinely good-hearted rock star.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I try to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach as I trail behind him.
Jett chuckles, looking far too amused with himself as he unlocks the door. “I bet your brother's gonna be thrilled when he hears about this.”
“You are so dead,” I mutter under my breath.
“Relax, Scar. No one will see us here, and Pete's so far removed from the tabloids, he wouldn't know a scandal if it bit him in the ass.”
Fair point, but still. “It's just one night.”
Jett drops his bag on the floor with a heavy thud and lets out a deep breath, as if releasing the weight of the world from his shoulders, before sinking onto the edge of the bed.
The room is small but clean, the neutral tones and sparse decor giving it an almost impersonal vibe. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, the only real focal point apart from those two nondescript paintings that do little to liven up the space.
My cheeks flush as I take in Jett's form, stretched out on the twin beds pushed together. He has his hands behind his head, eyes closed and head tilted against the headboard.
My gaze lingers on his chest rising and falling, the strong line of his jaw. The thought of sharing this room, this bed, with him tonight makes my heart race.
I try to sound casual, taking in the simple decor. “Feels homey, doesn't it?”
Jett opens his eyes and meets my gaze, something raw and unguarded in his expression. This man—vulnerable and complicated—is so much more than he seems.
“Places like this ground you,” he says, gesturing at the modest surroundings. “Get you back to basics.”
“It must be a nice change for you.” I sink onto my corner of the bed, the old springs groaning beneath me. “Living in a mansion can disconnect you from reality sometimes.”
“You know me too well.” He smiles wryly. “This is real. Reminds me of who I am beneath all the bullshit.”
Memories of Jett spending hours rehearsing with my brother in our basement flood my mind. He was practically a fixture at our house back then.
I smile at the memory of my brother banging on the drums he made out of buckets, and Jett with his dad's old guitar. “For all the hours you practiced, you guys were terrible.”
Jett laughs, the sound warm and familiar. “Man, we were so loud. I'm surprised the neighbors never called the cops.”
“You two would stay up all night talking and laughing. Drove me nuts through those paper-thin walls.”
“Hey, we had important things to discuss,” Jett grins. “Like who'd win in a fight: Batman or Wolverine.”
“Vital conversations,” I nod solemnly, trying to contain my laughter.
Jett's fingers trace over the worn fabric, his gaze distant and nostalgic. “Those nights kept me going.”
