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Chapter 8
Iblink awake. For a moment, I forget where I am, but then I feel Scarlett's warmth beside me, and everything comes rushing back.
I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling with each breath. I could count each of her eyelashes if I wanted to.
I can't remember the last time I felt this peaceful. Normal. No screaming fans, no paparazzi, no managers breathing down my neck. Just me and Scarlett, in this quiet bubble of tranquility.
“Morning,” Scarlett mumbles, her eyes still closed but a smirk playing on her lips.
Scarlett's eyes are flecked with gold, the irises dark as onyx. “Morning, Sunshine. Sleep well?”
She stretches, cat-like, before finally opening her eyes. “Surprisingly, yes. Though I'm not sure how I feel about waking up next to you.”
“Ouch,” I clutch my chest in mock pain. “You wound me, Scar.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile. “I'm starving. Please tell me there's food in this place.”
“Your wish is my command,” I say, rolling out of bed. I pad to the kitchenette, rummaging through the cabinets. “How does cereal and pop-tarts sound?”
Scarlett groans. “Gourmet breakfast, courtesy of Jett Miller. I'm swooning.”
I return with the food, settling onto the bed. A warmth spreads through my chest. This is nice and easy like we're teenagers again.
“Remember when we used to sneak pop-tarts at your place?” I ask, grinning at the memory.
Scarlett nods, her eyes sparkling. “Good times.”
An hour later, we pull into the parking lot of a small supermarket. “Snack run,” I announce, killing the engine. “Can't road trip without proper sustenance.”
Scarlett raises an eyebrow. “By 'proper sustenance,' I assume you mean chips and candy?”
“You know me so well,” I wink, climbing out of the car.
We wander the aisles, tossing various snacks into our basket. I can't help but notice how domestic it feels, shopping with Scarlett. It's such a mundane activity, but it fills me with a strange sense of contentment.
A young cashier keeps stealing glances at me. I pull my hat lower, keeping my expression neutral, detached.
We're almost in the clear when a voice calls out from across the store. “Holy shit, you're Jett Silver!”
I whip around to see some douchebag with a shit-eating grin, phone already raised, snapping pictures. “Can I get a photo, man?”
I nod, used to the routine. I pose for a quick selfie, hoping that will be the end of it. But the guy doesn't get the hint. He fires off question after question about my music, my band, my next album.
“A couple more? My friends will never believe this!”
“Listen, I appreciate the support, but I'm kind of in the middle of something,” I say, trying to keep my tone friendly.
The guy doesn't back down. I feel my patience wearing thin.
I'm acutely aware of Scarlett watching the interaction, and something in me snaps. “I said no, alright? Back off!”
“Whoa, just wanted a picture, no need to be a dick about it.”
The words come out harsher than I'd intended, and the fan recoils. I immediately regret my outburst.
“Jett.” Scarlett's hand finds the crook of my elbow, squeezing in a clear warning. I can feel her disapproving stare boring into the side of my head, but I can't bring myself to look at her.
“Let's just go,” she murmurs, already tugging me toward the exit.
