Page 71 of Driving Beats

“Fine. Stylist it is.” I stick out my tongue at him. “I’m dying to know— which one is it going to be, Coop?

He puts both on his wrist, then drops the Breitling. “This one.” He holds up the winner—the Omega.

I smother my smile. I knew it! My man has mighty fine taste.

My man. The record in my mind skips. Get a grip, Nese. Fuck buddies and nothing more. Not even that…

“Put it on. Let me see.”

He struggles with the clasp, so I help him. His wrist is larger than most men’s I bet because of his many years playing guitar. I tap his wrist, now adorned with the Omega.

He checks the new piece of jewelry, admiring it from every angle. “It looks great.”

The clerk points out some of the more unusual features, to which Coop listens intently, then smiles at the timepiece. “I know I fought you earlier, Nese, but this watch is pretty cool. I bet all the guys are going to want one after they see mine.”

The clerk puffs up. His commission would be astronomical.

I tap the Omega. “You might dethrone Tris to be called the band’s trendsetter.” I toss my head back and laugh.

Coop chuckles. “Not even a remote chance.”

He checks the invoice and whistles.

I suck in my breath, praying he doesn’t balk. When he remains still, I urge, “You like it. Splurge a little.”

Following a long pause, he stares at his wrist then hands the clerk his black credit card. I want to clap at his indulgence, but hold myself in check. This does reinforce the disparity between the performer and the help, though. I don’t envy him his success, but know I’ll never be free of balancing my checkbook to the penny.

We walk out of the store and are greeted with another perfect sunny LA day. As we’re not far from the beach, I suggest a short trip. “To make sure your new watch keeps as good time as your old one,” I clarify.

Shrugging, he agrees. Soon, we’re walking on light tan sand, carrying our shoes. “How’s the ankle?”

Lifting my left foot, I admit, “It still hurts a little. Thankfully, nothing like it did a few days ago.”

“You’re over the hump. I bet you won’t even remember hurting it by next week.” He pauses. “When you’re safely back in Georgia.”

This again? Well, if he wants me gone so badly, I don’t want to stay. It’s not like we’ve created anything special here in LA—I merely acted as his stylist in his time of need. Plus a tiny bit more.

“Fine.” I pull out my phone and book a flight to Atlanta, then turn the screen toward him. “I leave at ten a.m. tomorrow.”

“Good.”

I study his profile. His patrician nose. Sunglasses covering intriguing hazel eyes. Ripped torso. I’ll miss having his strong arms wrapped around me, but I’m sure any man’s will do. He’s obviously lying to himself about me, but to each his own.

At the shoreline, I kick the water. It splatters him from mid-torso down his legs. “Oops!” I take off running, but have to stop almost immediately. “Ouch!”

He picks me up by my waist, spinning me around. “Not such a good idea, would you say?”

In between laughter, I eek out, “No!”

He stands me up on my feet but keeps his hands on me. Staring into my eyes, he asks, “How is it?”

What’s he talking about? All I can concentrate on are his kissable lips and hands kneading my shoulders. “Huh?”

“Your ankle,” he prompts. “Did you reinjure it?”

Oh. Right. He’s inquiring after my stupid injury. “How can’t you feel this undercurrent between us?”

Oops—must’ve said that out loud because he steps backward. “Nese.”