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Her curiosity didn’t escape unseen. Within seconds, Nick’s sullen demeanor lifted, replaced by an awkward laugh. “God, what am I like?” Leaning back, he rubbed his eyes without mercy. “Take no notice of me, okay? I’m freaking about my GCSE results and it’s turning me into a total prat.”
Her brother Sam was sweating his exam results, too. In the UK, all sixteen-year-olds were dreading the first week of August when marks were released and futures and opportunities were set in motion. “Makes sense.” Evie nodded, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Nick dropped his hands and blinked several times. Evie noticed a stray eyelash riding his thumb.
“Make a wish.”
“Sorry?”
She pointed. “The eyelash on your hand. When you lose one, you’re supposed to make a wish and blow it away.”
“Guess it can’t hurt, right?” Nick closed his eyes for a beat then blew the lash off his finger. “Some proper downtime would help, too. I reckon we visited your beach once. The flowers and stone hut you mentioned, I think I saw those.”
“Oh yeah?! When?”
“Few years back. Me and my brothers were searching for cowrie shells for our grandmother.”
“Ah, groatie buckies! Love those,” said Evie. “Tough to find, though.”
He laughed brightly. “Yeah. We saw a washed-up starfish and some gray seals, too.”
“Selkies! They’re awesome! So fat and floppy. I saw a pod of orcas there once.”
“Cool!”
Dissolving into silence, Nick played with the strings of his gym bag. Evie devoured every second, her eyes as round as saucers. I want to touch him so badly. She glanced up. “So, why are you here in music camp hell? Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
“You’d think, but uh…” His tongue poked the outside corner of his mouth. “I’m being punished.”
Evie snorted. “Aren’t we all!”
“No, I’m serious. I got in shit for bunking off.”
“From where?”
“Private singing lessons,” said Nick. “My mum booked me in twice in London, and twice I went to the cinema with my mates instead.”
Evie’s brows rose. Private lessons? She should be so lucky.
“Mum wants me to be a triple threat—acting, dancing, singing.”
“But you already sing on Dalston Grove,” said Evie.
He leaned in conspiratorially, and his subtle scent, something clean and deliciously Nick, teased her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, dreamily. He smells like happiness.
“That’s just it…” Nick scanned the room before continuing. “Every time I strum my guitar, a phone rings or someone walks in. I never sing a bloody note. Haven’t you noticed?”
“No.”
“Every single time.” Nick scratched his jaw. “Listen, if we’re paired up, you’re gonna—” He pouted, his knee still jumpy as his eyes flitted to hers. “You have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t!”
“I can’t sing,” he whispered. “Or play guitar.”
“What?!” she squealed.
Nick’s focus sprang to the huddle of kids in the doorway. “Shh!” He ducked his head. “It’s embarrassing, all right? I totally suck.”
