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“Fuck!”
It tumbles down the steps, landing at the feet of the guy on thebike.
He's tall with square shoulders, and as he shifts off the bike, he removes his helmet and shakes out his hair. It's straight and longer at the front, so dark it's nearly black, with a chunk of blue in the front. It falls across a face that’s all sharp angles and longplanes.
I’m still staring at him as he retrieves my phone from the bottom of the steps andstraightens.
The hazel gaze that locks on mine fills with amusement as Pen's voice streams from the phone. "A? What's goingon?"
"Pen, I gotta go." My voice sounds far away, even to me. I take the offered phone and clickoff.
Even though the guy’s taller than me, I'm a step above him, so we're nearly level. Adrenaline spikes through me as I blurt, "Hi."
"Hi."
If his looks are any indication, his voice should be rough. It’s not. It’s smooth, with enough dark undertones you want to ask him to recite his morning coffee order just so you can experience the word “cream” vibrating throughyou.
“Nice cupcake,” hemurmurs.
His lips are strongly defined, though the bottom one curves as if there’s softness inhim.
My stomach flutters, as if I want to find out. “Thanks.”
We live at the top of a long, winding driveway on a gated ten-acre lot outside Dallas. Physics says there’s no way the guy in front of me could literally suck the air from thecountryside.
The tightness in my chestdisagrees.
"What are you wearing?" My dad's words from somewhere behind me jerk meback.
The urge to smooth down the springy pink tulle skirt over my tights is useless since my hands are full of phone and cupcake, but I turn to meet his perplexed gaze at the top of the stairs. "It's a costume for Carly's birthdayparty."
“Harley Quinn?” heguesses.
“No, it’s not Harley Quinn.” Though that’s better than “pink zebra,” which the judges also would’veaccepted.
In jeans and a T-shirt, my dad barely looks old enough to have a teenaged daughter. I guess he almostis.
Jax Jamieson has four platinum albums, a rare ability to write extraordinary songs and perform them in a way that makes it impossible to look away, and the kind of money that makes my classmates’ CEO and investment banker parents lookbroke.
He was a legend before he hit thirty, at which point he claims he retired. “Retired” means he runs a music foundation for kids from troubled backgrounds, does a handful of promotional spots each year, and invents endless home renovation projects around our gatedestate.
"I told you Tyler was coming to stay with us for a while to work on his music,” Dad goeson.
“You didn’t say it was happeningtoday,” I point out. In fact, when he mentioned it, it had sounded more like a “maybe someday” thing. If my dad took half the opportunities and requests sent to him, he’d never behome.
"Come on, Annie. You’re acting like we’re notfriends."
My name on those firm lips strokes up my spine, works at the knot of tension between my shoulders as I spin back to face thedriveway.
That deep voice lowers as if it’s for my ears only, and a teasing note of familiarity slips in. “We used to mess around at your dad’s recording studio in Philly. Monopolize the hot tub at his hotel. Pursue epic quests to find the best cheese fries intown.”
I cradle the cupcake in my arms the way he's holding thehelmet.
I want to say, I haven’t seen you in almost a year. I texted you. I wrote toyou.
But either my dad standing behind us, or my pride makes meresist.
I take in the duffel back strapped to the bike. "Is that all you brought? Where's yourguitar?"
