Page 8 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

Iwatched him because I wasn’t sure what else to do. I wasn’t sure how to approach him, or if I even should. Our last encounter hadn’t exactly gone smoothly.

Instead, I took my coffee break alone to sit across the street on a bus bench and pretended there wasn’t a wad of gum stuck on the armrest. People were truly disgusting.

There was no way in hell I’d be sitting there if it wasn’t for the way Nash had been across the street for the better part of two hours.

Was it creepy that I watched him? Probably. It certainly bordered on illegal, considering I’d followed him to this specific location. It was two blocks over from the coffee shop, and I was only here to watch him. Stare at him. Study him.

Admire him.

He was tragically handsome in a way that was visibly broken. It was in the way he played, his fingers dancing endlessly over the guitar strings. The music he created was laced with his soul—melancholy and disconnected from the rest of the world. It was utterly captivating.

He was utterly captivating.

I could say whatever the hell I wanted, but Nash Calhoun had all of my attention and then some. And it had nothing to do with my uncle telling me.

Even as his fingers slipped, skating awkwardly over the strings, he was still impressive. I could see his frustration from where I sat. If only he realized that not a single other person noticed. They noticed him, but not necessarily what he was doing.

Something akin to disgust weaved its way through my chest as I watched people do everything they could to avoid him. They gave him a wide berth, passed on the other side of the street, and so on. A few tossed money in his guitar case, but that was it.

As I sipped my coffee, I considered just how much right I had to be angry at the whole ordeal.

Wasn’t I the same kind of person? Toss a few bucks, say nothing, and go on with my day?

Wasn’t that what we all did? Didn’t we all judge people in brief moments and create social divides accordingly?

Would I have stopped to pay attention if he were anyone else?

I was stuck in my head, the questions building on themselves, when Nash stopped playing. His head lifted slightly. Those green eyes collided with mine, his gaze intense and indescribable. I sucked in a sharp breath as I held it.

I’d spent a lot of time with people of morally questionable backgrounds, but never had I met anyone with a stare as intense as his. It stilled me. Peeled me apart like he could see right through all the walls and layers I’d built to protect myself.

The world slowed to an invisible crawl as we held each other’s gazes. His expression was unreadable. I found myself wishing I could figure out what was going through his head. Or at least wishing that I could pick up on some identifiable emotion on his handsome face.

But he gave away nothing as he broke eye contact and went right back to strumming his guitar for people who didn’t deserve that piece of him. And me? I just sat there watching because I didn’t know what else to do.