Page 33

“FOOD HAS ARRIVED,” I called as I came in through the lobby.

Sasha and I had decided that he should start sneaking in through the loading dock instead, to keep rumors to a minimum.

Especially after the Cool Beans fiasco. He was already at the Rev.

I knew because he kept sending me photos of names he found in the men’s bathroom, delighted by them, snickering like a nine-year-old at “Dick Handsy.”

I came bearing a pizza from the Big Pie.

We sat on the floor and shared the box between us.

I’d gotten a half pepperoni and pineapple, half mushroom and olive, but there was so much cheese on it that it was hard to tell the two halves apart.

He picked up his pineapple and pepperoni slice and took a bite.

He moaned. “Oh, fuck, that’s delicious .”

I sat down across from him. “Best pie in the OBX.”

“I think I found the new love of my life. I would marry this pizza.”

“It’ll never treat you wrong. Always asks before paying for dinner. Opens the car door for you. Doesn’t talk about its fantasy football league until at least the third date …”

“Wow, talk about a keeper.”

I cheers’d him with my slice. “Best pie,” I repeated. He marveled at the cheese pull as he got another slice. Then, because my curiosity got the better of me: “So, how was your yesterday?”

“Fine.” He sounded nonchalant, but I could feel the sudden spike of anxiety in the back of my head— his anxiety. “I just had a long chat with my manager. Wanted to ask what the hell I’m doing on a beach in North Carolina.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I was kissing a girl.” He thought it so casually as he inhaled another slice.

I choked on my pizza. “Okay, that’s so not fair,” I gasped. He handed me a bottle of soda that came free with the pizza, and I chugged it. “And that was once .”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“ Twice ,” I corrected. “And they were both mistakes.”

“Horrible mistakes,” he agreed breezily. “The sand, the surf, the way you tasted like cherries.”

“Cheerwine,” I replied. “It was the cherry soda.”

“The way the moon reflected off your hair—”

“The moon was a paid actor,” I joked, and reiterated for the second time, “and we both agreed that it was a mistake.”

He made a noise, whether of agreement or disagreement, I couldn’t tell. Come to think of it, I was the only one who said it was a mistake. But Sasha couldn’t possibly …

“Couldn’t what?” he asked coyly.

I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, me and you? I’d throw off your whole image.”

“Why?”

Because I wanted more than just one night, and he clearly found inspiration in different people. He’d only find so much in me. He would get bored. But I couldn’t say any of that, so I teased, “I’m not exactly bad boy material.”

He snorted. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a bad boy .” He made a face at the words. “Not even close.”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen you on a motorcycle …”

“Or wearing leather,” he pointed out.

“You don’t have any skull tattoos anywhere, do you?”

“Not a single one,” he replied, crossing his heart with his pinkie finger. “And truth be told, I don’t even drive. I haven’t in over a decade.”

I whistled. “In LA ? That’s so bold of you. Lemme guess, you take helicopters everywhere?”

He smiled, though it was hollow. “I just have a driver. And I don’t take highways anymore.”

“Why— oh .” My eyes widened as I realized, suddenly feeling awful for teasing him. “Your wreck.”

I’d been a senior in high school when he wrapped his Corvette around a telephone pole and spent months in the hospital.

Shortly after, Renegade disbanded. There had been rumors that it was because he refused to return after his accident, but they’d never been substantiated.

Gigi was sure there was more to it than that.

I’m so sorry, I’d forgotten , I told him, my mind reeling.

“It’s okay, bird,” he replied gently, and this time the smile on his face was genuine. “Remind me to show you my souvenir one day. It’s pretty cool—I can say that now, since I survived it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He closed the pizza box lid, and we cleaned up our impromptu picnic area.

I said, “You’re actually nothing like I thought you’d be. I was wrong—during our first songwriting session. Wildly wrong.”

“I was wrong about you, too,” he replied, following me to the bar. “That night in the balcony.”

“You really made me angry that night.”

“Trust me, I know. I’m good at that. I think that’s why people called me a bad boy or whatever. Because I just”—he waved his hand in front of his face—“put up a wall. It’s easy, pretending that you can summarize someone without knowing them. They’re less like people and more like …”

“Stories,” I finished, putting the pizza box in the trash.

“Stories,” he echoed in agreement. “But really, you shouldn’t take to heart how some asshole whose biggest career move in a decade was guest starring on Celebrity Bachelor treated you.”

“Hey, you gave Riley Madds solid advice.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, my shining achievement.”

“People screw up love all the time, and as far as I know, Riley Madds is still married.”

“To a gaffer named Ned he met on the show,” he pointed out. “So, inadvertently, I guess?”

I laughed. “True love can find you anywhere. My parents, for instance, met right here at the Rev.”

And I spread my arms out wide.

He looked up at the balcony, and the steel beams, and the lights, and the outdated wood paneling that my dad swore made the music sound better. “This wouldn’t be a bad place to fall in love.”

“It would be the best,” I agreed, imagining my parents dancing in the middle of the theater to a slow song on the jukebox. It was a good love story. One of the best. A backup singer in a rock band and a nerdy scientist who came back home to take over the family business.

Maybe that was why I felt like my own love story had such big shoes to fill.

I thought about telling Sebastian my parents’ story, but just as I decided on where to start, he pushed himself to his feet.

“Okay, it’s been long enough,” he said, reaching a hand down to me. “I’m dying to know what you wrote.”

And the story on my lips fell away. I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. “You’re that excited?” I took my notebook out of my purse and sat down at the piano. I hesitated. What if I showed him what I’d jotted down yesterday, and it was all crap?

He joined me a minute later and pulled the keylid up for me. “It won’t be crap,” he told me. “C’mooooon, lemme seeeeee.” He stretched out the words into a whine, like a puppy begging for a bone. He even pouted.

So I relented.

He looked over it, nodding. “Oh,” he murmured, and took it out of my hands, pulling the pen from between the pages. “D major?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I began. “I mean, I was just thinking …”

“Something bright,” he filled in for me. “Then a key change?”

I picked at my fingernails. “I know—it’s not very popular, but I think for the final verse …”

“No, but …” He scratched in a small note beside the key signature. “I like it.”

“It’s not much,” I said, an excuse.

“But it’s something,” he defended. “A foundation.” Then he propped the notebook up on the stand and played the melody with one hand, the axis chord progression with the other. He hummed as he went, fitting the chords to the melody, fast and exciting, but …

It’s too fast.

He stopped. Glanced over. “Slower, then?”

I hesitated. “Don’t you think?”

He thought about it, scratching his chin.

He had a five-o’clock shadow, which surprised me because he rarely went anywhere without a clean shave.

I sort of liked the scruff, with his hair half-pulled-up into a bun.

It made him look … real. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Maybe it’d be better slower,” he relented. “Like a ballad?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“And these lyrics—chorus or verse?” He tapped the phrase I’d written down, about getting it right. “Getting what right?”

“I … don’t know,” I repeated, searching the keys in front of me; eighty-eight of them, and not a single one called. It was like the thread I had caught yesterday on the beach had snapped, and I was left holding the frayed end.

Sebastian studied me for a quiet moment. Then he closed the notebook, pen inside, and put it on top of the piano as he stood. “Okay, let’s go do something.”

I looked appalled. “But we just started!”

“Sure, but you don’t get inspired here.”

I felt scandalized and affronted all at once. “Of course I do. This is the Rev! One of the most inspiring places—”

He gave me a dry look.

My shoulders sagged a little. “Then … where do you want to go?”

At that, he crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the piano. He must have gone shopping yesterday, because he was in a new and somehow more garish Hawaiian shirt. It was teal and orange with little flamingos and flowers all over it. He inclined his head. “Surprise me, bird.”

There were so many places I loved—the boardwalk, Cool Beans, the balcony of the Revelry … but one place in particular came to mind. I hesitated, because the responsible thing to do would be to stay and work. Force ourselves to get this song done. But …

I asked, “Have you ever had a piniwi margarita on a barge held together by duct tape and prayers?”

A grin curled across his lips, as if he was hoping I’d suggest that. “Can’t say I have.”