Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWENTY-SEVEN “Space Age Love Song”

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Space Age Love Song”

A Flock of Seagulls

Natalie

A fter battling Easton for minutes—minutes he argues we don’t have to spare—I relent and let him into my apartment. The thought of being intimate with him again and suffering a similar aftermath is too much to bear. Even if we can’t become anything resembling what we left in Seattle, I decide to live in the moment, if only to witness him realizing his dreams.

He’s mostly quiet as he prowls around my apartment, pausing at my built-in bookshelf before focusing on the digital photo frame that fades in and out with years of pictures.

“Is the brunette Holly?”

“Yeah,” I reply from beside my bed in front of my open suitcase, flattered he remembered her name. A second later, his posture stiffens.

“What?”

He lifts the frame that hosts a picture of Damon and me the night we graduated, arms thrown around each other, smiles beaming. “Please tell me this isn’t fucking Damon.”

I can’t help my answering laugh. “Yeah, and sadly, he’s even prettier in real life.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath as I press my lips together, trying desperately not to read into the hint of jealousy. As pretty as Damon may be, not once have I ever felt a tenth of what I do when I look at Easton.

At my closet, I glance over to see him pulling my Cactus yearbook from the shelf.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the oldest publication at the University of Texas. It’s kind of like a yearbook for each graduating class.”

“Did you like college?”

“Yeah . . . well, in hindsight, it’s kind of a blur to me.”

His chest bounces as he puts the book back. “In other words, you didn’t cut loose much.”

“Didn’t have time. I spent a lot of it working at Speak when I wasn’t helping at The Daily Texan .”

He lifts his chin in prompt.

“The UT paper,” I clarify.

“Overachiever,” he mutters, closing the book before shelving it and gazing at me with an intense stare. “Good thing you now know you’re capable of more, at least with me.”

“Think so?”

“I know so,” he says with a level of certainty that has anticipation rolling through me.

“Well, that’s not possible,” I mumble, grabbing a skirt from a hanger and tucking it into my suitcase.

“What’s that?” He asks, temporarily distracted by the mini maracas I got as a souvenir on a family vacation.

“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” I amplify my voice and make a mental note the man has bat hearing. “Those are from Mexico,” I say as he rolls the tiny instruments between his skilled fingers.

“Yeah? I’ve never been.”

“It’s a must. Dad used to take us annually to this spot he loves. It’s less touristy, and—” I turn and falter when I see Easton standing in my bedroom doorway, his hands braced on the frame above him, biceps bulging. He’s so fucking perfect that I pause my packing to admire him.

“Your place is nice. Comfortable.”

“Thanks,” I can’t help my smile, “I’m sensing a but . . .”

“It’s a little small. I guess I just expected bigger.”

“Wow, Easton Crowne skirting around a question?” I pull some panties from my delicates drawer and toss them into my case. “What you really want to ask is why I’m living in seven hundred square feet when my parents are well off?”

“Pretty much,” he says.

“Because . . . we have more in common than you think.” I tuck some bras into the zipper bag. “I maxed out my AmEx to go to Seattle, remember?”

He nods.

“Well, that’s because wet-behind-the-ears college graduates don’t get high spending limits. I, too, intend to fully earn my way. I live on the salary I make at the paper, not off some trust fund. I will admit, like you, my parents still attempt to and often spoil me pretty damned rotten.”

His probing stare trails me as I grab my amenities bag from my bathroom and start to load it into my suitcase.

“You didn’t say anything,” he whispers softly.

“No, I didn’t.” I pause with a T-shirt in hand, “I was having a hard enough time with,” I gesture between us, “you know.”

“Who’s skirting now?” He dives in—relentless in his pursuit of the truth—as I roll up the T-shirt for the second time and shove it into my suitcase.

“I didn’t think it was that important.”

“No, don’t backtrack. You didn’t want to highlight how much we had in common.”

“Easton,” I sigh, “make no mistake. I am happy to see you. I do want to hang out with you and watch you play, but we can’t go further than that. After this weekend—”

“You won’t even answer my fucking phone calls,” he quips coldly. “So, it’s pretty safe to assume I’m wasting my time with that.”

I nod solemnly.

“Like I said,” he sighs, “we can argue about this later.”

I cross my arms. “All that means is that you’re not hearing me.”

“What makes you so fucking sure I’m here for that anyway? We only hooked up once.” He shrugs. “You’re being mighty presumptuous.”

“I . . . oh,” my neck heats as I drop my gaze to my overpacked suitcase. A low chuckle rumbles from where he stands, and I glare at him while he runs his teeth along his upper lip.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“Yep, but don’t worry. I’m not in the business of forcing my will on women who won’t even bother to pick up the phone for me.”

“I wanted to answer,” I say. “I really did.”

“I saw, but you didn’t.”

I wrangle more clothes into my suitcase as he pipes up, mirth in his tone. “We’re only going for two days. You do know that, right?”

“I like options. So, how do you like the band?”

He grins, seeming thoroughly amused by my abrupt change of subject, but he allows it.

“All of them have some years on me, but I don’t consider it a bad thing. Every one of them is crazy talented.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yeah. So far, the gamble’s paid off. They play my originals just like I laid it out, but if it all works out and we decide to move forward, we’re going to collaborate on the next album, and I’m really hoping it works out. It’s definitely an eclectic mix.”

“Uh oh, you want to give me the rundown so I know what I’m in for?”

“Nah, you can handle them and get their stories when you meet them.”

“Do you like them?”

“So far. We were practically fucking strangers when we hit the road a month ago, but that’s the whole point of doing the van thing, to remedy that and see if we vibe. We’re basically living in the fucking thing, stuck together for endless hours on the road. It’s been . . .” he widens his eyes with a chuckle, “something.”

“Already collecting war stories, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“I’m sure.” Even I hear the hint of jealousy in my tone and berate myself for it.

Ewww, Natalie.

Still, it’s hard to imagine he’s immune to the staggering amount of female attention he’s getting. He probably has hourly opportunities to get his needs met, and damn if that doesn’t sting. The memory of the feel of him inside me that day at his studio hits me like a tidal wave as I look over at him.

I swear I catch a hint of a smile on his face before he turns and stalks back over to the digital photo frame just as an old picture of my dad and me appears. I’m in my softball uniform, holding my glove awkwardly. Dad’s kneeling behind me, surrounding me in his large build as we flash twin smiles for the camera.

“I’d just made catch of the year,” I tell Easton as he holds his finger on the photo to keep it from changing.

“You were that good?”

“Just the opposite, I was terrible,” I laugh as I pull out a drawer. “Outside of riding horses, I don’t have an athletic bone in my body. See how big that glove is?”

“Yeah, it’s huge.”

“I’d forgotten mine that day and had to use my coach’s. I think that’s the only reason I made that catch. Dad was in the stands as the ball was popped right to me. I just stuck my glove out to shield myself and miraculously caught it. Stunned, I just stared at it in my hand as Dad screamed at me from the stands to throw it to second. When I did, it earned us a double play, and we won the game.” I giggle at the memory. “That was my first and last season. I quit when I was on top. Played soccer for a few seasons though, Dad coached. Turns out I was just good at running, and he liked it because I had a lot of energy and would pass out on the way home. So, basically, he wanted to be seen as a doting father but was just a bad parent.”

Easton chuckles, releasing the picture as more snapshots of my life unfold on screen. Scanning the suitcase, I opt to pull on some white shorts beneath my skirt before discarding it.

“Keep the heels,” Easton orders thickly, glancing over at me as I turn my head, and our eyes collide.

The air charges between us as I lift a brow.

“Please,” he adds dryly as if he’s reached his limit for the day and the word is now leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

“Thought you weren’t here for that ,” I snark.

“I’m here for you . But we’re not going anywhere if you don’t hurry the hell up.”

I slip on my worn checkered Vans and opt to toss my favorite heels in the suitcase before zipping it up.

Without prompt, he walks over and lifts the case from my bed, running his fingers over my patched quilt comforter as if he couldn’t resist feeling it on his fingertips before extending his hand toward me. The familiarity of the act brings forth everything lingering between us, and so I do what feels natural. I take it.