Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
RILEY
Addison and I walk over to Roddy’s together, and when we get there, she reaches out and grabs the door, holding it open for me.
I’m grateful, because otherwise she might have seen the way my hands are trembling at the idea of having a drink in a bar with another woman after what happened the last time I did this.
My body’s reaction frustrates me, and it’s hopefully unnecessary. I don’t need to worry here. Mayweather is different than Nashville. People here respect my privacy.
Actually... that’s not exactly true, since nobody in this town really respects anybody’s privacy. Everybody always seems to know everybody else’s business. They knew me here before I was famous, though, so they still treat me the same as they always have. That’s the key.
Which means no one will be sneaking pictures of me with Addison today, but it still shook me up when she suggested this.
I probably should have declined. Except I’m the one who offered to replace her drink I spilled.
And truthfully, I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to spend more time with her.
Maybe that’s strange, since I don’t really know her at all.
But besides hanging out with my brother, one quick check-in phone call with my manager, and a few little chats with Brenden when I catch him in the inn’s lobby, she’s the only other person I’ve really talked to since I got here.
She sort of intimidates me. (I told her otherwise, of course, because I don’t want her to know that.) But I like how she treats me like a regular person too, despite her not knowing me when I was young.
I’m not even sure if she knew who I was when she first saw me at the inn, and I like that. It makes it easier to ignore the shitshow of a life I left behind in Nashville.
Inside, I see that Roddy is behind the bar. He used to be friends with my dad before we moved, so he grins as we come over. “Hey, kid! Good to see you! It’s been too long.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Roddy,” I tell him. “How have you been?”
“Same old, same old. Not much changes around here. You know how it is.”
“And you like it that way, don’t you?”
He lets out a loud barking laugh, even though I know I’m not that funny. “Sure do.” Acknowledging Addison beside me, he says, “Hey, there. Can I grab you two something to drink?”
She motions for me to go first, but I shake my head, having no idea what to get. I consider ordering something with whiskey, because Roddy doesn’t carry any good wines here. I’m not that much of a snob about what wine I’ll drink, but his selection is abysmal.
I still have a lingering sense of anxiety over the last time I got drunk on whiskey, though. I’m not trying to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon today. And I’m definitely not trying to make any more bad decisions.
Addison chooses the one cider on tap, so I decide to try the same thing.
Roddy grabs two cardboard coasters from a short stack on the bar and slaps them down.
Then he pulls the handle on the tap, filling two pint glasses before setting them on the coasters in front of us.
When I take out my wallet to pay, he waves me off, insisting they’re on the house.
I smile graciously and thank him, although internally, I deflate, because that defeats the purpose of me buying Addison a drink.
“Do you want to sit at a table or is this okay?” Addison asks me, tapping the top of the bar stool in front of her.
I do a quick scan of the room. The only other people in here are four much older gentlemen whom I vaguely recognize at one of the low tables. If I wanted to hide, a table in a corner would be the smartest choice. Sitting at the bar, I’ll feel more exposed.
But when I look back at Addison, she’s watching me with curious eyes—probably because this shouldn’t be a difficult choice. So I decide to say fuck it. I may be hiding out in Mayweather, but I’ve got nothing to hide in this situation.
“Let’s sit here,” I say.
After we slide onto the stools, she holds up her drink toward me. “Cheers.”
We carefully clink glasses, then I take a sip. The cider is pretty good. Crisp, and slightly sweet. But I must look unhappy, because she asks, “Do you not like it?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” I tell her. “It’s just that I was supposed to be buying you a drink, and I didn’t get to.”
She laughs. “You sort of did. Being famous has perks, right?”
My frown deepens at that, and I look to make sure Roddy’s not listening, but he’s disappeared into the back. “He didn’t give me free drinks because I’m famous. He was friends with my dad, and I’ve known him since I was a kid. Not everything is about fame.”
Is that what she thinks of me? That people are only nice to me because of my celebrity status? That I don’t have genuine connections with people and people can’t simply like me for me?
Is she right?
“Sorry,” she says, her hand darting out to touch my wrist. “I didn’t mean anything bad by that. Guess I’m not used to hanging out with celebrities.”
“Is that why you’re hanging out with me?” I ask, worried about the answer. Because even if we’re only starting to get to know each other, I thought she didn’t care about the fame. I thought she was seeing me.
“No.” She gives my wrist a squeeze before letting go, and the absence of her touch now feels inexplicably heavier than the touch itself did. “Honestly, I’m sorry. I think I’ve been making assumptions about you since I met you, and that’s not fair.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. It happens all the time.”
“It’s not fine,” she insists, angling herself toward me.
She pulls one leg up onto the stool and tucks her foot underneath her other thigh.
Naturally, this draws my attention to her thigh.
Both of her thighs, if I’m being honest with myself.
She’s wearing dark jean shorts that hug them perfectly.
The hems are frayed, and I wonder if the little loose threads tickle her skin.
I imagine how they’d feel under my thumb if I ran it across them.
They look soft.
So does her skin.
My gaze travels to her top now. The bottom is cropped and rolling up a bit. It makes me think she cut it herself, as well as the top of the shirt, which is cut at an angle, revealing one shoulder, a black bra strap, and a lot of her collarbone.
A weird feeling starts stirring inside me, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Attraction. I’m attracted to her.
So... okay. I guess that answers one major question I’ve been asking myself lately.
She clears her throat, and when my eyes jolt upward to meet hers, she smiles as if I wasn’t being a creepy weirdo. “Can we start over?”
“Sure,” I say, still a bit dazed from the internal revelation.
She takes a large sip of her drink before setting it back down and sweeping her finger through the condensation on the glass.
“All right, so tell me about yourself. Minding my own business has always been my policy, but I’m afraid this ridiculous town might be rubbing off on me, because I’m really curious about what your deal is. ”
“What do you mean?” I ask nervously.
“For starters, why are you staying at a small-town inn with no end date in sight? Don’t you have a huge house somewhere?”
“I do,” I tell her, picking at a corner of my coaster.
When I don’t say anything more, she shakes her head. “Right, sorry. You don’t owe me your story. I just wanted to know more about you.”
I consider it for a moment, then angle myself so we’re both facing each other. Resting one boot on the rung of my stool, I cross my legs. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
With a laugh, she says, “Believe me, my life can’t be anywhere near as interesting as yours.”
“Everyone has a story,” I press. If I’m going to explain what I’m doing here, I want to feel like I’m getting to know her too. Like I’m not the only one exposing myself.
“Okay, Strawberry, but I’m warning you mine’s a boring one.”
“Strawberry?” I tuck an unruly lock of hair behind my ear. I’ve been called plenty of red-related nicknames because of my hair, but I don’t think anyone’s used that one before.
The hair falls right back in front of my face, and she reaches out for it, twirling the end around her finger before letting it slip away.
“It’s not because of your hair,” she says.
“Not the color.” She leans in closer and lowers her voice like she’s telling me a secret.
“It’s because you smell sweet like strawberries. ”
I’m afraid my face might be as red as a strawberry now, judging by the heat I feel on my cheeks. But her words don’t make me uncomfortable. They make me... yearn.
Sitting here, with her watching me intently, I’m suddenly yearning for something I don’t quite understand, and therefore, will probably never get to have.
Addison leans back in her seat, giving me more space as she takes another sip of her drink. She doesn’t look like she’s expecting any kind of response from me. “Anyway,” she says, “I grew up in Chicago and lived there most of my life. So living here has been quite the change.”
“Why’d you move?” I ask, trying my best to pay attention to what she’s saying while my mind is still stuck on the way she whispered, You smell sweet like strawberries.
I’m tempted to straight up ask if she was flirting with me. Because it took me way too long to catch on the last time that happened. This feels a little more obvious. Except it also feels casual at the same time, which is confusing.
I think that’s her personality. Casual, laid-back, unbothered.
Everything I’d like to be, but I’m clearly not.
The flirting could be in her body language, though, rather than merely her words. It’s like some kind of secret code I don’t have the key to yet.
It occurs to me that instead of asking if she’s flirting with me, I should be asking myself if I want her to be. And I really don’t have an answer to that.