Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sadie
I Think He Knows
Taylor Swift
The record store smells like dust, nostalgia, and the kind of vinyl that should come with a warning label for how many feelings it can yank out of you.
Sunlight slants through the front windows in wide amber streaks, catching on floating dust motes and the metallic edge of a display stand featuring the “Rock Legends: Midwest Edition.”
Dean is beside me, tall and unfair, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans as he scans a rack of used CDs with an intensity that feels… personal. Like he’s searching for ghosts only he can see.
I’m pretending to look at a bin of alternative vinyl, but I keep stealing glances at him over the tops of album covers. He’s relaxed today. His shoulders loose, mouth soft, expression open in a way I haven’t seen since, well, ever.
Maybe it’s the lack of fans. Maybe it’s the sleep. Maybe it’s the rooftop confession he probably regrets and I haven’t stopped replaying. But there’s something warmer in him today. And it’s magnetic.
He pulls out a record and glances my way. “This one’s you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? And what exactly does ‘me’ sound like, Ross?”
He flips the case to show me the cover, handing it to me; it’s all dark blues featuring a silhouette of a woman walking through rain, the title Thunder in Silk.
Huh. Okay, rude of my heart to flutter over a poetic album name.
He shrugs, like he didn’t just drop a metaphor all over this narrow aisle. “Strong. A little moody. A lot honest.”
My face goes warm. “Or maybe you just like the cover,” I counter.
“Maybe.” He smirks. “Maybe not.”
I put the album back before I start staring at it like he wrote the damn thing himself. We wander separately but orbit the same spaces. I snap pictures of vintage posters on the walls, and he drifts behind me now and then, close enough for body heat to register but not close enough to be obvious.
When the bell above the door jingles with a new customer, Dean subtly shifts, putting himself between me and the entrance. Naturally protective. Not even thinking about it. And I hate that I notice. I hate even more that I like it.
He reappears at my side with a vinyl in hand. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
He nods, jerking his head toward the door. “Found a place a block over. Looks tragic. The kind of place you’ll love.”
“I find it concerning how confidently you say that.”
“Trust me.” He grins. “You look like you appreciate tragic things.”
God, he has no idea.
The diner looks like it was decorated sometime around 1974 and hasn’t been touched since.
The booths are cracked red vinyl. The napkin dispensers squeak when you pull from them.
Every table has the same laminated menu with three items highlighted in neon marker.
It’s my idea of perfection and the fact that Dean nailed it sends a silent thrill through me.
Dean slides into the booth across from me, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place. I can’t tell if it’s the lighting or the low hum in my bloodstream, but something about him feels unusually easy right now. Like the hard edges softened just enough to breathe around.
A waitress named Doris calls us hon and sweetie and brings waters without being asked. Dean watches her go, then tilts his head at me. “So, Sadie Brooks. Photographer, journalist, serial overthinker. What’s your deal?”
I blink. “My deal?”
He nods, like he’s interviewing me and not the other way around. “Everybody has a deal. What’s yours?”
I drag a finger down my water glass. “You first.”
“Nope.” He insists with a smug smirk. “I asked you.”
I narrow my eyes. “This feels suspiciously like a trap.”
He grins wider. “You afraid of traps?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Yours specifically.”
He laughs, actually laughs, and it’s warm and low and devastating.
“Fine.” I sigh, leaning back. “My deal is-” I pause and tap a finger to my chin in thought, then continue. “I like stories. Not the big dramatic ones. The little ones. Moments that people don’t realize they’re giving away.”
He watches me like I just said something important. “Why?”
“Because tiny moments are usually the true ones.” I shrug. “Everything else is edited.”
He’s quiet for a beat, brows pulling together in a soft, thoughtful way. “That’s-” He clears his throat, looking away. “Weirdly impressive.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you said anything remotely like a compliment about me.” I flash a quick grin and he shoots me a half-hearted glare in return.
“What about you?” I push. “What’s Dean Ross’s deal?”
“My deal,” he mutters, running a thumb over the condensation on his glass, “is that I mind my business and play my guitar.”
“That’s not a deal. That’s a deflection.” I frown.
“Same thing,” he grunts with a shrug. But there’s a twist of something, a shadow, a history in the grinding of his jaw.
Something he won’t name yet. Dean watches me over the rim of his water glass like he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one asked him to put together.
His fingers drum idly, but the rest of him is focused, too focused, on me.
I unwrap a straw with more force than necessary. “What?”
He purses his lips. “Nothing.” He pauses, then, “You’re just easy to read.”
I choke on air. “I’m sorry. What universe are you living in?”
“The one where your face gives away everything you’re thinking, Brooks.” One brow arching as he tilts his head.
“My face does not-” I begin to sputter in defense.
“Oh, it does,” he cuts in smoothly. “When you’re annoyed. Curious. Trying not to smile. Trying really hard not to look at me.”
My mouth falls open. “I don’t.”
“You are now,” he says, grinning as my eyes flick to his lips. Bastard.
The waitress drops off our plates. It’s greasy burgers and fries, but neither of us reaches for the food yet. The air between us feels warm, heavy, and stretched tight.
I stab a fry and point it at him. “You know, for someone who claims he doesn't like people, you sure spend a lot of time analyzing them.”
“Just you,” he deadpans.
The fry falls onto the plate. His eyes glint, satisfied. I recover. Barely. “Why me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He leans forward, forearms on the table, and lowers his voice just enough that I feel it right in the center of my stomach. “Because you don’t look at me like everyone else does.”
I swallow. Hard. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” his gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, “you see below the surface. And you don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”
My pulse trips. “Is that a complaint?”
He shakes his head once. Slow. “Not today.” He stares across at me, blinks lazily.
The air gets hot. I need to breathe or laugh or run, but I do none of those things.
Instead, I take a fry, dip it in ketchup, and pop it into my mouth just to give my hands something to do.
Dean watches the whole motion like it’s obscene.
I glare. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me like I’m-” I shake my head. Nope. Not going there.
“Like you’re what?” he goads, leaning back, spreading those stupid long legs under the table until one knee brushes mine. My brain short-circuits.
“Like you’re thinking something inappropriate,” I mutter.
His grin turns wicked. “Sadie, I’m always thinking something inappropriate.”
“Wonderful. Great. I hate that I walked into that.” My face heating at the admission.
He laughs. It’s a deep, rough sound that slides all the way through me. Then he picks up his burger, takes a bite, and talks around it like we didn’t just flirt our way into an entirely different atmosphere.
“What about you?” he asks casually. “You always this tightly wound, or am I special?”
“Tightly? Excuse me?!” I cry out my disdain at being labeled.
He gestures at me with a fry. “You sit up straight when you’re flustered. You talk faster when you’re trying to act unaffected. And you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” First, my heart trips at the notion he’s taken inventory and cataloging my actions. Then, I glance down at myself, nose scrunching.
He makes a lazy circle in the air with his finger. “Your neck. You’re trying not to touch it.”
My hand flies to my throat. Damn him. Damn him twice.
He smirks knowingly. “Cute.”
“Dean.” I force my hand away from my neck and back to the table.
“Sadie.” That wicked grin on display again.
I lean forward, glaring. “Why are you like this?”
His expression dips into something darker, edged with heat. “Because you look really pretty when you get annoyed,” he states simply. “And because I like seeing what happens when you stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”
I freeze. A shiver runs down my spine at being so seen.
“Look,” he shrugs, “I don’t bite.”
I raise a brow. “You expect me to believe that?”
He meets my gaze steadily, heat lingering there. “No, actually.” he murmurs. “And you shouldn’t.”
My breath catches. The waitress returns with more napkins, blissfully oblivious, and I break eye contact like my life depends on it. I take a long drink of water. Too long. Dean laughs under his breath, not mocking, just… knowing. And God help me, I like it.
When we leave, he walks a half-step behind me like he’s making sure no one bumps into me, and then pushes me to the inside of the sidewalk, making sure he’s closer to the street.
And the stupidest little thrill goes through my chest. Damn him.
By the time I get to my room, my pulse is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Today was supposed to be normal.
But the quiet moments hit harder than the loud ones.
The way he looked at me when I laughed. The way he leaned in when I talked.
The way he saw me; not the reporter, not the camera, me.
And now I’m supposed to get ready to go out looking like I don’t care that I spent the entire day flirting with Dean Ross? Fantastic.
I dump my camera bag on the bed and stare at my suitcase like it personally wronged me. I want to look good, but not obvious. Sexy, but not screaming it. Confident, but not like I’m trying to impress a man who definitely shouldn’t matter this much.
I groan and flop face-first onto the mattress. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I last six minutes before I grab my phone and text Lily.
Me: Help. Please. Crisis.
She knocks on my door ten minutes later. “Sadie?” she calls softly. “Everything okay?”
I yank the door open and wave her inside like I’m smuggling contraband. “No. Everything is awful.”
Lily steps in, takes one look at the hurricane of clothes on my bed, and smiles gently. “Getting ready for tonight?”
I flop onto the bed again. “I’m not sure what I’m getting ready for, but I don’t want to look like a troll next to everyone else in your orbit.”
Lily sits beside me, smoothing my hair back from my face. “You are beautiful, Sadie. You don’t need help to be that.”
“Tell that to my duffel bag,” I huff out.
She laughs softly, then squeezes my hand. “Okay. Show me what you were thinking.” I show her three outfits. She picks a fourth. A black mini skirt and a fitted half-shirt, the sleeves sheer. It’s gorgeous, subtle, and juuust enough “oh damn” to be lethal.
“This one,” she orders.
I swallow. “It’s… a lot.”
“It’s perfect,” she assures me. “And you’re allowed to want to feel attractive.”
I exhale; throat tight. “Even if I don’t know why?”
She gives me a knowing smile. “You know why. You’re just not ready to say it.”
My pulse stutters.
Lily helps with my makeup. We go soft glam, smoky liner, hair pulled into loose waves that looks effortless but definitely isn’t.
By the time I slip on my boots and pull on a light jacket, I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
I look like a woman who knows exactly who she is.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready for Dean Ross to see me this way.
As I head toward the elevator, my heart starts pounding. Tonight feels dangerous. When the doors slide open and I step inside, I know one thing for certain-
Dean Ross is going to ruin me. And God help me but, I kind of want him to.