Chapter Three
We don’t sleep together again. Nash spends the night in the third bedroom on a blowup bed.
Grandma had it delivered, just in case he decided to stay.
I am not disappointed to wake up alone. It’s a possible awkward moment avoided.
No need for worrying about morning breath or bed hair around an overly attractive person with a large social media presence and an even bigger bank account.
Last night was weird. Having him at my mercy. Pretending we’d been a couple. It’s important I don’t let it go to my head. I had a stern talk with myself in the shower about how romance sucks and feelings are wrong and unnecessary. And to be brutally honest, solo sex is usually more satisfying.
There’s no sign of Grandma or Nash, since it’s only eight am.
I put my hair in a ponytail, did my makeup, and dressed in my favorite dark blue jeans, a pair of flat silver sandals, and a white tank.
Sheer coincidence on the part of my playlist for music by Aaron Porter to be on while I do my prep.
Then I walk the couple of blocks to Main Street for my favorite coffee.
It’s not far, and my car started making strange clanking and grinding noises during the last couple of hours on the long journey here.
I need to talk to Mac the mechanic, sometime.
Mornings aren’t really my thing. So it’s just as well I don’t have to chat to anyone on my way.
Life before caffeine is harsh and unnecessary.
I love how this area is all trees and grass and flowers.
Arizona is beautiful. The vastness of the desert takes my breath away.
But the green of this place is healing for my sore heart and bruised ego, care of the ex.
I walk by the variety of shops catering to locals and weekend visitors.
My personal favorite is the antique store, with its beautiful display of antique jewelry and bizarre selection of vintage taxidermy.
One day, Professor Crow will be mine. Just as soon as I pay for the repairs on my car, etcetera.
I enter the coffee shop and realize I’m definitely receiving more attention this morning. Guess gossip about last night has gotten around.
Grind is doing a good business. It’s situated in what was once the old fire station.
Another of those repurposed buildings. The new fire station is twice the size of this place and located a street away.
The coffee shop is painted dark green with black and white stripe awnings.
There are a couple of empty tables outside in the morning sun, though all of the ones inside are full and the place is bustling.
Carmen and her husband are seated at a corner table, holding hands. Maybe the scene at the bar prompted them to have an in-depth conversation. What a wonderful outcome.
I join the line and wait my turn to order. Which is when I see him. Nash is standing behind the counter, working the big-ass, complicated coffee machine.
What in the ever-loving fuck?
“You’re so right,” he says, over the hiss of steam. “I need to start thinking about being fully present in the moment.”
“Living deliberately is a choice,” answers the middle-aged, red-haired woman dressed in yoga gear. I would pay good money to have her toned ass. Like, take out a mortgage. Though I don’t actually own any property so it could be hard to arrange.
Nash sets a cardboard travel cup on the counter. “Half-strength, oat milk mocha.”
She gives him a bright smile. “It was great having you at morning meditation. Hope to see you again tomorrow!”
It’s safe to say I understand nothing about what is happening here. Yoga girl leaves with her order in hand. And Nash moves on to making whatever coffee is up next.
I’m not the only one obsessed with watching his biceps as he works.
They way he fills out his tee is no less than a work of art.
Damn him for being such a pretty man. No wonder the inside tables are in demand, despite the great weather.
With the combination of gossip, his gorgeous face, and the best biscuits in town, the place is packed.
And having this many curious sets of eyes on me is a lot for this hour.
The couple in front of me gives their order, takes their number, and goes in search of a table. And then the owner of the coffee shop, Isa, is giving me a welcoming smile. She’s a Black woman, with a nose ring, cool geometric tattoos, and a short afro.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I borrowed your ex. My barista had car trouble and is running late.”
“Light of my life!” Nash gives me a grin. “What can I get you?”
Isa raises a brow. “You don’t know her coffee order?”
“I think we established last night how much I have to learn.”
“I’d say to add it to your list, but your hands are full,” says Isa.
Nash laughs. “It’s so great how everyone in town knows everything.”
“Get used to it.”
“Low-fat latte with a shot of vanilla, please,” I say, holding my phone up, ready to pay. “And a breakfast biscuit, thank you very much.”
“No.” Isa shakes her head. “This one’s on me.”
Which is when a young man with white skin and a worried smile rushes behind the counter. “Sorry about that. Needed a new battery.”
He grabs an apron with the Grind logo embroidered on it. And while he’s putting it on, he sees me and his eyes light up. This must be who Grandma said was watching me at the bar. It’s nice to be noticed now and then, but he’s way too young for me. I doubt he’s more than twenty.
“Hey.” His smile is flirty as can be. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” says Nash, as the smile falls off his face.
“But I can—”
“No.”
“Well, how about—”
“No!”
The young man just blinks as Nash works the coffee machine. He looks like an expert and has the order ready in no time. Which again raises the question of what’s going on here?
“Thanks again for your help,” says Isa.
“Anytime.” Nash wanders out from behind the counter with my cardboard cup and food container thingy in hand. “Let’s walk.”
We head out into the sunshine. I, of course, take the coffee first. Neither of us says a word, until we’ve passed the hair salon next door.
Sabrina is busy inside with a customer. Which reminds me, I need to get my bangs straightened.
It’s a miracle Nash’s hair wound up okay.
And it likely has more to do with how thick and gravity defying it is than any talent on my part.
He’s wearing the same pair of jeans, boots, and a matching black tee. Very country slash rockstar.
“Can you believe that kid?” he asks in a disgruntled tone.
“You haven’t forgotten we’re actually fake, right?”
“Of course not. But hitting on you right in front of me like that…the balls on him.”
“Okay,” I say. “I was wondering if varying your wardrobe might be helpful as part of your disguise.”
He looks over his clothes. “Could be a good idea. Let’s do it.”
“So you have barista skills.” And it’s the truth—there’s no taste of bitterness. He didn’t scald the beans. This is an excellent cup of coffee. “Tell me about that.”
“Having a proper coffee machine was on my rider,” he says.
“That’s the list of demands you give the place where you’re performing.
I didn’t want another person following me around but I did want fresh coffee, so I learned how to work it.
Though I really don’t know how to cook. Your ex and I have that in common.
Caffeine just always seemed more important than food.
That and trying different restaurants is one of the highlights of touring. ”
“Did you really go to morning meditation?”
“I really did. We sat in a circle around this big maple in the park and pondered our existence.”
“That actually sounds relaxing.”
“Yeah. Then I went in search of coffee and they needed a hand, so…” He pauses outside the art gallery. And his gaze goes discreetly up and down the street. “People keep staring at me.”
“Thought you were used to that sort of thing.”
“I am,” he says. “But I don’t like it.”
“It may not be what you’re thinking. We caused a lot of gossip last night. And, not to objectify you, but you’re a handsome specimen.”
He gasps. “June, are you hitting on me?”
“Not even a little.”
“Thank goodness for that. Your grandma would be outraged and I’d get the stick.”
“Nash, my friend, I’m simply stating a fact. We can’t help any fans from thinking you look familiar. You’re just going to have to do your best to act ordinary.”
“I don’t even know what your definition of that is,” he says. “Ordinary for me is signing things and having people crying on me and telling me they love me and saying they like to have sex to my music.”
My brows are so high. I don’t know if they’ll ever come down. “It’s weird, because many of us have sex to music, but it’s not like we make a point of sharing that sort of thing with the musician. Just because they made the tunes doesn’t mean they consented to hearing about our sex lives.”
“I definitely need to know now what music you play though.”
“None of your business,” I say. “What do you even say when people tell you stuff like that?”
“Smile and nod and keep moving.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“Parasocial relationships are so strange,” I say. “The idea that you believe you know a complete stranger because you watch their films or listen to their music.”
“Fame as a whole is wild. How you’re portrayed in the media doesn’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with who you are as a person.” He sighs. “The more they talked about me, the less I recognized myself. It’s like every think piece and social media post chips away at you.”
“That sounds incredibly hard.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you’ve gotten away from it for a while.”
“My face feels so weirdly bare.” He stands with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands stuffed out of sight beneath. Like he’s bracing for something or trying to make himself smaller. Neither of which are good options.
“Turn this way,” I say, facing the street. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”
“Okay.”
“How does the sun feel?”