28. Tom Cobalt #2
“I get you were in traffic. But why haven’t you responded to any of my texts?
” I ask him. “A simple, I’m on my way, Tom, would’ve worked fine.
Unless you were purposefully being an ass.
” I could blame this on him, but I need to take responsibility for what happened.
“Because maybe I said or did something irreparable—”
“You didn’t,” he interjects. His frown darkens, and he shoves a hand into his cargo pocket. He presses his thumb against the black screen of his phone and tries to turn it on.
His phone is dead.
His phone is dead.
Why the fuck didn’t I think about that?! Of course, that was one of the hundreds of possibilities, but it never occurred to me because it’s too simple. Too easy. Why do I jump to the most dramatic conclusion?
Phoenix blows out a hard breath. “Can you at least be happy I wasn’t screening your calls? Why do you still look like I’m about to piss on your doormat?”
“I’m horrified at myself. Not at you, dude.” I swing open the door wider and let him into the apartment. I rummage in a kitchen drawer, then hand Phoenix a charging cable.
He’s only focused on me when he takes it. “What’d you do that’s so horrific?”
“Don’t listen to the voice memo I sent—or better yet, I’ll delete it from my end.” I snatch my phone off the counter.
“Just play it,” Phoenix nods me on.
“You want to hear me cursing you out a billion times? Oh, I even curse out your dog.”
“Don’t have a dog.”
“Your future dog.”
Phoenix lets out a laugh. “Wow, you really struck me deep. I feel so affronted. I might just block you on Instagram.”
“You don’t have Instagram,” I point out.
He raises his brows. “I do since three hours ago.” He’s not excited. “Jere said the label kept asking why I have no social media presence, and they want me to have something ready while they work on the press kit.”
Instead of opening my text messages, I pop open Instagram. “What’s your username?”
“Wolfgang underscore St. Pierre. With the period.” He comes closer. “What are you doing?”
“Following you.” I find him in two seconds. No photos. No bio. No nothing. “Dude, this is sad. You don’t even have a profile picture.”
“I literally just made it.” His pissy tone actually causes my lips to curl upward.
I smile over at him. “I’m going to be your first follower, right?”
“No, I’m definitely blocking you.” He skims me up-down, then places his helmet on the counter before reaching for my phone.
I pull it backward, and Phoenix plants his hands on either side of me while my back presses into the marbled edge.
He’s trapping me against the cabinets. I try to breathe as his chest brushes up against my chest. His knee slightly bends between my legs, and the clean, eucalyptus scent off his neck is fucking dizzying me.
“Just play it,” he prods.
“Fine.” Better to do this with him so I can soften the damage.
I play the voice memo, instantly hearing the hurt in my fiery tone.
“Fuck you, dude. If this is your petty way of getting back at me because I what…called my longtime hookup who isn’t you?
Get over yourself. Fuck off. Fuck you and your brother and your dog—I don’t think you have a dog, but your future dog. Okay, fuck him too.” It ends.
“Fuck my brother?” His brows hike high, but he hasn’t flinched backward. His hands are still gripping the counter centimeters from my waist.
“I would have probably included the whole St. Pierre lineage if you took another twenty minutes to get here.”
“Hmm, well, most of my aunts and uncles are dead.”
“Fuck them in the grave then,” I say quietly.
He has a shadow of a smile, and he shakes his head at me, eyes my mouth, then releases a tight breath before leaning away from my build. “You overreacted.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Overreacting is engrained in my DNA right next to overachieving and overperforming.”
Phoenix smears a hand over rising lips. “You just can’t help yourself, nepo baby. Always find a way to pat yourself on the back.”
The widest grin explodes across my face. It almost hurts.
He shifts his weight uneasily. “What?”
“You called me nepo baby,” I point out.
He tilts his head with a hard blink. “Yeah.” He nods roughly. “It’s what I’ve called you since day one.”
“I just thought maybe…” My breath hitches.
Realization washes over him. “Yeah, that hasn’t changed, Tom. Don’t worry.” He averts his gaze, glancing at the floor. “You didn’t call him, by the way. You just texted him.”
Oh. He means RJ. In the voice memo, I said I called my longtime hookup. “Right, yeah, I remember that.” I motion to my head. “Little pieces are coming back to me. I think some of it was part of a dream after I passed out though. We got McDonald’s, and I think you spoke French.”
“Not a dream,” Phoenix says.
I fall back into the counter. “Wait…you know French?”
Eliot suddenly emerges into the living room. Eyedrops in hand.
I rotate around to him. “Dude, he knows French,” I tell my brother, as if my drummer isn’t right behind me.
Eliot has better manners and doesn’t ignore his presence. “Eliot Alice Cobalt.” He extends a hand.
“So the full name introduction is a Cobalt thing, not just a Tom thing,” Phoenix says, eyeing me more than him.
“It’s an Eliot and Tom thing,” Eliot says.
Phoenix clasps his hand, reciprocating the cordial shake. “Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierre.”
Eliot grins. “Tom a gardé la meilleure présentation pour la troisième. Je t’assure, je suis son frère préféré.” Tom saved the best introduction for third. I assure you, I’m his favorite brother.
Phoenix barely hesitates before replying. “Je n’en doutais pas. Il t’appelle tous les jours.” I didn’t question that. He calls you every single day.
My brain fries hearing him speak with a French accent.
“Perspicace.” Perceptive. Eliot turns to me. “Je l’apprécie déjà.” I already like him.
I smile, reveling over this one good outcome, but I’m a little taken by Phoenix’s nerves of steel. He wasn’t even shaken meeting Beckett and Charlie…of what I can recall.
I’m also eager to hear him speak the language again, so I volley him a question. “Quand as-tu appris le francais?” When did you learn French?
“When I learned to speak.” Phoenix switches to English, and it feels like he smashed my face with a birthday cake.
“My grandfather is from Bordeaux, but he moved to the states when he was in his thirties. He lived with me, my parents, and brother for most of my life, so I grew up primarily speaking French and English in my house.”
“St. Pierre,” I say into a nod. “Makes sense. Full picture.” I wave a hand in front of his face.
He nods. “How’d you all learn? Fancy private school?” He looks more to Eliot.
So my brother answers, “Our parents were taught French in prep school. They taught us when we were kids, so we were all fluent before kindergarten.”
Phoenix doesn’t seem surprised. He slides his helmet off the counter. “We moving to the bedroom?” he asks me.
Eliot’s grin is too wicked to ignore, and I’m just thankful Phoenix isn’t paying him any attention now.
“Yeah,” I say. “Follow me.”
Eliot lifts a couple fingers. “Ravi de t’avoir rencontré.” Nice meeting you.
Phoenix nods back. I’m shocked Eliot leaves it at that. Not shocked when my brother raises his voice when we’re halfway down the hall. “Ne t’amuse pas trop sans moi!” Don’t have too much fun without me!
“Je ne le ferais jamais!” I shout back. I would never.
Phoenix smiles a little, and I’m going to believe he’s in love with my French accent. Then he asks, “Your roommate here?”
My face scorches with heat. “Uh, no. Ben left for hockey practice.”
“I meant the bird.”
I restrain a laugh. “Yeah, but I already put him in his cage for you, and the privacy curtain is drawn so you won’t even see him on Ben’s side.”
Phoenix just opens my door as if it’s his room. Which is fine. It’s cool. It’s not turning me on at fucking all.