“What?” I asked.
“You said you hadn’t known your grandfather for very long. But I don’t think it’s how long you know someone that matters.”
His voice was so quiet, barely more than the shape of his lips. I rolled toward him, resting my hand on his chest. He played with my hair’s ends before smoothing his hand down my head, cradling my nape. He pressed a kiss to my temple.
This was the side of Nash few experienced. The one that made me melt and yearn.
“It’s how well the other person sees you. And I see you, Aya Jane Aldringham.”
11
Aya
I pressed my palms to my quivering belly. “I’m not sure I made the right choice,” I whispered.
“What?” Nash asked.
I turned to smile at him, but it likely appeared more as a grimace. “Just nervous is all.”
Nash rolled his eyes even as he took a protective step closer to me, which caused my pulse to ratchet upward. “Everything will be fine.”
I nibbled my lip, needing to change the subject. “What’s this room called?”
Nash shrugged. “The green room, I guess. Just a place for the band and some of the staff to hang out before and after the show.”
“And no one will be upset we’re here?” I asked, fidgeting.
“Stop worrying, Ay. It’s all good. My dad’ll come in soon now that they’re done with the sound check.”
But I couldn’t shake the worry that plagued me. My skin itched as I waited for the angry call from my mother. I’d let her know I planned to travel with Nash this week—but she thought I’d still head up to Boston for my course after that.
Which I should. I would. I definitely would. Not just because of the cost—which was significant—but because the professors expected me. I just hadn’t been able to resist Nash’s sweetness last night, so here I was. This was the best of both worlds, really. I’d see what Nash was up to, and then go do what I needed to do.
Nash leaned against the wall next to me and began to hum. It wasn’t loud enough for me to pick up the tune.
“What are you humming?” I asked.
He blinked, as if shocked I could hear him. “Nothing.”
I raised an eyebrow, and he ducked his head, abashed. Tenderness welled up, and I pressed my hands harder against my stomach to keep from reaching for him.
“It sounded pretty,” I said.
He shrugged, bumping my arm. Shit. I’d inched closer to him. I was always doing that—seeking out his warmth.
“It’s just a bit of a song.”
“One I’ve heard?”
I knew the answer to that before Nash shook his head. Suddenly he created music. No, that was the wrong word—he composed it. Over the past few weeks, music had seemed to pour out of him, and I was fascinated by his ability to hear not just different note and tones, but a variety of instruments.
“Well, Mr. Superstar, if you ever decide to write it down, I’d love to hear it,” I said.
He snorted. “Mr. Superstar? It’s a good thing you have that posh British accent, Ay, because the crap you spout is ridiculous.”
I nudged him with my shoulder, ignoring the flutter in my chest as we touched. “You don’t seem to mind it.”
His smile softened, as did his eyes. “Nah. I don’t mind. Hey, I’m glad your mom was so cool with you coming along.”
My eyes prickled, and I swallowed hard. “She…ah…well… it wasn’t her favorite.”
Nash stilled. “What aren’t you telling me?” He whipped out his phone and started typing. “She better not hate me for having you here.”
“Unlikely, seeing as she seems to think you created and move the sun,” I said.
He preened, casting me a side-eye, those soft lips turning up in a smile. I forced my gaze away.
“She does, doesn’t she?” he asked.
I made a noncommittal sound, unwilling to share what my mother had said about Nash the first time I’d brought him home. I was still shocked by her response to him. Every time she saw him, she beamed as brightly as the aforementioned star, seeming to bask in his presence. Sure, Nash was good-looking…fine, he was gorgeous. Not just his facial structure, which was divine—but then, with Carolina Syad for a mom, it would be hard not to be beautiful. No, Nash’s body was also well-proportioned if a bit skinny. In the time I’d known him, he’d already begun to fill out, turning him into a devastating assault on women of all ages. Me, especially.
But he was also polite, solicitous, and poised—an unusual combination in teen boys. And when Nash felt comfortable, he was funny. Sure, he used sarcasm and dry wit to diffuse conversations and deflect unwanted attention, but there was a silliness to him that he rarely let people see. My mum and I saw it, often now.
“Hmm. Good. She said she’s not mad,” Nash said, beaming.
“She who?”
“Your mom.”
I scowled, clenching my fists. “Omigod! Stop meddling in my life.”
“No can do, pretty girl,” he said, still on his phone.
That was good because he didn’t see me biting my lip and trying hard not to smile. The nickname was silly, but I adored it.
“She said you better call her later, though, because you have some logistics to work through.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “I told her I’d make sure you did.”
Nash could be so annoyingly responsible when he took the notion. Typically, he saved those moments for my life.
“I’ll deal with my mum when I’m ready.” And I wasn’t ready. Seriously, what was I doing here? “When do we see this Camden Grace fellow you talk about?”
“Early next week. In Nashville.”
“Great. I’ll get to meet him, then.” His lashes were as sun-kissed as the hair on his head. My gaze traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. His eyes widened. “You’re going to the thing at MIT. How long is this course anyway?”
“Six weeks.”
He scowled. “Fuck, Ay. That’s most of the summer.”
I shrugged, pretending his disappointment didn’t bother me. It shouldn’t. We aren’t a couple. He didn’t want to be. “I’m still shocked I was accepted.”
“You shouldn’t be. I told you, you’re really smart.” He clenched his jaw. “I won’t ask you to stay with me again. But I want to.”
“Because your dad’s been all weird?”
Nash shrugged. “I don’t know what’s up his ass. His album isn’t doing as well as he’d hoped.”
I nudged his shoulder. “Probably because you didn’t write the songs.”
He shot me a shy smile that made me a bit woozy. Once Nash realized his impact on me, I’d be totally screwed. “You think the last album was better?” he asked, his tone hopeful.
“Far superior,” I said in a haughty tone, using my most precise British enunciation.
Nash chuckled. “Yeah, me too.” His smile slipped. “Dad’s not much of a songwriter.”