“Thank you,” he said when I handed him the mug. He took a sip and made a face, placing the latte on the table next to him. “That’s terrible,” he sputtered. “Is this really the only coffee shop in Northwood?”
“Not quite up to London standards?” I teased.
Wyatt’s green eyes studied me for a moment as if deliberating over something. He must have decided in my favor since he offered a response. “I’m not a Brit.”
“What?”
“Earlier, you implied I was British with your Beatles comment. I’m not.”
“I realize I may look naïve, but I know a British accent when I hear one.”
“I’m not denying my accent,” he replied. “Just citizenship.”
I blinked at him, confused. “So what, you just think it makes you sound cool?” Which it did, but I’d never admit that.
“Not quite.” He sighed as if I exhausted him. “If you must know I was born and raised in New York City, but I summer in London, where my father’s side of the family resides.”
“Just your father? Your mom’s not from England?”
“No, she’s from here actually. We moved back to be closer to my grandparents.”
“But your mom has an accent, too.”
He shrugged. “She moved to England after high school. I guess she picked it up.”
“Like you, during your summers?”
“I’m sorry, are we researching my lineage or practicing for a singing competition?”
“You brought it up.”
“So I did.” Wyatt ran his fingers though his hair, smoothing his temper along with his dark locks. “Sorry, my family’s a bit of a sore spot today. Shall we talk about your songs? I’m assuming you have some lyrics for me?”
“I do.”
“Well,” he said, waiting for me to hand them over or perhaps start reciting them from memory.
I clutched my songbook tighter. “This is sort of uncharted territory for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Handing my songs over.”
“I thought you wanted to be a songwriter?”
“I do, it’s just . . . Lola’s the only one I’ve ever shared my songs with.”
“Well, no time like the present,” Wyatt said, his lips twisting with a cocky smile as he held his hand out.
“They’re not ready yet,” I said quickly, slipping the book back into my bag and zipping it with finality. “Besides, Lola and I have been working on music together since fifth grade. It’s going to take me some time to adjust to this new partnership.”
“The contest is in two weeks, yeah?”
“Yes, but the songs I wrote were for Lola. I’ll have to tweak them to fit a male singer. I’ll have them ready for you tomorrow.”
“So, what was this coffee meeting about?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who followed me off the bus.”
“So I did,” he said again.
“You don’t really think things through, do you?”
He surprised me with a deep laugh. “Have you been talking to my mother?”
I rolled my eyes, not at all surprised his mother didn’t enjoy his spontaneity either. She was the picture of prim and proper refinement. I’d really enjoyed working with her junior year when it came time to apply for college scholarships. She was a woman after my own heart. She respected a good checklist and was obsessively organized. Her son was anything but.
With his tousled dark hair, mischievous green eyes, lazy smile, and signature black motorcycle jacket, Wyatt Nash looked like a fallen angel turned rockstar. Working with him was a recipe for disaster. I doubted a bad boy rocker and a band geek loner really had a chance to pull off a win, but at this point, what did I have to lose?
Just my entire future! But I pushed that thought away and refocused myself, returning Wyatt’s stare. “So, I’m not the only one unamused by your impulsiveness?”
“You say impulsive, I say free-spirited.”
I took a sip of my tea and sat back, waiting out his sarcasm.
Wyatt continued to grin. “It seems you have me pegged. According to my parents and teachers, I’m aimless, impulsive, reckless and a waste of potential.”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
“Not always.”
“Then maybe you should prove them wrong for a change.”
Wyatt’s jaw muscles twitched, but he didn’t smile right away. His eyes seemed to glow with my challenge before a whisper of a grin graced his lips. “Maybe I will, Penny Layne. Maybe I will.”
Chapter Eight
Wyatt
“So, can I get a ride home?” I asked.
Layne looked at me like the question was preposterous, again making me wonder why she hated me so much. Before today I’d never even spoken to her. Was that it? Had my avoidance offended her?
If that was the case, why had she agreed to work with me? I was just about to ask her that very question when she spoke.
“I don’t have a car.”
“What?”
Her cheeks blushed like someone had just plugged her into an outlet. “I said, I don’t have a car. So, no you can’t have a ride home.” She huffed her annoyance as she tossed her bag over her shoulder and stood. “Honestly, did you think I would be on the bus if I had the ability to drive?”
“I’m impulsive, remember? I didn’t think that far ahead.”
She rolled her eyes, not at all bothered by my predicament. “Bollocks,” I muttered, glaring down at my Franken-boot. It’s not like I could walk home. My stupid sprained ankle was really cramping my style. I looked back at Layne. “How do you normally get to school?”
“Lola drives me.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Right. Well, then how are you getting home from here?” I asked, standing to look around.
“I’m going to walk.”
I followed her to the door. “Well, obviously that’s not going to work for me,” I said, nodding to my boot.
“How’d you do it anyway?” she asked.
“Baseball.”
“I knew that much. I meant how did it happen?”
“You really are an inquisitive little thing, aren’t you?”
She snorted, then batted her eyelashes at me in a stunning display of mockery. “Yes, please, Wyatt, dazzle me with all your secrets and make my sheltered existence meaningful.”
“Are you always so defensive?”
“Are you always so arrogant?”
“Only when people pry.”
“I wasn’t prying. It’s called small talk. You should try it sometimes. It’s what friends do.”
“Are we friends, Penny Layne?”
She huffed a bitter little laugh. “Definitely not, but for the sake of this project I thought we could try. How stupid of me.” She pushed through the door, the bell jingling in her wake.
The sound spurred me into action, and I followed, catching her at the corner thanks to the traffic light. “Wait,” I said, “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’ve been a right wazzock. It’s not you, I’m still just a bit gutted about losing baseball. Being stuck in this sorry boot for the rest of the year is making me more prickly than usual. But I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.” I shifted my weight off my bad ankle and winced. “Also, I think I forgot to take my Tylenol today.”