I roll my eyes at her, and I think she wants to smack that hat off my head. Or punch me in the face because that’s where she’s burning daggers into me. Is it weird that I’d welcome either of those right about now? I think mentally fucked is my new middle name.
“We could be sitting on my back deck, listening to the ocean and working all this up. But instead, we’re here” —she points to the meager space between us— “and doing nothing but fighting.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“Gus,” she barks, growing even more exasperated with me, which I didn’t think was possible. Her hands fly out around her. “That’s all we’ve been doing since we sat down. If you’re not up for working this out today, then just tell me. It’s an easy thing to do. Naomi, my mind is not in the right frame to be writing this today,” she mocks my voice. “See? Simple. But you keep pushing this godawful paper and pencil at me like it’s somehow going to magically transform into a completed duet and that’s just not happening. Talk to me. What’s up? Why are we here?”
“It’s easier to work here than it is at your place,” is all I can manage.
Doesn’t she get it? Can’t she see? I can’t be alone with her in seclusion because all I want to do is lean in and kiss her sweet lips until she’s breathless with it. Reach up under the hem of her pretty purple dress and find out what type of panties she’s wearing. What sort of sounds she’ll make when my fingers dip inside her pussy and find her wet for me. These are the thoughts that wake me up in the middle of the goddamn night.
That have me jerking off like I’m a teenager all over again.
She stares at me incredulously. “How the hell do you figure that?” I glance up at her, my eyes finally locking with hers as something shifts in my expression. She frowns. “What?”
Should I tell her I want to jump her bones and see what happens? Maybe if we do the deed and it’s done, it will help? I won’t be so consumed with her, right? We’ll be able to go back to a natural baseline and write the song without all this strain?
I inwardly shake my head. God, my dick can be so fucking stupid sometimes.
“It’s nothing.” I sigh, sitting back in my chair and scrubbing a hand over my face. Christ, my back is killing me. How long had I been leaning in that position? I twist from side to side, trying to crack it or pop it or whatever will relieve the ache. “It’s nothing,” I repeat. “I think we just need a break. Let’s go for a walk.”
Get some fresh air that doesn’t taste like you.
“Alright,” she says like she’s suddenly got it all figured out, and when I open my eyes, I realize she’s standing and not talking about the song. Dammit. “Stand up. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” I ask warily.
“You’re too in your head right now.” Understatement of the century. “We’re going to get a margarita and nachos and eat them on the pier. Maybe go on the roller coaster and barf all that up afterward. I don’t know. I haven’t decided on that part yet. But we’ve been so freaking somber and serious since we met, and I think we need to have some fun together.”
I have such a crush on this girl, it’s destined to ruin me.
“Or maybe we should just drive to Vegas and get married.”
“Gus!”
I chuckle. “Okay. Nachos and a margarita for the win.”
“Naomi Kent goes for the net. She shoots. Goal!” Her arms fly up in the air and I can’t stop myself from smiling. From showing her all my teeth and standing up and wrapping an arm around her waist and tucking her delectable body against mine. I kiss the side of her face and release her immediately.
“Hockey fan?”
“My father was Canadian.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Huge hockey fan. Incidentally, my mother was from Boston, and every time the Canadians played the Bruins shit went down in my house.”
Damn. Boston and Montreal. “So you’re a—”
“B’s, C’s, Pats, and Sox fan? Yes. And if you start to hate, this duet is over.”
What was I just saying about a crush? I think this is love.
“You know I’m a southern boy, right? I love my Crimson and my Saints.” She rolls her eyes at me.
Right, because I’m wearing my Crimson Tide hat and tee and fuck all do I love my college football. Vi sent me both of these when she went off to college. At the time, I remember her joking about sleeping in the shirt and when it came, it did smell like her. I wore it for a week straight. Slept with it over my face every night. I missed her so much, but that never stopped me from doing things with other women that should never have been done.
Things I hate myself for.
But that was a million years ago, and this shirt has seen me through a lot. So has this hat.
I stare at Naomi and wonder if it’s maturity and age creeping through my head and altering my thoughts. Because I want to kill Florian Heart. I want to shake him and point to this beautiful, sensational, out-of-this-world woman and tell him that he’s so dumb, but I’m so grateful for his stupidity.
He let the best thing he’ll ever get go, but his loss is absolutely my gain.
“If the Pats ever play the Saints, you and I are there.”
“Can we rethink that whole Vegas marriage trip?”
“Come on, Gus. I thought we had this mutual understanding going.”
We did and then she turned out to be everything.
She smiles up at me. “My head is already so full. Can we just chill out? Relax some? Enjoy each other? Tomorrow we can write the hell out of this song. I know we can. We’re so close. But there is this weight surrounding us. I’m not saying we don’t need it, because I feel like we do. This song is all emotion. But for tonight, I just want to have fun.”
I cup her cheek in my hand and stare into her incredible blue eyes. “Let’s have some fun. But if I kiss you at the end of the night, you can’t hold it against me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gus
* * *
“Have I told you how stupid this is?”
Naomi stares at me with a broad, mischievous, slightly evil smile. “Have I told you how little I care?”
She did. Right after I told her shots of tequila are a mistake. She only ordered one to go with our margaritas and nachos, but still. Shots are dangerous territory. Especially tequila shots.
We’re at a restaurant at the end of the Santa Monica pier, staring out at the Pacific, watching the sun begin its descent and talking about music. Not our music, but music we grew up loving. Music that spoke to our soul and got us started on our journey.
“Strumbellas, Wild Sun.”
“Oh. That’s a good one. But it’s newer.”
I shrug. “Give me a newer one.”
“Easy as hell, guy. OneRepublic’s, ‘Burning Bridges.’ Damn, that song kills me. Or, Mumford and Sons ‘Woman.’ Or really any of theirs because Marcus’ poetry is epic.”
“Agreed on both. Plus, the beats of Woman are killer.” She shoots me with her finger like I just nailed her thoughts. “Tell me about your first album. Did you write it?”