Page 16 of Love on the Tracks
“Hey, come on in.”
“Thanks.”
The suite looks the same as I remember it from when I was here only a few days ago with my dad. How was that only a few days ago? Time warps at the SIGs, that’s the only way to explain it.
“So I guess the rumors about how many condoms you people go through aren’t an exaggeration, huh?”
I know it’s complete and utter nonsense, but I could swear my heart stops. Is he implying—? Oh, right. The reason I’m here. Jesus, that’s just the kind of mistake you want to make, thinking your fake boyfriend is propositioning you for some very real sex.
“Kate goes through her fair share, that’s for sure.”
Zane heads toward the sitting area and gestures me to sit. “Drink?”
“Water?”
The corner of his mouth goes up. “Do you ever drink anything else?”
“Uh, milk? I don’t like juice and most of it’s empty sugar anyhow. Soda’s even worse.”
He pours me a glass from a bottle and hands it over. “Just promise me if you win, you’ll toast me with champagne, okay?”
My brain stutters on the image of clinking a champagne flute over a gold medal with Zane before we kiss, and find a more physical way to celebrate. I have to shake it off. Surely our celebration would have to be in a public place so we can end up plastered all over social media and the gossip blogs. “Uh, yeah. I’m sure that could be arranged.”
He sits in the same chair he sat in the first time I was here and seems to study me as I drink. It’s flattering and disconcerting at the same time, so I pretend not to notice. Finally I can’t ignore it anymore. “I’m sorry I interrupted your evening, you should go back to whatever you were doing. Honestly, I just needed someplace to sleep that wasn’t the hallway outside my room.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything. I was—”
His lips close tightly around whatever he was going to say and suddenly I want to know very badly what exactly he was doing. You don’t clam up like that unless it’s something secret or embarrassing.
“You were what?”
His gaze is fixed on me, no dimples now, and he looks me up and down, evaluating me. “Can you keep a secret?”
I’m a little disappointed he was up to something secret, and not say jerking off to thoughts of me. But a secret works too.
“Yes. For example, I’m not going to post a pic of you in your glasses in any of the fan forums I belong to.”
That makes him laugh, but also reach for his frames to tug them off his face. “Oh, shit. I forgot I had these on. I look like an enormous dork, right?”
“No.”Not at all. You look serious, studious, intense . . . delicious.“Why are you wearing them anyway? I didn’t know you had glasses.”
“I don’t wear them much, don’t actually need them most of the time. It’s not a vanity thing. Well, not entirely. I only wear them when I’m reading. Or writing.”
His gaze darts over to the dining table and I notice something I didn’t on my way in—a sheaf of papers and a guitar. My fangirl heart goes into overdrive. He was writing a song? Just being in his general proximity around the time when that was happening is thrilling in a totally embarrassing way. Not really something a person can brag about.“Yeah, I was totally sitting on his hotel suite couch a few minutes after he wrote a part of a song.”What the fuck is that?
“I definitely didn’t mean to interrupt if you’re working on new music. You should’ve told me you were busy.”
He shrugs, looking sheepish. “It’s not going well, honestly. Even if it were, I’m not going to let you wander around the village in search of a place to sleep.”
Yep. He would’ve done this for anyone, him and his Prince Charming complex. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here and I may as well enjoy it while I can, because when these weeks are over, I won’t see him again. Probably. Even if I do, he might not remember me. The American public doesn’t give a shit about luge for forty-seven months out of forty-eight, why should Zane Rivera be any different?
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I don’t why I’ve offered. It’s not as though I have any meaningful skills in his world. Unless you count googly-eyed, sycophantic staring. That I could do.
He has his hands on his hips—those narrow, jean-clad hips—and his dark eyebrows gather. “There might be, actually. But you came here to rest, not to—”
“I assure you it would be my utmost pleasure. I may not come home with a gold medal, but helping Zane Rivera write a song would definitely earn me bragging rights.”
That goddamn smile of his is like the sun coming up over a snow-covered mountain: sparkly and blinding. “Are you sure? This isn’t a song that just needs polishing. It’s only the beginning, and it’s a mess. I’ll stop and start a lot, and it won’t even sound like a song, and you’ll have to listen to me play the same thing like a hundred times in a row—”
