Page 18 of The Sound Between Us

5

mr popstar

Seren

I glance back, half annoyed, half curious. He’s still there, trailing behind me. The evening air tastes of exhaust fumes and that particular Camden mix of incense and fried onions drifting from shop doorways.

“I have no idea why you’re following me,” I mutter, not slowing, not stopping. My boots click against the wet pavement, the sound echoing off brick walls.

His laugh is low. A scrape of sound that hooks somewhere under my ribs.

I glance back again. The streetlights catch the planes of his face.

His face is... well. Deep, ridiculous burnt amber eyes. Full lips. A jawline that could cut glass and probably has.

Harrison Carter.

Filed under P for Player. For Publicity. For Please avoid at all costs.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m at a loose end.”

“So go practise,” I snap, nodding toward him. “Don’t you have a concert tomorrow?”

Another chuckle. And my stupid feet slow just a little. The scent of his aftershave—something expensive and woody—cuts through the March chill.

“Are you telling me you think I need to practise?”

“I’m saying I’m shocked your ego fits down Camden High Street.”

“I’ve played the same fifteen songs on repeat for the last ten years,” he says. “I could do them backwards with a hangover.”

We’re walking side by side now. I can feel the warmth of him, hear the soft swish of his hoodie against denim.

I find my eyes drifting. To the slope of his nose. The lashes. The faint freckles. His hair, a mess of tangled dark curls escaping from under the cap, damp from earlier rain.

My chest tightens. This is dangerous territory.

“Aren’t you worried about being seen?” I ask. My chest goes tight.

His eyes flick somewhere far off. “If I keep moving, people don’t really notice.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is. But it’s also the job.”

We’re nearly at the edge of the market. The late afternoon crowd is thinning but still nosy. Still watching. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingles with diesel fumes from passing buses.

“Do you go home often?” I have no idea where the question comes from. I stop walking. So does he.

People move around us, grumbling and bustling and alive. A woman with shopping bags tuts as she sidesteps us. A cyclist rings his bell.

My cheeks flush and I lift a gloved hand to cover the right one.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, “for ruining your very secret, very serious shopping trip.”

He smirks. One corner of his mouth tilting like he’s caught me out. “I think you owe me an apology drink.”

My mouth falls open. Wide. Embarrassingly so.