Page 58 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
I’m sure those feelings were helped along when he unexpectedly opened up to me this morning and let me in a little. When he dropped his playful demeanor and was honest with me about the fire.
And then he shut me out and hasn’t said another word since. Shouldn’t his total indifference be my clue that he thinks sleeping together was a mistake?
Did I make an error in judgment as well?
Stop staring.
Stop thinking.
Start writing.
There’s a big difference between one night of sex and emotions. The two can be separated.
I can separate them.
Then why do I keep trying to make myself believe that?
There’s an odd ache in my chest when I look at him one last time before moving from the window.
I have at least two months here before I return to Los Angeles. Not for a recording session but to go back home for good. If last night was a mistake, that’s a long time to avoid someone when you’re sharing the same space. If it wasn’t, that’s a super long time to keep emotions and sex in separate corners.
“C’mon, Jett.”
“Don’t you want to know about my time in Napa?” he asks as he points to the case of wine he set on the counter. I’m pretty sure he thinks booze will earn him brownie points with me. I don’t think he realizes we’re sitting in a house surrounded by grape vineyards, so wine is in abundance around here.
And I’m certain he has no clue what I’d really like to do with the bottles is empty their contents in his lap to prove to him that a case of wine isn’t going to win me back.
Doesn’t he get that nothing will?
“Not really.”
“Well, at least let me take you to dinner?”
“No, I—”
“Let’s get out of this house and go out and have a nice meal. Alone. We can bring the wine with us and—”
“Jett, I just want to get this song finished.” The one he started writing about winning the love of your life back. The one that is currently grating on every one of my last nerves because now it all makes sense. His roundabout way to tell me how he feels in the lyrics he wrote followed by the promise of a dinner that I can presume will be romantic.
“And I just want you back.”
I grit my teeth as I look at him across the family room and glare. “Just play the damn chords again.”
“You always were sexy when you were pissed at me,” he murmurs, eyes alive and charisma in full force. Compliments won’t win him points, either.
“And you always tried to charm me when you did something wrong. Too bad charming me—or wining and dining me—won’t work this time.”
I think of Grady last night. The anger. The tension. The kiss that knocked me off my feet and landed me on my back in his bed.
Such a total contrast to the man sitting across from me, and it’s so much more noticeable than before. Almost as if being with someone else has woken me so I can see clearly.
He finally plays the chords. I sing the newest lines I’m trying out.
“I was yours to lose.
You tested the waters.
I tested her lips.
