“Aren’t you going to eat?” She’s been looking at those pancakes like she’s starving but hasn’t made a dent in them.
Her eyes dart to her plate and then back to mine.
“I’m not that hungry.”
Bullshit.
My coffee scalds my tongue, but fuck if it doesn’t taste like heaven . . . and clears the cobwebs from my head that too much whiskey allowed to grow.
“That wasn’t what your stomach was saying in the car.” Not even a smile. Just a blush of her cheeks. Frickin’ women. “Is it that you aren’t hungry or more that you’re afraid I’m going to see you eat?” The quick blink of her eyes says I’ve nailed it on the head. “If that’s the case, it’s going to be pretty miserable having you sit on the couch next to me, starving to death and all.”
She meets the lift of my brow with the clench of her jaw. Still not even a crack of a smile.
“I’m watching what I eat.”
“Why?” I reach forward and help myself to a forkful of her pancakes. There’s no way I’m letting Bertha’s pancakes go to waste. They’re legendary.
“Because I need to.”
“Need to? You women are too harsh on yourselves.”
She opens her mouth and then shuts it as I study her. Raven-colored hair, kind of short, kind of edgy, kind of hot in a rocker girl way. Gray eyes so light they’re almost clear. A set of lips—damn, a set of lips that have blow job written all over them. Her shirt is baggy and earlier her robe covered her, but her body seems normal. No third leg growing out of her hip or anything.
But she’s self-conscious. A bit shy. Very uncomfortable in her own skin.
This isn’t the same woman I’ve seen in pictures in Damon’s house. That girl was full of fire and brimstone and a whole hell of a lot of rebellion.
No doubt the ex-boyfriend did this to her. From what Damon hinted at, it’s been a rough few days for her.
“Do you mind?” I reach my fork out again, and she pushes her plate toward me. I take another bite and smile. “You haven’t lived until you’ve devoured Mama Bertha’s pancakes.” Her eyes watch as I chew her food. “If you get hungry, your fork is right there. Your stomach will thank me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She’ll be eating them by the time we leave. I’ll make sure of it.
“So what brings you to Sunnyville?”
“Damon didn’t tell you?”
“Bits and pieces, but he’s a guy. We aren’t known for being real observant or forthcoming.”
“I needed a break.” Her eyes flit over my shoulder to where Bertha is chatting up the old-guy crew who come and occupy the counter every morning for a few hours. “Somewhere I could go and finish a project I’m working on.”
“Project?”
“Album. Songs. Whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m assuming having a studio helps. Wouldn’t it be easier to do that at home?”
Her eyes harden. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought so, now would I?” Ah, there’s the fight in her. “I can write lyrics anywhere. Besides, my place was kind of stifling my creativity.”
Hm. They must have lived together.
“Is ‘I needed a break’ code for ‘my boyfriend’s an asshole’?” Might as well lay the truth out there.
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“You or him?”
“Me but only because I was blindsided.”
I hiss. “Ouch. That sucks. What happened?”
“You don’t hold back, do you?”
“What’s the point? It’s going to come out sooner or later.” I shove another forkful of her pancakes in my mouth. “So?”
I get a glimpse of a smile as she shakes her head.
“It wasn’t working.”
“For him, right? It wasn’t working for him, but it was for you?”
“Something like that. Working together can make things tough at times.”
“Wait. Oh . . . do I know who he is?” Damon said she was big time, but he didn’t say who she worked with.
She shrugs. “Jett Kroger.”
Her eyes hold mine, waiting for recognition to fire, but hell, there’s no need to wait. Everyone knows who Jett fucking Kroger is. The bad boy of rock with an incredible voice, a killer instinct for trends, and who’s produced an endless stream of hits over the past few years. That and a reputation for being a hothead who causes trouble.
“You look too damn innocent to be with him.” The words are out there as I realize she’s the one behind the number one hits. She’s the lyrics to his beat.
She stutters a laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“I just—”
“I’ve heard it all, so just say it. At this point, I’ve learned to have tough skin. Nothing will offend me.” She laughs and finally gives me a genuine smile, but her eyes show the truth. She’s been hurt. “She’s trying too hard to fit into his crowd. She isn’t his type. Jett could do better, so much better. Don’t sleep with the hired help. And the list goes on—”
“Actually, that’s not what I was thinking.” I lean back in the booth and stare at her, immediately feeling the need to protect her from the snarky comments. No doubt the assholes were just jealous. “I was going to say his music is killer, but he comes off like a dick, and you deserve better than that.”
“Yeah, well . . . it didn’t stop me from loving him.”
“The heart’s blind. It’s the head that causes all the trouble.”
Her body pauses for the briefest of seconds, an internal struggle waging a silent war across her expression. “Sometimes both are stupid,” she murmurs, shifting her gaze from mine so she can stab a piece of pancake with her fork and eat it.
“So, is this the whole distance makes the heart grow fonder thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Obviously, you still like the guy or else you wouldn’t appear so miserable—”
“I am not miserable.”
“Just like you’re not hungry.” She stops mid-chew and rolls her eyes at me.
“What’s your point, Grady?”
“Is this one of those situations where you leave so he sees what he’s missing? Then in a few months, you go back with a new haircut, a careless attitude, and your cleavage and curves on display so he falls madly in love with you all over again.” I get the death glare from her. Guess that means I’m closer to the truth than she wants to admit. Either that or she’s pissed I’m even suggesting such a thing.
And she takes another bite.
Hell, if I piss her off enough, she might forget she isn’t hungry and eat the rest of the food.
“I highly doubt that will happen.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“Let’s just say the woman riding him in my bed told me that even if I showed up buck naked with a portable stripper pole, he wouldn’t give a second glance my way.”
“Well, shit.” Not much I can say to ease the assholery he did to her.
“Pretty much.” She draws the words out.
“And yet you still love him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” The hurt in her eyes said it all for her.
“Being with someone for almost two years doesn’t make it easy to turn off the feelings, no matter how much he screwed me over.”
“Literally.”
Her eyes, storm clouds of emotion, flash up from where she’s pouring syrup on her pancakes. For a minute, I think she’s going to cry, but then she surprises me when she throws her head back and laughs.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Yep.” I take a sip of my coffee and watch her. She’s pretty. No, not just pretty, but sexy. There is a difference between the two. And not in the classic sense, but there is definitely something about her that would make any man look twice. The bitch riding her ex was completely wrong. “So . . . the project you’re finishing . . . is it his?”
“It’s the label’s, but yeah, it’s with him.”
“That must suck, having to write music for someone you hate.”
She shrugs. “To put it mildly, but that’s the problem, we write good music together. And even if we didn’t, we’re bound by contract to get twenty songs turned in over the next four months.”
“Twenty? Christ. Why so many?”
“Labels like variety. They like to decide what song is the best fit for the current musical climate. In the end, they’re the ones who have the ultimate say over what songs make the album.”
“You can write the lyrics without him, then?”
She nods as she chews. “Each song is a different process. Sometimes, it’s the lyrics first and then the music, sometimes it’s the music and then the lyrics . . . other times it’s side by side, verse by verse. I’m hoping we can avoid that last one this time around. The less I see of him, the better.”
“Why?” I ask, prompting her to look at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “You’re either running from him because you’re pissed and never want to see him again, or you’ve taken off because if you stay, you know he’ll wear you down, get you to forgive him, and then start your relationship song and dance all over again.”
She glares at me for a beat. That’s all it takes. “Maybe I just want to check the box for all of the above.”
“Understandable. There’s no judgment on my part for whatever box you check. Hell, maybe you can write a song about a jerk musician who cheats on his girlfriend and then falls off the face of the earth. That might let him know where he stands with you.”
“Such an active imagination.”
“Funny. Mallory said the same thing last night.” C’mon. Turn those lips up. “And she finally smiles . . .”
Her eyes soften, her smile widens, and she shakes her head before eating the last forkful of pancake.
Mission accomplished.