Page 7 of Bred By the Rock Star Next Door

It’s interesting, though, how different Devon is than the person I always thought he was. In every interview I’ve watched and read, he’s always come across as cool, withdrawn, and a bit full of himself. And that time that I was lucky enough to see him in concert, he was vibrantly theatrical and commanding on stage. He was shirtless and sweaty and radiating sex—and when someone in the audience tried to climb up on the stage, he yelled at them to get the fuck away.

Right now, he’s nothing like that person. He’s nice. Approachable. Easy to talk to.

The only thing that’s the same about him is that he’s incredibly hot.

My eyes cling to the ink on his arms as he brings two more cold beers over to the table. I try not to stare at his gorgeous neck as he takes a swig, but it’s hard to keep my eyes to myself. For a man who is almost forty and has lived a lot of life as a rock star, he looks amazing. It makes me wonder how much of the rock ’n’ roll life he’s actually engaged in. Maybe his rock star persona has always just been a performance.

Or is that the kind of wishful thinking that my younger self was so good at indulging in?

“So tell me more about Peach Ridge, since I haven’t seen much of it myself,” Devon says as he shakes a bottle of hot sauce over his tacos.

I smile. “Well, let’s see. There’s a cute bookstore here called Starlight Books. There’s the Maple Street Diner. Our fanciest restaurant is called Le Bonheur.”

“Is it good?”

“I’ve only been there a few times. It’s a special occasion kind of place. The last time I was there was for my mom’s sixtieth birthday.” I take a sip of beer. “There’s also the bluff, which has a great view of the city. Someone’s actually building a house up there right now.”

“Wow.” He takes a bite of taco and chews it thoughtfully. “Well, it sounds like a nice town. Wish I could get out and see it for myself.”

I hate that he can’t do something as simple as that without everyone staring at him and trying to talk to him. As I’m chewing, a thought pops into my head. “You could go out in a disguise.”

Devon laughs. “You mean like…a wig and some goofy glasses?”

I laugh, too. “No. Nothing silly. But we could get you a baseball cap, some sunglasses, and some different clothes. I bet it would work.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, but then he smiles. God, that smile. It’s a panty-melter. “Okay. I’m up for it, as long as you come out with me.”

Surprise and warmth blooms in my chest. “Deal.”

While we finish eating, we talk about the kind of stuff you talk about on any ordinary first date: our families, the movies we’ve recently seen, the pets we each had when we were growing up. It feels like we could keep sitting here talking about everything and nothing for hours. Which is so weird. Nice, but weird.

Finally, Devon stands up and holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s move to the couch and I’ll play you those songs I’ve been working on. I want to know what you think.”

I want to tell him that I already know I love them, but the words are caught in my throat. Devon Reeve is holding my hand. A delightful shiver zips through me as he leads me over to his couch. I sigh at the loss as he lets go of my hand, sinking down into the couch cushions that catch me with comforting softness.

Devon picks up his acoustic guitar from its stand and takes a seat on the couch next to me, leaving only about a foot of space between us. He sits on the edge of the couch and cradles the guitar against him. His face relaxes into a slightly somber expression as he begins to play.

I’ve heard these chords before, heard this slow rhythmic strumming, but it’s so much different hearing it like this. No wall between us. Nothing to muffle or obscure the sound. The music is right here in front of me, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, so vibrant that it feels like it’s flowing around me and kissing my skin.

Devon’s eyes close as he begins to sing. And the lyrics that I’ve longed for months to hear are suddenly clear. My heart, my blue heart, oh honey, I keep looking for you and I don’t know where you are…

By the time he finishes singing the song, I’m on the verge of tears. It’s that good. Not just because it’s Devon, or because I’ve never been sung to like this—it’s simply a gorgeous song.

“Wow,” I say softly.

Devon rests his hands on the top of his guitar. “Any notes?”

“Notes?” I echo, and laugh. “No. God. It’s perfect as is.”

“I don’t know,” he says, frowning thoughtfully. “I feel like there’s something missing.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, “Will you try singing the chorus with me?”

I gape at him. “You want me to sing with you?”

“I’d like to see how it sounds. And don’t try to convince me that you can’t sing. You told me you were in choir in high school.”

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