Page 130 of Crazy for this Girl

Obviously, it was stupid, because look where we are now.

He’s successful, and I’m...evidently still a girl who keeps a playlist of memories that I never wanted to peel away or destroy.

Cal’s forearm brushes against mine as he rests it on top of the armrest. Goosebumps line my forearms straightaway, and my breathing hitches at the skin-to-skin contact.

It’s been so long since everything.

Since he told me he loved me.

Since the night he stripped away my innocence and wished to make it more special.

Cal’s index finger laces around mine but that’s as far as he goes, rubbing our flesh together as if we were just teenagers again on my parent’s dock overlooking the crystal-clear lake.

Innocent.

Young.

Forever bonded together because we were each other’s number one.

When the next song plays, Cal’s neck cranes over to me with immediate disappointment dawning on his face. “Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “You have American Hi-Fi on this brilliant-ass playlist?”

“You mean, the playlist I made?”

“The playlist I built,” he professes, hitting the next song. Take it Away by The Used fills our ears. “See? Fucking perfect again. I’m deleting that damn song.”

I reach my phone, but he stretches out his arm it like I had his so I can’t reach. “Don’t you dare, Cal Harper.”

“Don’t ruin this moment, Laynee Reese,” Cal warns with a bit of teasing in his tone. “I was just beginning to think you’re going to be a great asset to this company.”

“You deleting my song is breaking contract.”

That’s such utter and complete shit, but it’s the only card I have to play or that comes to mind.

His moss-colored eyes narrow, clearly exasperated at my mentioning our contract for the hundredth time when I don’t like something. “How?”

“Personal life.”

He tsks haughty. “Bullshit. This is for your own personal safety. You don’t want to burn brain cells that you’re going to need working for me.”

“Says the man who has Rammstein on his playlist.”

His shoulders lift casually. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Do you even know what they’re saying?”

“Do I need to?”

I hit him with an exasperated expression. “Um, yeah. They could be sending subliminal thoughts that could be brainwashing you.”

“Not any worse than having the Backseat Boys literally everywhere on this playlist.”

“Backstreet Boys. Are we even the same age? How do you not know how to say that band’s name?”

“I try to forget they ever existed,” he mutters.

“Unbelievable.” I disappointedly shake my head, then shrug. “Well…I guess you never got to because you were in that 90’s country stage with your mom.”

Cal’s face turns deadly. “You promised you’d never mention that again.”

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