Page 31 of New Year's Faye

from a distance I won’t show

You move like something fragile,

but fierce beneath your skin?—

A beauty made of fire in whose flames I dance to ash

- The Wild Ones, "The Way She Moves"

The problem with kissing someone you've wanted for years is that once you've had a taste, you can't think about anything else.

I watched Faye move through the pre-show chaos, all professional efficiency in her fitted black dress, tablet in hand as she coordinated last-minute details. She hadn't met my eyes since the limo incident, but I couldn't stop watching her—thegraceful line of her neck, the way she bit her lower lip when concentrating, how her hands moved as she directed the crew.

The same hands that had been tangled in my hair just hours ago.

"Earth to Sam." Justice waved a hand in front of my face. "Your guitar's out of tune."

"What? Oh." I looked down at my hands, realizing I'd been absently plucking the same string for who knows how long. "Sorry."

"You okay?" He lowered his voice, glancing between Faye and me. "You've been weird since the interview."

I started to retune my guitar, grateful for something to focus on besides the memory of Faye's body pressed against mine. "I'm fine."

"You sure? Amy went pretty hard on you."

I shrugged. “Not unexpected. And Faye handled it.”

Justice leaned against a tower of speakers, crossing his arms. “Ah, that explains it.”

I cocked an eyebrow in question.

"Why you're staring at Faye like she's water in the desert."

"I haven't been?—"

"Sam!" Faye's call cut through the noise. She hadn’t glanced up from her ipad, determinedly avoiding my gaze. "The label wants photos before the show. Can you...?" She gestured vaguely toward the backdrop they'd set up.

"Whatever you need." The words came out huskier than intended.

Her cheeks darkened slightly as her eyes finally met mine for a brief, electric moment before skittering away. She turned away quickly, but not before I caught the flash of something in her gaze.

Good. At least I wasn't the only one affected.

The next hour passed in a blur of preparations, both of us dancing around each other like magnets with reverse polarity. Every time she came near, my skin buzzed with awareness. Every accidental brush of hands felt like lightning.

"Here." She appeared at my elbow as I finished my warmup, holding out my bucket of spare guitar picks. "You left these in the green room."

I took it, our fingers touching briefly. The contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. "Thanks."

She started to turn away, but I caught her wrist. "Faye..."

"Don't." Her voice was soft, almost pleading. "We have a show to do."

"And after?"

She finally met my eyes, and the heat there nearly knocked me back.

"We’ll talk," she agreed, then pulled away, already speaking into her headset about camera angles and lighting.

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