Page 27 of Restricted List

He’s singingChasing Carsby Snow Patrol.

He’s literally singing to Sage about laying down as he goes through the chorus. The song is so on-the-nose that it seems almost too perfect.

When I get past the irony of the song choice, I take note of something else.

Cole can sing?

Yes, Cole can sing because he’s here now, singing a song and sounding way too damn good doing it.

He’s cute. He’s funny. He’s good with kids.

And he can fucking sing.

God must hate me to put this man in front of me when I can’t do a fucking thing about it.

By the time Cole finishes the song, Sage is out like a light.

After a couple minutes of quiet to make sure she isn’t going to stir awake again, we both quietly make our way out of her bedroom and shut the door behind us.

When we get to the end of the hallway, he turns to face me as I speak.

“Sparrow.”

“What?” he asks curiously.

“You’re a fucking sparrow,” I laugh.

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate here, Rory. How am I a bird?”

“Not just a bird,” I shrug. “Asongbird. Sparrows sing, and apparently, so do you.”

Cole chuckles with a wide smile. “I guess so. But I usually only sing in the car or the shower, never with an audience.”

“Well,” I say, leaning back against the wall, “you can sing around me anytime. You’re actually really damn good. What made you pick that song, though?”

“It’s my favorite song,” he says, leaning against the wall opposite me, pushing his sleeves up and showing off his forearms covered in ink.

God, I love tattoos.

“How have we been friends for so long, and I’m just now figuring out your musical tastes? You don’t strike me as someone who listens to Snow Patrol.”

Cole cocks his eyebrow at me. “How is that?”

“You have long hair and a scruffy beard, and you’re literally covered in tattoos. You don’t really look like a mellow pop guy.”

His smile is teasing. “Haven’t you ever been taught to never judge a book by its cover, Starlight?”

I blush again at the nickname. “We all do it, though,” I say.

Cole laughs lightly before slipping his hands into the pockets of his joggers.

Gray joggers.

Because, of fucking course, they are.

And true to what he said last week, he sure ashellisn’t tiny.

When we make our way out of the hallway, Cole’s eyes catch on the papers scattered across my dining room table.

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