Page 76 of Reverse

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s um, nice enough—”

“Liar,” he grins and scolds simultaneously. “It’s a total shithole. But it’s been my home on and off for years. I’ve slept on that couch more than I have in my own bed.”

“Did you sanitize it first?” I jab.

“I bought it new, asshole,” he growls, nudging my shoulder.

“So, do you own this palace?”

He shakes his head. “I fucking should with as much time as I’ve spent here, but no. I lease it long term because no one else wants it.”

I open my mouth to talk, and he covers it with his palm, his eyes lit with humor.

I peel his hand away. “I was only going to say a coat of paint, or . . . a wrecking ball, and this place could really be . . . something.”

Wrinkling his nose, he pinches my sides, and I jump as our smiles collide. My heart flutters in my chest as we get caught up in the other for a few seconds while his palms rest on either side of my waist. Sucking in my lip as my body begins to thrum, I glance around and try to imagine him holed up in this relic he labels his studio. “And you’re by yourself when you’re here?”

“Most of the time. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Not with all the music in my head,” he says, tapping his temple.

“You’re beautiful . . .” His eyes snap to mine. “. . . and I feel sorry for you.”

I’m graced with a full grin before he leads me deeper into the room.

“Come on, it won’t bite, and I got rid of the rats years ago.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He smirks as I take one of two seats behind the soundboard. Putting on my most serious expression, I straighten my shoulders. “So, you going to teach me how to drive this spaceship or what?”

“Only if it lands us in an alternate universe,” he rasps out, taking the seat next to me. His eyes bore into mine, the sentiment hitting hard.

“Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

“I’ll do you one better.”

I feign busy, pushing up a lever I know he can easily adjust back. “I don’t quite see how that’s possible, Mr. Crowne.”

He ducks under the board and retrieves a set of headphones, and I gape at him. “You’re going to let me hear it?”

“How are you going to write your article without hearing it?”

“We both know I’m—”

The ‘play along with me’ look in his eyes cuts me off.

“Exactly,” I snark, tossing my shoulders back and exaggeratedly clearing my throat. “I can’t perform miracles. I don’t know how you expect me to sway people otherwise.”

“Let’s remedy that,” he says, a nervous underlay in his tone.

“How many people have heard it?”

“My dad—so that makes you—number two.”

An audible gasp leaves me. “Easton.”

---