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Natalie: No.

It’s clear she’s got a surface confidence, some of it ingrained, a lot of it natural. I have no doubt what she told me today is true, that her life is structured, and she probably prefers it that way. But I’ve been loving every second of watching her guard slip willingly and unwillingly in the short time I’ve known her. The more we spend time together, the more I find myself increasingly captivated by her own disbelief during those times, as if she’s surprised herself. If she only knew how fucking beautiful she is when she allows herself to unravel naturally. My fingers dart over the screen in easy invitation.

Want to get lost again tomorrow?

Natalie: Don’t feel obligated.

I don’t.

I bark out a laugh at the hangtime of more bubbles without reply.

This woman.

Natalie: Okay.

I’ll text you.

Natalie: Night.

My fingers linger over the screen as renewed energy courses through me. I can’t pinpoint what possessed me to reveal so much to her without ample reason to, especially when it’s obvious she’s still hiding a lot from me. My own confessions poured from me as if I’ve been saving them specifically for her. For some reason, I want her to understand my logic,me. Oddly, I didn’t battle with myself over it after I dropped her off and am more unsettled by how I felt when she walked into her hotel, away from me.

The adrenaline I feel now lingers, thanks to the odd connection I feel to her. The attraction is heavy and growing stronger, but more so by her mystery and what she wants from me. I saw her hesitate—more than once—as she looked over at me on the drive back. I have little doubt she wants to confess whatever is weighing on her, but I’m not about to demand it because odds are, I won’t get it all.

Laying back, I resume my reps as I replay the day, the light in her eyes as she looked at me with the same curiosity, like maybe she’s searching for similar answers from me.

She’s shying away from our attraction, and I’m not the man to press it, but today I fucking wanted to. She’s become one hell of a distraction from the unease I’ve been feeling for weeks about releasing.

Maybe that’s why I’m becoming so attuned to her, because if I’ve been in need of anything lately, it’s a diversion.

“Are you going to come up sometime tonight?” Dad’s voice sounds from the bottom of the stairs as he lowers the volume on “White Noise” by Exitmusic, a song I find fitting for my career predicament.

I push up on the bar and lower it on the rack.

“What the hell are you doing pressing without a spot?” He says as I sit and wipe my face with a towel.

“You’re turning into a soft old lady,” I jab.

“It’s fucking dangerous,” he grumbles, and I lift both brows in response.

His eyes flare in the realization that he’s being a helicopter parent, and he flashes me a sheepish grin. “I blame your overprotective mother,” he sighs and cups the back of his neck. “Shit, I really am that dad, aren’t I?”

Dad didn’t have ideal parents. Both were drunks and died within a four-year period after I was born. According to Mom, Dad had to support them when he didn’t have two dimes to rub together, and sadly, it almost kept him from realizing his career dreams. I don’t have a single memory of them. However, I’m well aware that though they weren’t deserving, Dad took care of them financially up until they died. Knowing that, I don’t give him too much shit about being overprotective of me. But together, they have a tendency to be a bit much. Neither of them can go long without checking on me. I sometimes wish I had a sibling to take some of the pressure off.

“It’s fine. I’ll make you spot me next time. You can scrutinize your cuticles while that gut of yours keeps expanding.”

He gives me his signature glare as I chuckle. In truth, Dad is still in pretty good shape and often hits the gym, though not nearly as hard as he used to.

“It’s one of the perks of retiring,” he defends.

I can’t find any good in that statement and say as much. “Are you really done for good?”

He shrugs as if he’s unsure, but more and more, Dad and the rest of the band are turning down gigs, even if they’re just isolated events.

He gives me a pointed look, and I tense, knowing what’s coming. “I’m more interested in what’s about to happen for you.”

I sigh, and he reads the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ in my expression but doesn’t ease off the gas.

“Just tell me where you’re at.”

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