Page 47 of The Drummer

Her eyes brush mine before returning to the counter. “Yeah, I mean, if he’s up for it. I guess it would be fine to have you around more.”

Relieved—and amused by the glowing vote of confidence—I can’t help a short laugh.

“Thanks?” I say in a wry tone.

Her blush tells me all I need to know about her true feelings regarding the arrangement. Thank god.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean… I meant…” Her brows furrow as she picks at an imaginary scratch on the island. She makes this too easy.

“You meant, ‘Why Casey Barrett, I am simply tickled at the thought of seeing your sunshine-lemonade face every day!’” I tease in my best southern belle voice.

“Hey!” she counters in faux offense. “I donottalk like that!”

“True. Except when we’re on our motorbikes.”

I’m rewarded with a light smack on the arm. She even had to reach hard for that.

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

“And anyway, so what if every other thing out of my mouth isn’t about ‘effing the establishment,’” she quips.

I almost choke on another sip of coffee. “Effing the establishment?Oh my god, you can’t even curse in your mock quotes!”

Her eyes narrow in the most adorable glare. “What? So that’s a thing? Making fun of someone for their lack of cursing?”

I can’t believe we’re even arguing about this. I haven’t had this much fun in forever. “Please, please do me one favor, though. Call it ‘foul language,’ not cursing. I just need to hear it once.”

She smacks me again, and I pretend cower while stifling another snort.

“And also,” she continues in a miffed voice that would make Ms. Pierson, my violin teacher, proud. “I like that you were more concerned that I didn’t use the word ‘fuck’ than the fact that I basically called you a stereotypical anarchist rocker.”

The snort escapes. “You just said it.”

“Said what?”

“Fuck.”

Her look of vexation is pure art. “Seriously? What are you, eight years old all of a sudden?”

If this is stressing her out, she would absolutely hate it on the road with us. “I’m just pointing out that the universe didn’t explode. I doubt any old ladies even died from it.” With the exception of Ms. Pierson, maybe.

I get another eye-roll and the cutest smug expression I’ve ever seen. “So that’s twice now,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Twice what?”

“Twice that you’ve skipped over the part about raging against ‘The Man.’ Is that your thing or what?”

God, I love this girl—and hate how much I’m reading her to see if shewantsthat to be my thing. It’s hard to judge her thoughts when none of the rules I’m used to apply.

“I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe not.” Deflection always works. “How much will it bug you if I don’t respond?”

“Alright, that’s it,” she snaps, sliding off the chair.

Shit. Maybe I took this too far.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she reaches for her phone.

A cold sweat runs over me at the thought that my oasis is coming to an end. Is this the part where she wants a photo op to post on her socials? The inevitable point where I become a namedrop instead of a person?

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