Page 142 of The First Time
"Yeah?" She's less patient. She tears the wrapping off her sandwich and takes a huge, not at all ladylike bite.
My lips curl into a smile. It should be criminal for one person to be as adorable as she is.
It's still hard to believe someone like her could want someone like me.
I know I'm appealing on every surface level—hot, rich, famous, talented—but that's not what she's after.
She sees beyond all that.
And sees into my ugly past.
And she's still here.
She still wants me.
"Kit?" She finishes the first half of her sandwich and lets out a satisfied sigh. "You're giving me a look."
"Am I?" I take another bite. The sandwich is average, stale bread and cheap deli-meat, but her company makes this the best meal I've had in a long fucking time.
She nods and offers me her remaining half. "Want to swap, half for half?"
"If you want half of mine, ask."
She nods. "Please."
I chuckle as I trade half my sandwich for hers. "You don't have to work on smooth."
"What if I want to become a master seductress?"
I cock a brow. "Who are you seducing?"
"You."
"Then stay the way you are." I brush a stray hair behind her ear. "I like that you're blunt, that you don't have moves or lines. It's sweet. Endearing."
She sticks out her tongue. "I don't want to be sweet."
"It's authentic."
Understanding spreads over her face. "I guess I'll stick with it then."
She goes back to her sandwich. I go back to mine. We sit on the sand, watching the water lap at the beach, until we've finished our meal.
Her company isn't like anyone else's. It fills me with the deep satisfaction that usually only comes with playing a great show or mastering a tricky song.
She downs her can of coffee then leans back with a satisfied sigh. "God, I was starving." She shifts onto her side to look up at me. "Thanks for dinner."
"Anytime."
"No comments about how I'm polite?"
"I like that you're polite." I finish my water and lay back on the sand. This used to be the kind of thing I avoided. Sand is already in my hair. It's already scuffing my leather jacket and my motorcycle boots.
But I don't mind.
Piper shifts onto her back and takes my hand.
This, lying on the sand with her, staring up at the stars, nothing but the waves and our breath as our music—this is why people write love songs.
