Page 19 of One More Made Up Love Song
“There’s a ring of gold around your pupils that I’ve never noticed before,” I finally say. Because with the way she’s looking at me, I have to say something. “It’s pretty.”
Ivy’s hands fall from her hips. “Oh,” she says simply. “Well, thanks, then.”
“You’re welcome.”
The air shifts between us, a new energy buzzing that I’ve never experienced before. Does she sense it too? Should I acknowledge it? Am I making it up?
I’m still debating when the dressing room door opens and Wren, my wardrobe manager, steps inside.
She freezes as soon as the door clicks shut behind her as her eyes move from me, to Ivy, then back to me again. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks.
“Nope,” Ivy says a little too quickly. “Nothing at all. We were just—” She pulls her phone out. “Oh, look. A text from Seth. I should…” Her words trail off as her thumbs start flying over the screen.
Wren gives me a questioning look, but I ignore it as I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the couch. There’s nothing to explain.
Ivy has pretty eyes, but lots of people have pretty eyes. This doesn’t have to be anything more than that. A casualobservation. Like seeing that someone has blond hair or freckles.
I look at Wren, willing myself to notice something—anything—about her appearance. She’s young-ish. Definitely in her twenties. Her hair is short, shaved on one side, then it lifts over her crown like a wave. I actually really like her style. She’s big into repurposing used clothes, and she’s made some really cool pieces in the couple of years we’ve been working together—both for herself and for me. She also has a killer glasses collection. The pair she’s wearing today are red with white stripes down the side.
There.See? Noticing Ivy’s eyes isn’t any different than noticing Wren’s glasses.
Wren holds out a white button-down with an oversized collar and some sort of shimmery sparkle woven into the fabric. “See what you think of this,” she says. “The fabric is a lighter blend, so it should be more breathable for you.”
I pull my t-shirt over my head, leaving it with my discarded jacket, and reach for the shirt. The fabric is soft and stretchy, definitely an improvement from what I wore last show.
“Yeah, it feels great,” I say as I stick one arm through the sleeve, pausing when a button lands on the floor at my feet with a tiny plink.
Ivy ducks down to pick it up. “Here. I’ve got it,” she says, handing the button over to Wren.
“For real?” Wren asks. “Ijustchecked them all.” She motions for me to hand the shirt back, so I dutifully strip down again, then she moves over to the vanity and pulls a sewing kit out of her bag.
“It’ll only take me a second,” she says. “How are we on time?”
“We’re running out of it,” Ivy says at the same time I say, “We’re fine.”
Ivy meets my eye, and I grin. “Wearefine,” I repeat, and she shrugs, her expression playful.
“Tell that to Seth.”
“The fans won’t mind waiting,” I say.
She folds her arms across her chest. “So cocky.”
I push my hands into my back pockets, suddenly very aware that I’m shirtless. Which is ridiculous. Ivy has been in the room when I’ve stripped down to my boxer briefs for wardrobe changes more times than I can count. This shouldn’t matter at all.
“Confident,” I say. “Not cocky.”
My skin prickles with awareness as Ivy’s eyes move over my torso. Then she bites her lip, eyebrows furrowing before she asks, “Is it true what you said about your tattoos? They all mean something?”
I nod, my eyes drawn to that same gold circle at the center of her irises. It’ll be the first thing I see every time I look at her now. I swallow. “Have I never explained them to you?”
“I mean, I knowsomeof them,” she says. She points at the flower on my left pectoral muscle. “This one is for your grandmother, right? A Lily—like her name.”
I nod. “Right.”
She steps closer. “And then your grandfather’s initials are here.” Her fingers skim over to my bicep, to the small CR inked into my skin, and I draw in a breath at the contact. “And your parents and your brother’s initials are here, here, and here,” she says as she moves toward my wrist.
Her touch feels good, sending a skitter of goosebumps up my arm and across my shoulders. The same energy thathummed between us before Wren interrupted sparks again now, and my mind drifts back to the conversation we had in her bunk, to the tug I felt to be close to her. Then I think of the hug I gave her in the middle of CVS, how good it felt to hold her in my arms. As good as it feels right now to stand here and stare at those eyes while she skates her fingers over my skin.
