Page 3 of One More Made Up Love Song
Except, now I’m wondering what it would be like to kisshim in the rain, so I’m not sure if my mental gymnastics are helping or hurting.
“You smell like sweat,” I say, even though it isn’t true. Freddie showered after his show, and he smells amazing. Like the orange and oatmeal goat milk soap he always makes me order from Stonebrook Farm.
He chuckles. “I do not.”
For a split second, I wonder if he knows what I’m doing. Deflecting. Refusing to accept his compliment. Holding us firmly in the friend zone.
Not that he should question. He was the one who made it clear how important it is that I not fall in love with him. He might as well have written it into my contract.
When I don’t hear the women talking, I peek an eye over Freddie’s shoulder to see if they’ve left, but they’re standing directly at the end of the aisle, looking our way with curious expressions.
I lift an eyebrow in challenge, then I pointedly turn my face and tilt it toward Freddie’s, hoping against hope that the way we’re angled, my hair falling just so, it looks like we’re kissing. In reality, my lips are pressed against the side of his jaw just below his ear. I slide my hand up and tangle it in the hair at his nape.
“Johnny, they’re watching us,” I say. “Isn’t that weird?”
One of the women breathes out a huff. “Let’s go,” she says. “It definitely isn’t him.”
“I know what I saw,” the other woman says, “and there’s a bus in the parking lot.”
“The bus could belong to anyone,” the first woman says, their voices growing quieter as they walk away. “Besides, that guy isn’t nearly as hot as Freddie Ridgefield.”
Freddie huffs out a laugh. “Should I feel insulted?” he whispers, his lips torturously close to my mouth.
I could turn my head a matter of centimeters, and we’d be kissing. Instead, I force myself to think about the time Freddie got food poisoning from a post-concert burger and fries and spent the next three hours holed up in the bathroom of his tour bus. Anything to break the spell he’s casting over me right now.
“That you aren’t as hot as yourself?” I finally manage to say. “I don’t think so.”
Based on the sounds floating back from the front of the store, the women are checking out, but Freddie and I don’t move. At least not completely. We do relax a little, shifting into what feels more like a regular hug than an actual performance.
He lifts his head, and mine falls onto his chest before he drops his cheek to the top of my hair. It’s easy, comfortable in a way I don’t expect, and we stand like that until the women have left the store. It’s not like Freddie and I have never hugged before. I’m sure we have. But we don’t do it often enough for this to feel natural, which is why it’s so disconcerting that it does.
Finally, Freddie takes a deep breath and steps back, letting his arms fall from my shoulders. “Close call,” he says, a softness to his words that makes me suddenly incapable of meeting his eyes.
After years of working for Freddie, I know exactly what will happen if we make eye contact. He will see me, just like he always sees me, and he’ll know there is something up. Then he’ll push because he cares, and he’ll want to make sure I’m okay.
But there is no way I’ll admit the problem is that hugging him in the diaper aisle at two a.m. felt really good—good enough that I didn’t want it to stop.
I haven’t been hugged like that in a really long time.
A sudden wave of emotion makes my throat tighten, and the threat of tears builds behind my eyes.
What is wrong with me?
It was just a hug.
But then, who do I ever hug? My life is all work, all the time. Everyone I spend any amount of time with also works for Freddie. Tour managers. Caterers. Drivers. Sound technicians. Crew members.
I tend to keep my work relationships as professional as possible. I need people to take me seriously when I’m running Freddie’s life, and hugging doesn’t help with that.
But in general, I am a hugger. I like the contact. The connection.
It occurs to me that might be the real reason it felt so good to hug Freddie. It wasn’t my feelings—it was just human connection.
The realization makes me sad. Honestly, how out of balance is my life right now?
“Itwasa close call,” I say, agreeing with his assessment. My voice comes out a little harsher than it needs to be, but I can’t seem to rein it in. “And it could have ended really badly.”
Freddie frowns. “Relax. Worst-case scenario, I would have just talked to them. Taken a few pictures. It wouldn’t have been a big deal.”
