Page 68 of One More Made Up Love Song
“Okay,” I say. “I will, then.”
He yawns and rubs his eyes, but he makes no move to leave. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall, closing his eyes.
“Freddie,” I say through a chuckle. “Go to bed.”
He smiles without moving. “I like standing here with you.”
My traitorous heart thumps in response. “But I need to go to bed too,” I say. I push him gently toward his door. “Come on. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He finally stands upright, stretching his arms high over his head. His shirt lifts, and his pants are low enough on his hips that I catch another glimpse of the tattoo just by his hip bone—the one I’m certain is mystery tattoo number eighteen.
He must understand my staring because he asks, “Do you want to see it?”
My gaze darts up to meet his. “That’s number eighteen?”
He nods. “The only one my fans haven’t mapped.” Histone is perfunctory, matter-of-fact, and it makes me think of the woman who came to his concert with half of his tattoos already inked onto her body. It’s not a wonder he keeps this one secret.
“Can you show me without taking off your pants?” I ask. Because I do want to see it. But I can only stand so close to the edge of a cliff before self-preservation kicks in. And seeing Freddie sans pants would definitely knock me clean into the canyon.
Freddie rolls his eyes and reaches for the waistband of his pants, his eyes dancing as he says, “Yes, Ivy. I’m not suggesting I strip for you. Do you think I would have offered otherwise?”
I lift my hands. “Sorry. I was just making sure. I didn’t want to be accidentally scarred.”
“Wow,” Freddie says. “Scarred? Hit me where it hurts.”
It feels good to be bantering like this, a little bit like we’re back to our old selves again, except right now, there’s a tension buzzing between us that feels thick enough to cut. Then Freddie shimmies the waist of his pants low enough for me to see his secret tattoo, and my throat goes dry.
He’s fully decent—I’m only seeing skin—but it’snotskin I usually see. He could be standing here in a swimsuit, otherwise unclothed, and it would still feel less scandalous than this.
I force myself to focus on the ink instead of the jut of his hipbone or the light dusting of hair on his abdomen.
“It’s a maple leaf,” I say. “Are you secretly Canadian?”
He chuckles. “No. But my grandparents had a big-leaf maple tree in their backyard. It had these huge leaves that turned bright yellow every fall. Whenever my parents didn’t know what to do with me, how tohandleme, I guess, theywould send me down the street to my grandparents’ house.” He shifts his pants back up, covering the tattoo, and lets his shirt fall back down. “My grandfather is the one who taught me how to play guitar. When the weather was good, we would sit outside under the maple tree and play until it was too dark to see.”
“You’ve never told me that,” I say. “About your grandfather.”
“I should tell you more about him. Best man I’ve ever known.”
I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the wall, mirroring Freddie’s pose. Even though I already told him to go to bed, I like to hear him talk about his family. At least his grandparents. His parents drive me crazy, with the way they seem to express only mild appreciation for his chosen career. And his brother is no better. But whenever he mentions his grandparents, they seem like people I would have liked.
“He died when?” I say, speaking of his grandfather. “How old were you?”
“Nineteen,” he says. “Then twenty when Grandma died.”
“So they got to see you in Midnight Rush.”
Freddie smiles, his expression a little wistful. “Yeah. They did. We did a show in Seattle, and they were able to come and watch from a private balcony. That was a great night.”
“I bet they were so proud of you.”
He shrugs. “It’s not quite a PhD in mathematics, but yeah. They were proud.”
I cock my head, studying his face, searching for any hint of malice or hurt. But there isn’t any. If there was ever hurt over his parents’ disinterest in his career, I don’t think it’s stillthere. There was a tiny bit of sarcasm in his tone, but it didn’t seem deeply rooted.
“When did you stop trying to impress them?” I ask, and Freddie lifts his eyebrows.
“My parents?”
