Page 50 of Starstruck
I wrap a silk robe around myself as I pad my way to the entryway, the pounding intensifying with every step.
“Hold your fucking horses,” I mutter through a yawn as Iswing the front door open. “I already told you, I’m fi?—”
My words are cut off when, instead of seeing Paige or Isa standing there like I expected, I find Baxter, dressed head-to-toe in dark clothing with a guitar case in his hand, his eyes perusing me like he’s a lion and I’m his prey. My jaw falls open as I meet his eyes, his brows furrowed.
“Hate to tell you this, Lenny girl, but you didn’t tell me shit.” He pushes past me, barging his way inside and taking in my apartment.
I let the door swing shut as I spin around, watching this big, dark man fill my small, light apartment.
“What the hell are you doing here, Baxter?” I cross my arms over my chest, pulling my robe tighter around me. I have sleep shorts and a tank under it, and Baxter’s definitely seen more of me than that, but him standing in my apartment is enough exposure for me for today.
“I went by your office, but clearly, no one was there.” He sets his guitar case on the floor, examining my living room and kitchen before turning back to face me. “So I checked in with Jeremy, and he told me you called in sick. Though, you don’t look sick. What gives?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “It’s none of your business?—”
“I’m making it my business, Lennon. I’m making everything about you my business now.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And what if I won’t tell you?”
He brushes a loose piece of hair behind my ear, a smirk on his face. “I have ways of finding out. You and I both know that. So you may as well tell me yourself.”
I groan, rolling my eyes, and push past him further into my living room. This is the first time he’s been to my place, and having him here has me looking at my apartment with a new perspective.
From the entryway, a modern kitchen with white marble countertops and a two-seater island sits to my left. A small dining room sits across from it, and my living room is to my right. Justbetween the kitchen and dining room is a small hallway that leads to the four-piece bathroom and sole bedroom, which has a walk-in closet and is thankfully big enough for a king-size bed.
Overall it’s small, but it’s in a new, high-security building and is the perfect size for just me. It’s a gorgeous apartment, and part of what drew me here after leaving the place Nathan and I shared together was the view from my living room window—I’m wedged right between two skyscrapers and can see Lake Ontario from here—and the fact that it’s a two-block walk from Revolution.
Except as I take it in now, I flinch, because it’s currently a bit of a disaster. I don’t have company often, and when I do, it’s usually a man who’s too busy in bed with me to look around my place, or Isa, who doesn’t care about the state of my apartment.
I’m not typically a messy person; lately I just don’t care enough to clean regularly. But with Baxter here, I can’t help but judge myself for the state of it.
Takeout containers from this week litter my counter, and there are clothes strewn across the living room. It’s not necessarily dirty—I’m notthatcareless—but the mess in my apartment is a very accurate representation of the mess inside my head right now.
I let my shoulders sag as I turn to Baxter. “It’s been six months.” I hold my hands out to my side, a silent explanation as to why my apartment looks the way it does.
WhyIlook the way I do.
“Shit,” he whispers, understanding dawning on him. His shoulders and face fall as he runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known.”
“Yeah, well…” I trail off with a shrug. An awkward silence fills the space around us momentarily before I’ve had enough. “So, you can go now.”
I storm into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and something to drink. When I turn around, he’s leaning against the island, his leather combat boots discarded by the door. At least he has the decency to remove his shoes.
“I’m not going anywhere, Lenny girl,” is all he says as he watches me with rapt attention. “Figure you could still use a distraction.”
“Baxter, I’m not in the mood for sex?—”
He shakes his head. “I know. Doesn’t mean we can’t still hangout.” He looks toward his guitar case and the baby grand piano that sits behind my couch.
The one I haven’t touched since before the accident.
The idea oftodaybeing the day I finally do again makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“Actually, it does.” I take a sip, leaning back against the counter. “We’re not having sex, and I’m not working today, which means no concert talk. And as per the rules we set last week, no casual hanging out.”
He ignores me with a smirk and reaches forward, grasping the glass from my hand. As he holds it to his lips, he flinches, getting a taste of its contents. “Vodka? At eleven a.m. on a Friday?”
“Today? You bet,” I snark, grabbing the glass back from him before I make my way around the opposite side of the kitchen island to sit on the couch. Clearly not getting the hint, he takes the seat next to me. I flick on the TV, pressing play on a rerun ofOne Tree Hill, as we both sit in silence.
