Page 59 of Starstruck
I can’t help but laugh at the fact that his friends find this whole arrangement nearly as comical as I do.
No one ever expected Baxter James to become a one-woman kind of guy. Even if it is just casual.
“Ready to write?” Colt asks, clearly bored of this interaction.
Baxter nods and leads me to the couch before picking up one of his many guitars. I curl up in the corner as he takes the seat next to me. He tosses me a smile before strumming a tune he mentioned has been stuck in his head for quite some time. Colt jumps in, playing the same notes completely by ear. Levi nods his head along, writing something down on the notepad in his lap before Baxter starts singing, making words up as he goes.
Watching them play like this feels surreal. I’ve never been to one of Baxter’s shows before, but I’ve seen videos on YouTube. I know how in sync the three musicians are with each other, but watching them work together like this is something else.
I smile to myself as Baxter pauses his playing, writing down some other lyrics. Colt and Levi jump in to add a few here and there all while I sit in silence, appreciating the way they work.
As hesitant as I was to join them, Baxter was right—watching them play together does spark something I haven’t felt since before the accident.
It isn’t long before I’m standing and rounding the couch, picking up one of the spare guitars in the small room. I take my seat next to Baxter again, and he flashes me a smile that nearly has me dropping to my knees.
Except I’ve never played guitar before—I’m a pianist. Which is why, when they pause again, I meet Baxter’s gaze and ask, “Will you teach me?”
With a smile, he nods. “Anything for you, Trouble.”
[26 ]
STEADY LOVE
BAXTER
Three Months Until the Concert
“LOOK AFTER YOU” BY THE FRAY
Lennon leans back against my bare chest, pulling the blanket over her naked body. My fingers play with her hair as I wrap an arm around her, pressing my mouth to her head and holding it there. She tangles her fingers in mine, tracing the tattoos covering my hand.
“How many do you have?” she asks, pressing a gentle kiss to the one between my thumb and forefinger. In the same spot I’ve caught her pinching when she gets anxious.
“Forty-nine, last time I counted,” I return, a small smile forming on my lips. “What about you?”
“Wow,” she chuckles. “That’s a lot of money. I have eleven.”
I smirk, my eyes scanning the parts of her not covered by the blanket. I already knew it was eleven—I’ve memorized every single one.
“Do yours mean anything?”
I shrug. “Some do, most don’t. I have a few music-related ones, and I have the one for my mom.” I point to thetattoo over my heart—it’s a simple one, just my mom’s birth year to the year she died with a rose under it, since that was her favourite flower. Hence why they’re mine, too.
A small smile ghosts across her lips as she traces her finger over it. “I haven’t gotten one for my parents yet. I’m not sure what would do them justice.”
Pressing my lips to the top of her head, I say, “Don’t rush it. You want it to be something meaningful. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Yeah,” is all she adds, fidgeting with the necklace she’s wearing.
“Who gave you this?” I ask, tapping the gold heart charm. I’ve wondered for a while what the significance of it is, since she never takes it off.
“It was my mom’s.” She swallows then burrows her head closer.
Getting the sense she doesn’t want to talk about it, I take a minute to let myself bask in the feel of her like this.
Our touches are primarily sexual, so I relish in any moment I get a glimpse of affectionate Lennon—which is rare, despite my constant need to have my hands on her. It should terrify me, and usually, it would. But right now, in the post-sex haze with her pressed against me, I can’t find it in me to care.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against her head.
