Page 54 of Discover Me
He stands, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm going upstairs to take a shower. Left my overnight bag up there. You good down here?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I watch him head for the stairs, my chest tight with gratitude.
Jamie could have gone home after checking on me. His own place is only ten minutes away, comfortable and familiar. But the fact that he's staying, that he brought an overnight bag and is settling in for however long I need him, means everything. He's staying to make sure I'm safe, to be here if Derek and Colt show up, to provide the backup I've been missing since this whole thing started.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kellan.
Kellan:What time should I pick you up tonight? Date at 7. Dress warm.
My heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing since I met him. Tonight. I get to see him tonight, get to be close to him without Tom monitoring our every interaction. Even if it's supposed to be for the cameras, for the fake relationship that's supposed to end in heartbreak, it'll be real for me.
I shoot back a text.
Me:Please tell me the restaurant is less fancy this time. I can't handle any more French menus and snails.
Three dots appear immediately as he types.
Kellan:I can pronounce the food. Does that help?
Me:Immensely. Pick me up at 6:30?
Kellan:It's a date.
Kellan
The Italian place was perfect—small, tucked away, the kind of spot where the paparazzi don't usually lurk. Micah had laughed at something I said about our bassist's latest drama, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and I'd felt something warm settle in my chest. Something that's been happening more and more lately, and I'm trying really hard not to examine it too closely.
Now we're walking back to where I parked, and Micah's close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally. Each touch sends a spark through me that I definitely shouldn't be feeling. This issupposed to be fake. An arrangement. A way to get management off my back about my image.
Except it doesn't feel fake when he laughs at my jokes. Doesn't feel fake when he looks at me like I'm not the problem child everyone says I am. Doesn't feel fake when we're tangled together in my bed and he makes those sounds that drive me absolutely insane.
"That was really good," Micah says, his voice warm and content. "I can't remember the last time I had carbonara that perfect."
"Better than the place we went to last week?"
"Way better. Though I think you just like watching me eat carbs."
He's not wrong. There's something about the way Micah enjoys food—really enjoys it, without any of the pretense I'm used to from people in my world—that makes me want to take him to every restaurant I know. Want to watch him light up over good pasta and fresh bread and whatever else makes him happy.
When we reach my car, I unlock it and we both climb in. The interior still smells faintly like the leather cleaner my detailer uses, mixed with Micah's scent, a bit of vanilla and whiskey that I've become embarrassingly addicted to. He settles into the passenger seat with a comfortable sigh, and I try not to stare at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
"I know Tom already called for a car," he says, pulling out his phone. “He said it should be here soon.” He looks almost disappointed by that.
The app shows a car that's about fifteen minutes away, and we settle into a comfortable silence. Except it's not entirely comfortable because now I'm hyperaware of how close he is, how the dashboard lights cast shadows across his face, how his lips are still slightly swollen from when I'd kissed him against the side of the restaurant before we came to the car.
"You're staring," Micah says without looking at me, but there's a smile playing at his lips.
"You're worth staring at."
He does look at me then, something soft and vulnerable flashing across his face before he schools it away. "Smooth."
"I'm a rockstar. Smooth is part of the job description."
"Pretty sure 'problem child' is your actual job description."
I laugh, reaching over to tug playfully at his collar. "Maybe. But you don't seem to mind."
"No," he says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. "I really don't."
