Page 32 of Sweet Oblivion

“Stop worrying, Ay. It’s all good. My dad’ll come in soon now that they’re done with the sound check.”

But I couldn’t shake the worry that plagued me. My skin itched as I waited for the angry call from my mother. I’d let her know I planned to travel with Nash this week—but she thought I’d still head up to Boston for my course after that.

Which I should. I would. I definitely would. Not just because of the cost—which was significant—but because the professors expected me. I just hadn’t been able to resist Nash’s sweetness last night, so here I was. This was the best of both worlds, really. I’d see what Nash was up to, and then go do what I needed to do.

Nash leaned against the wall next to me and began to hum. It wasn’t loud enough for me to pick up the tune.

“What are you humming?” I asked.

He blinked, as if shocked I could hear him. “Nothing.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he ducked his head, abashed. Tenderness welled up, and I pressed my hands harder against my stomach to keep from reaching for him.

“It sounded pretty,” I said.

He shrugged, bumping my arm. Shit. I’d inched closer to him. I was always doing that—seeking out his warmth.

“It’s just a bit of a song.”

“One I’ve heard?”

I knew the answer to that before Nash shook his head. Suddenly he created music. No, that was the wrong word—he composed it. Over the past few weeks, music had seemed to pour out of him, and I was fascinated by his ability to hear not just different note and tones, but a variety of instruments.

“Well, Mr. Superstar, if you ever decide to write it down, I’d love to hear it,” I said.

He snorted. “Mr. Superstar? It’s a good thing you have that posh British accent, Ay, because the crap you spout is ridiculous.”

I nudged him with my shoulder, ignoring the flutter in my chest as we touched. “You don’t seem to mind it.”

His smile softened, as did his eyes. “Nah. I don’t mind. Hey, I’m glad your mom was so cool with you coming along.”

My eyes prickled, and I swallowed hard. “She…ah…well… it wasn’t her favorite.”

Nash stilled. “What aren’t you telling me?” He whipped out his phone and started typing. “She better not hate me for having you here.”

“Unlikely, seeing as she seems to think you created and move the sun,” I said.

He preened, casting me a side-eye, those soft lips turning up in a smile. I forced my gaze away.

“She does, doesn’t she?” he asked.

I made a noncommittal sound, unwilling to share what my mother had said about Nash the first time I’d brought him home. I was still shocked by her response to him. Every time she saw him, she beamed as brightly as the aforementioned star, seeming to bask in his presence. Sure, Nash was good-looking…fine, he was gorgeous. Not just his facial structure, which was divine—but then, with Carolina Syad for a mom, it would be hard not to be beautiful. No, Nash’s body was also well-proportioned if a bit skinny. In the time I’d known him, he’d already begun to fill out, turning him into a devastating assault on women of all ages. Me, especially.

But he was also polite, solicitous, and poised—an unusual combination in teen boys. And when Nash felt comfortable, he was funny. Sure, he used sarcasm and dry wit to diffuse conversations and deflect unwanted attention, but there was a silliness to him that he rarely let people see. My mum and I saw it, often now.

“Hmm. Good. She said she’s not mad,” Nash said, beaming.

“She who?”

“Your mom.”

I scowled, clenching my fists. “Omigod! Stop meddling in my life.”

“No can do, pretty girl,” he said, still on his phone.

That was good because he didn’t see me biting my lip and trying hard not to smile. The nickname was silly, but I adored it.

“She said you better call her later, though, because you have some logistics to work through.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “I told her I’d make sure you did.”

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