Page 34 of Craving Oblivion

“Not a good session?”

He shot me a look from under those thick brows. Some would claim it was a smolder, but I knew this was just Nash—always intense, driven, yet off balance by my presence, unsure what to do with me.

That made two of us.

“Do you really want to talk about my songwriting?”

I shook my head. With effort, I slid my purse from my shoulder and settled it behind the nearest couch—not the one Nash clearly preferred. It wasn’t leather but a micro suede. I ran my hand over the soft, tan material.

Nash followed, close enough that I could have touched him as he skirted around me and settled on the love seat across the coffee table. He placed his guitar back in its case.

Space it was, then. I swallowed down the nausea and butterflies. I’d expected nerves, but this level of anxiety surprised me. Yet behind the fear of him rejecting me again, a faint hum settled. The rightness of being near Nash, of being in his space, soothed something in my chest.

Perhaps I was finally done looking for him, as Lindsay had accused me. Or done standing on the sidelines.

I managed to settle my butt on the edge of the sofa and folded my hands in my lap, atop my pressed-tight knees, ankles tucked to the left.

“You look good,” I ventured. His tee showed off his strong arms and defined chest. I refocused on his hair before bringing my gaze back to his eyes.

Nash tilted his head, much like a predator trying to get a bead on its prey when it hadn’t simply run away. “So do you. Ravishing, in fact.”

I patted my hair even as I scoffed. “Sixteen hours of travel are never kind, Nash.”

“Sixteen? Ah. Commercial. You are so like your mom.” He smiled.

It was brief, but it was filled with nostalgia and humor, and it stole my breath.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Not that I’m not glad to see you,” he rushed on. “I am.” A faint blush bloomed across his cheeks. “I couldn’t believe it when you pulled up to the gate. I thought this had to be a trick for a pap to get inside.”

Right to the point, then. A bowling ball seemed to lodge against my windpipe. “No trick. I saw Lindsay.”

“You mentioned that.”

“She…ah…helped me.”

“Really?” He looked uncertain, the storms building in his eyes.

“We hadn’t spoken since…” I huffed. “Since the night I saw you going with her up the stairs.” I forced my gaze to meet his, stay there.

A deep furrow built between his brows. “Not in all this time? Don’t you run in the same circles?”

“I refused to acknowledge her.”

A smile flitted across his lips. “That’s ice cold.”

“She didn’t deserve my friendship,” I snapped.

He shook his head. “No, she didn’t. She was never kind to you, which was most of the reason I couldn’t stand her.”

He took in a long, slow breath. I noted the fine blades of his cheekbones, the faint pallor under his normal skin tone. He wasn’t at death’s door, as Lindsay and even Jenna had suggested, but he’d been unwell recently.

I opened my mouth, closed it. Time rushed past, even as it seemed to slow down. I had no idea how long we sat there. Nash’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His nostrils flared, and his face grew more menacing. He was beautiful. Not in a Michelangelo’s cold, marble David way, but as a perfect specimen of masculinity. Nash was warm. His lips were full and a little too pink, and his cheekbones, thanks to that illness, were better chiseled than David’s.

“I needed to see you,” I finally told him.

His breath stuttered, but he remained silent.

I clenched my hands into fists and pressed my thighs together. Get the words out, Aya.

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