Page 43 of How to Date a Rockstar

“You don’t need to. I’m fine to do it by myself.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and I keep my eyes glued to his face. I will not ogle his chest or his arms. Ogling is bad.

“I’m not letting you carry all these boxes on your own.”

Forget about those muscles. They belong to a jerk face!

“Let me? You’re not my owner. I’m not your chattel. You don’tlet medo anything. I do what I want.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “Bad choice of words.”

I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. “Really?”

“I meant to ask if you’d allow me to help.”

As much as I’d appreciate his help – my arms are the consistency of noodles after carrying the boxes a mere few feet – I need to keep my distance from this man. And he needs to stop being nice! I can’t resist Mr. Nice Guy Cash.

“Aren’t you supposed to be recording an album?”

He glances away but not before I notice the pink coloring his cheeks. What’s he got to be embarrassed about?

Don’t tell me he lied to me about the album. “You are recording an album, aren’t you?”

He clears his throat. “Yep. I need to work on some lyrics is all.”

“You mean you don’t have a gazillion songs already written in the tatty notebook you always carry around?”

He used to scribble lyrics in his notebook at the most random of times. We’d finish a round of love making and he’d kiss me before grabbing his notebook. I never could figure out if I should be flattered or offended.

“Hey, I don’t use a tatty notebook anymore.”

He’s also avoiding the subject. “What’s wrong? Writer’s block got you down?”

He scowls and I gasp.

“You’re kidding. You never had writer’s block before.”

He shrugs. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“I’m sorry. It must be shitty to be blocked from doing what you love the most in the world.”

“Writing music isn’t what I love most in the world,” he murmurs.

I don’t ask because I don’t want to find out that singing to crowds in a stadium is what he loves most. How could I ever compete with thousands of adoring fans?

Ugh! Knock it off, Indigo. I don’t want to compete, remember? There’s a wall around my heart with Do Not Enter signs posted on it for a reason.

“You want to watch a movie?”

“As long as it’s not some costume drama.”

I giggle. We’re totally watching a costume drama.

Chapter 15

Front door – for use by gossip gals and neighbors, not bandmates

Cash

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