Page 18 of The Fangirl and the Crooner

What? Proposition her? Skip the words completely and seduce her with my hands and mouth?

Jesus. Ijustadmitted to myself I want her to be comfortable and feel at home here. And sneaking into her bedroom while she’s showering is not the way to ensure that.

Shit. Maybe Iama stalker.

I shake my head to clear the thought and pull myphone from my pocket. I need a little guy time with someone who’s always willing to bend an ear. Pulling up Trace’s contact, I shoot him a quick text.

Me:Meet me at the lake for a little fishing?

It’s the middle of winter and the fish will definitely not be biting, but Trace knows “fishing” is code for “I have a problem and need help.” Lord knows, I’ve met him there enough times to have a beer and talk over his own problems.

Trace:I can be there in twenty.

Me:Thanks, man.

Grabbing a pad of paper from a drawer, I scribble out a quick note to Pressley that I’ve gone out to meet Trace and I’ll be home soon. Leaving the note on the counter, I grab a couple of beers from the fridge––which we probably won’t drink, seeing as how it’s barely nine in the damn morning––then shove my keys, phone, and wallet into my pockets before tugging on my coat and slipping through the back door.

Outside, I move to the shed to grab my small cooler for the beers, my tacklebox, and my fishing pole. Tossing everything into the backseat of my car, I climb in behind the wheel and start the engine. Pausing, I look back at the house one last time, my imagination conjuring up images of Pressley in the shower again.

Blowing out an irritated breath, I shift the car into reverse and back down the drive. Pushing all thoughts of her to the back of my mind, I concentrate on my driving, the bare branches on the trees bending beneath the breeze, and the sound of my tires eating up the asphalt as I race toward the lake.

Anything to expunge Naked-Pressley from my mind.

Because if I don’t, I’m going to turn this car around and do something really stupid.

When I get to our secret fishing spot, Trace’s truck is already there. I park beside it and climb out. Grabbing my things from the backseat, I tread through the weeds to the lake’s edge.

Trace is sitting, having retrieved our hidden chairs from the bushes where we stash them, a smile on his face and zero fishing equipment in sight. I heave a breath, and he smirks, so I toss my pole and tacklebox to the ground, set the cooler down a bit more gently, then plop down into the chair.

“I’m assuming this is about your new roommate?” he asks when I don’t speak for a full minute.

“You assume correctly,” I say with a sigh as I slump deeper into the chair.

“What happened? Did you get into an argument, or something?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“Then, what’s it like?” he asks when I don’t elaborate.

“She was sleeping on the couch last night when I got home from work. She looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake her, so I covered her with a blanket.”

“And?” he asks when it seems like that’s all I have to say.

“And I may have touched her hair before I walked away.”

Trace’s brow furrows. “Is that all you touched?”

“Fuck you,” I say, some of my tension ebbing away as he laughs at his own joke.

He knows I would never take advantage of a woman while she was sleeping or touch her without her consent. But, fuck, I guess I did do that, even if it was just her hair. That doesn’t make me an asshole, does it?

“You’re spiraling,” Trace says as if he can read my chaotic thoughts. “Touching her hair isn’t a big deal. So, what else is bothering you?”

“This morning, she apologized for taking over my space by sleeping on the couch. I assured her it was no big deal, and I want her to feel at home. She seemed to accept it, then went to her room to take a shower and get dressed.”

Trace tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “And?”

“And I couldn’t stop myself from imagining her in there, all…”

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