Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 6
“You okay?” he asks, his lips curving up in an annoying smirk I want to smack off his face. Or… remove… in… other ways. I feel the burn in my cheeks as his gaze wanders over me, very clearly revealing—and enjoying—that he caught me gawking.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “Just bored. How long does it take to download that plug or whatever?”
“Plugin. And a while. It’s an entire suite.”
Perfectly symmetrical lips twist up further at my eye-roll.
“Because it seems like you’re spending a lot of time staring at me,” he says casually, focusing back on his screen.
“What else am I supposed to look at while we literally do nothing?”
“I didn’t say you had to stop. Or that I didn’t like it,” he adds with a delicious rasp that also gets me warm. Did I mention his voice? Yeah, I’d do anything to hear him sing. My gaze drifts to the guitar leaning against a stand beside the couch. Probably his. Definitely his. Is that why his hands are so beautiful? I noticed tonight how perfect the tattoos on his fingers look when he types. Okay, fine, when he does anything. How pretty would they look intertwined with mine?
Ugh. Why the heck does it take six million hours to download a plug-whatever??
“Is that yours?” I ask, nodding toward the guitar.
That smile. Of course it is. But this snarky smirk comes with a flash of shyness that releases all kinds of chaos in my stomach.
“Yeah,” he says, then leans back with a stretch solely designed to show off more of his lean, chiseled body. He’s not overly muscular, but possesses a sleek perfection carved by vigorous stage workouts and long nights hauling crates and equipment. Great, and now I’m picturing that T-shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to his skin beneath the glare of bright stage lights. Maybe the edge of his dark boxer-briefs peek out just above the waist of those ripped jeans when he’s really locked in and unleashing on his guitar.
He must know he’s torturing me, and when his fingers lace behind his head and his gaze locks directly on my eyes, I know I’m in trouble. All the hormones in my body are screaming and flailing along with every fangirl who’s ever crushed on this boy before, during, or after a show. He’s probably used to all the groveling and hero worship, thinking enigmatic hotness is a free pass to be a cocky, arrogant rocker.
Well, not from me. Not a chance.
I straighten on my side of the crusty old couch and pull out my own laptop. There’s plenty I can do that’s more productive than watching someone watch something download.
I feel his attention as I fire up my computer and open the folder I created for the Jarvis McKinnley project. But as the seconds tick by beneath his stare, the sparks become a steady burn in my belly, an ache for something I’ve never wanted before. I’m a responsible, intelligent woman. Zero interest in the bad-boy-rebel cliché. Should I decide to share my life with a man, it will be with a responsible, intelligent human being like myself.
This one may be intelligent, but that’s the only box he checks on my list of musts for potential mates.
Stable.
Predictable.
Motivated.
Determined.
Yep, he’s an X through the rest of it.
“You want to hear something I’m working on while we wait?” he asks.
My brain says no while my lips say, “Yes.” In fact, they add, “Is it that undertow song?”
His fingers unlock from behind his head as he pushes up from the couch in what I’m positive is an excuse to avoid my question. He still doesn’t respond while he plucks the guitar off the stand and returns to the couch to tune the strings.
When he launches into a slow, absent strum, I’m convinced he’s not going to speak at all.
“You think I’m aimless, right?” he says, proving me wrong. “You’re so sure of yourself, so driven. So why did you decide to go into business? Of all the possibilities in the universe to make your mark on history, how did you come to the conclusion that working at Reedweather Media was the right path?”
My eyes flicker to his in surprise, but there’s no hint of arrogance or judgment in his expression, no anger or disappointment. Just sincere curiosity and a desire to understand something he doesn’t.
“I…”
Jarred by his words, I blink and look away. How do you answer a question you’ve never asked yourself?
After several long seconds, his strumming intensifies into a steadier groove that signals the start of a song. Soon he’s lost in the music, and it occurs to me that he didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t want an answer. That question was for me, not him, and shivers rush over my skin when his haunting, gravelly voice fills the room.
You ask how I’m doing just to hear that I’m fine.
Smiling as I recite that same lie every time
Crying through the laughter
Lying through the cheers
Trying to survive years of being “great.”
Do you hear me
Do you see my grave
I’m lying
I’m hiding
I swear I’m still trying to be brave
See this grin? It’s for you because mine’s a joke that’s been choked from lungs torn when my heart broke
Tearing piece after piece for someone to claim
Stain
Beneath the shame of
Tossing them all to be used and abused, crushed and confused
With the fake lips that say
“I’m okay.”
No really.
I won’t waste your time.
I’m so, so, so fucking fine.
When you call me your friend
I’m just a tragic loose end
A deadly game of pretend
Let’s say I’m fine
Hey where’d you go I thought this rope was my hope
Nope, just to choke
like all those times you said I’d cope
Passing nods in the halls like that’s all it takes
A quick break, a handshake,
another pat on the back with a smile great,
thanks
so glad we’re all okay
When you call me your friend
I’m just a tragic loose end
A deadly game of pretend
Let’s say I’m fine
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Nash doesn’t look up after the last chord rings out. The raw pain of his song hovers in the air around us as his left hand tightens on the frets. His right arm remains draped over the body of the guitar, pick still clenched in his fingers. His mind is somewhere else, that place where artists go to harvest beauty from the darkness. Everything in me wants to go there with him. Just a glimpse, which would probably be all I could handle. I don’t know anything about him, but for some reason, it feels like I know too much.
I expected him to have some talent, but wow. I was not prepared for that. Once again, I’m left frustrated and confused about how someone as well-connected and gifted as he is could be content drifting on the periphery of his potential. He’s flipping through corporate training manuals when that kind of genius is bursting inside?
I have so many questions. Nothing about Nash Ellis makes sense without that guitar in his arms, but his story doesn’t belong to me any more than I should have to explain why I chose Sandeke Telecom.
With a mist of artist angst still drifting through the room, I decide there’s really only one possible response to this scenario.
“Wow. Those Mer-Nuts really messed you up, huh.”
Nash looks up, his gaze landing on me with surprise. I hold my breath, searching electric blue eyes until …
Snort-laugh.
“So bad,” he says through a chuckle.
I grin and tap his leg with my shoe. “Look at us.”
“Huh?”
I smirk.
“Our awesome rapport,” he concludes, shaking his head with a genuine smile I’d fight Mer-Armies to keep on his face. What makes this person truly happy besides music? Is there anything?
I feel his attention on me and try to stay cool as it intensifies.
“Hey, Paige?”
“Yeah?” My teeth sink into my lip. My focus settles on those fascinating hands I want to trace and explore just for a few glorious seconds. I bet they’re warm and strong and hold so many secrets.
“I was wrong about you.”
Surprised, I meet his gaze, heat flooding through me at the way he’s looking at me. Maybe I was wrong about him too.
“Oh?” I say.
“Yeah.” He waves toward my legs. “You do own a pair of jeans.”
He laughs when I shove him.
“Do you know who that is?” Chad whispers, practically bouncing on his toes.
I follow his eyes through the window of the conference room to a sparkly man chatting with Eva and Mr. Reedweather. Other sparkly people look on in varying shades of bored, and I’m guessing they make up “the entourage.” The man seems to be getting along swimmingly with Mr. Reedweather, though, which raises all kinds of red flags.
“Jarvis McKinnley?” I wish I’d guessed wrong when Chad looks crestfallen that I solved the riddle so quickly.
“Yes. And guess who gets to pick up his lunch?”
“You?”
“Nope,” he says with a glib look that I finally missed one. “Stacy.”
“Okay.” I don’t know Stacy.
We focus back on the action in the conference room, waiting for our cue to join the meeting.
To be honest, it’s a miracle I’m here today. After Nash told me about this supposed plot to spy on our competition, I was so disgusted, I almost called HR to quit on the spot. The FBI would have been my next call. Or is it the Better Business Bureau? I don’t know—whatever agency oversees things like corporate espionage investigations—but Nash convinced me I’d do more good by helping him and his roommate thwart the plan than by marching off in a huff. He obviously hasn’t seen my “huff” because that sucker can do plenty of damage.
It turns out my coworker’s pleading blue eyes have more power over me than I thought, because here I am two days later, still hovering in the halls of a lying, cheating company I want no part of. I told him I’m quitting the second they don’t need me anymore. He told me, “Duh.”
Reedweather hasn’t even curved his hand into a full beckoning position before Chad is plunging through the door toward our guest. I follow behind, maintaining plenty of distance between me and my associate who is now bowing like we just performed the mother of all ballet routines. Even Jarvis looks perplexed. (To be fair, the man looks like the type who might be frequently perplexed.)
“Ah, Chad. Also Paige,” Reedweather says, motioning toward me.
I almost bow as well but catch myself in time. Geez. It’s like Chadisms are infectious.
“It’s so great to meet you, Mr. McKinnley,” Chad says. “We are thrilled at the prospect of working with you. We’re huge fans!”
“Same,” Jarvis says with an absent twist of the lips. I study him as he immediately forgets about us and signals one of the sparkly strangers to discuss something that sounded like “lemon wheels.”
From my research, Jarvis is thirty-two, but he seems younger in person. His hair is coifed in that perfect way to look like it’s not, his clothing the same. His shoes are expensive but don’t remotely coordinate with the rest of what he’s wearing, and there’s a green bandana around his wrist for some reason.
He looks like he was put together by a committee of gifted stylists who were told to pretend not to be.
Nash pulls this look off way better.
Wait. Where did that come from?
He does though.
Shut up, brain.
You shut up.
Lemon wheels—in addition to distracting your annoying brain from hot musicians—are also a thing people request at random times, it turns out. Within seconds, Jarvis is nursing a plate of lemon slices and a glass of water.
“It’s his signature drink,” Chad whispers. “It’s a room temperature distilled aquatic base infused with Meyer lemon wheels directly from Meyer.”
“So… lemon water?”
He glares at me. “No. It’s a pure water base that he varies with varying amounts of lemon wheels depending on his needs.”
“Ah. So… water with lemon.”
Chad gives up on my culinary ignorance and watches Jarvis assemble his concoction like the dude invented the concept of adding lemon to water for a slightly different version of water. In fact, everyone is staring with rapt attention as if we’ve suddenly forgotten he’s just some dude here to sing about internet streaming service. Yep, eight people are getting paid to watch a guy drink water.
I so wish Nash were here right now. He’d love this.
When I’m sure no one’s paying attention to me, I snap a discreet photo of the tray on the conference table and send it to Nash with a text.
Me: Still no progress on the marketing campaign, but Jarvis has successfully imbibed lemon water. Wait, I’m sorry. “A room temperature distilled aquatic base infused with Meyer lemon wheels directly from Meyer.”
Nash: There’s so much wrong with that sentence, I’m just gonna let it go. But what’s with the bandana on his arm?
Me: No idea. Probably a common custom in the geographic region of Meyer.
Nash: Where they grow the lemons.
Me: Exactly.
Nash returns a laughing emoji, and I can’t stop a smile from slipping out.
“Okay, well, if you’re comfortable, we’d love to get started,” Eva says, drawing the room to attention. By her irritated expression, she’s not overly excited about lemon water either. Maybe it’s because she’s never had Meyer lemon water. What would happen if one used Meyer lemon wedges instead of wheels? Or even non-Meyer lemons? I table those culinary puzzles for later consideration.
“Of course,” Jarvis says, taking a sip of his drink. “Can’t wait to see what you all cooked up.”
“Cooked!” Reedweather declares. “I remember—”
“Great,” Eva clips out before her father can finish whatever it is that will send us on an hour-long detour about literally nothing. “If you turn your attention to the screen we’ll be presenting a fantastic video put together by…”
While Eva shares our carefully sculpted plan to make Jarvis McKinnley the face of Sandeke Telecom, I use the time to survey the scene for useful information like a good spy. A minute in, though, I realize it’s harder than I thought to distinguish “useful” information from regular information.
For example: is the fact that Jarvis tunes Eva out exactly seventeen seconds into the presentation useful? Maybe. More useful might be the woman beside him who’s been typing notes with vigorous determination the entire time we’ve been here. An assistant maybe? Either way, she’s the one we need to be talking to if we want information.
Not useful: Chad’s recitation of Jarvis McKinnley’s entire discography when Eva asks for feedback. Also, Jarvis’ response of, “Yeah… probably… four?” until the woman beside him whispers something and he changes his answer to, “Thank you.”
Useful: the bandana appears to be representing support of some charitable cause and/or small sovereign nation.
Not useful: Mr. Reedweather insisting on a ribbon-cutting ceremony to celebrate this momentous partnership even though no one in the room has scissors or a ribbon.
Useful: Stacy, who shows up with lunch and scissors and a ribbon.
Not useful: Nash’s text with a video of a cat trying to get into a hammock. No spy points for that one, but it’s so flippin’ cute.
In fact, I re-read the evidence that he was thinking about me in a non-work context at least ten times on the ride home.
“What is that?” Val asks, the second I walk in the door.
I squint back, even peeking behind me for a clue. “What’s what?”
“The thing on your lips.”
“There’s a thing on my lips?” I reach up and run my finger over them in search of the offending blemish.
“It almost looks like… I don’t know… a smile?” His grin breaks at my hard stare.
“Hilarious.”
“I don’t know about that, but mildly amusing seems fair.”
“Dork,” I say, dropping my laptop bag by the island.
As usual, Val is stationed at the table, buried in a fortress of music crap with his headphones on. I glower at the mess in the rest of the apartment. Maybe I need to map out the kitchen so he can see where the sink and garbage bin are.
“He’s growing on you, huh?” Val says without looking away from his screen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh, yeah you do. And it’s not a dig. I have a bro-crush of my own.”
“You’re crushing on Nash too?”
He looks up with a smug glint, and I cringe at the slip.
“So you do have a thing for him.”
Yeah, that’s definitely a Grade-A gloat on my brother’s face.
“No! I didn’t say that.”
“You literally just said that.”
“But I didn’t mean that.”
“So what did you mean by ‘too?’”
“It was a universal ‘too.’”
“Ah. Like the royal ‘we.’”
“Exactly.”
“So we have a crush on Nash.”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, gah! I hate you.”
“Except you don’t,” he says with a grin.
I spin away and focus on the sink I’ve just filled with that slacker’s dishes.
“Hey, so you know how I’m part of that project with Jarvis McKinnley? What do you know about him and Larinda Scott?” I say solely for the purpose of research and not at all to change the subject.
“They’re both mediocre artists who happen to play the game really well.”
I turn to him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
By his look, he’s as excited about this topic as I was about the previous one. “The fact that they’re superstars is total bullshit. Neither has the musical talent to back it up. Where they excel is the marketing game.”
