Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Right, sorry. My name’s Abbey and I have trouble with boundaries,” I say with an apologetic laugh.
That earns me a crooked grin. “Never apologize for being curious.”
“Hmm. Okay. Then tell me about yourself. You were nice enough to bring me all the way out here, and I barely know you. Hell, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Mitchell.” A fleeting smile appears before his brow furrows. “As for the rest, there isn’t much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He dodges, dipping a piece of fish into some tartar sauce before sliding it into his mouth.
“Where I come from,” I say when he doesn’t respond, “girls aren’t supposed to accept rides from strange men on motorcycles. So you’ve gotta help me out here.”
He capitulates. “All right then, Abbey. What would you like to know?”
“Hmm. Okay. You’re a musician. Is that your dream?”
Nate smiles. “No, not at all. It was something I picked up as a kid out of boredom. Got good at it by accident.”
That comes as a relief for some reason. I suddenly hear Celeste’s voice in my head, teasing me about daddy complexes and bad-boy musicians.
“Okay, then what do you want to be when you grow up?”
He chuckles at the question. “I want to travel. And I think I’m a decent writer. If I could do both, travel and write about my experiences—that’d be all right.”
“Well, that’s unexpected. I didn’t peg you for the Jack Kerouac type.”
“Minus the drug abuse and alcoholism,” he says dryly.
My gaze sweeps over his jaw, the beard growth shadowing it. His gaze is on the water again, dark eyes taking on a faraway glint.
“You’re a romantic.”
He glances over at me. “Are you having a laugh?”
“Not at all. I’m impressed, actually.”
Nate has a depth and sincerity about him I hadn’t expected. Far more than a bad boy on a motorcycle. I mean, I don’t hate the motif. It suits him. But it’s nice to know there’s some meat on the bone.
“Any more questions?” There’s a note of humor in his voice.
“Nah, I’ve grilled you enough.”
“It was quite torturous.”
I laugh and say, “Here—you get a free pass at retaliation. I give you permission to ask me anything. Whatever tickles your fancy.”
The second the words exit my mouth, I realize how suggestive they sound.
But Nate doesn’t go there. Entirely, anyway. He goes there, but in a PG manner.
“What’s your story, Abbey? You have a man back home?”
“Oh. Um. No. I don’t.”
His lips curve slightly. “I see. So you left a trail of broken hearts in your wake, I presume? A rock star ex-boyfriend with a guitar, singing bad Gunner Bly covers outside your window? Telling you his heart is a windmill.”
I blanch. “Definitely no. First of all, if anyone tried serenading me with my father’s love songs, I’d hurl. And anyway, I’ve never been into musicians. Feels too close to home, you know?”
Nate watches me for a beat. Thoughtful. Then he nods. “I get it.”
Shit. Was that a mistake? Did I basically just say, I would never be interested in you because you play in a band?
And does it really matter if that’s how he took it? He’s with Yvonne. He’s not supposed to care whether some random American girl has the hots for him.
Not that I have the hots for him.
I don’t.
Truly.
Like, just because he’s insanely good-looking. And smart. Interesting. Enigmatic. Exudes a raw sex appeal that makes my knees weak…
None of that means I have the hots for him. Get a grip, Abbey.
“Go on. Tell me your life story then,” Nate says, sipping his water bottle.
“It’s short and uneventful,” I warn him. “All the most interesting things about me happened to someone else.”
“I don’t believe that. You come off much older than nineteen. That doesn’t happen on its own.”
“Side effect of being a rock star’s daughter. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
When his insistent stare begs me to elaborate, I sigh and unpack the short version.
“You want my story? Okay. It’s being raised by nannies and microwaving SpaghettiOs for dinner. Reading about yourself in stories by people you’ve never met. Seeing pictures of your dad stumbling out of bars or getting arrested for another DUI plastered on the cover of a magazine. Celebrating a birthday in an empty house while he’s playing to a packed stadium. I guess that stuff ages you.”
I love my dad. We have a great relationship now, but there are just some things that, even after you’ve forgiven them, still linger in the blood. Especially when you’re little. The earliest scars last the longest.
Nate looks at me, and for the life of me, I can’t discern his expression.
“What?” I ask, self-consciously wiping at my mouth.
“You’re nothing like I expected either.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” I joke. “I’m jaded beyond repair.”
“I don’t think you believe that.”
“Oh, you know me so well now, huh?”