Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (reader novel txt) 📗

her props for at least sounding interested and not letting her existing experience shut him down.

“Yeah, kind of. We really just jammed. I was the only one serious enough to want more.”

“You’ll get there,” Brad encouraged.

“I know,” Parker answered, not a drop of doubt lingering behind his words.

“You know, Nova’s pretty artistic,” Brad said, turning the spotlight to me. “You should check out some of her art.”

“Oh, no.” I waved the suggestion away. “I’m sure he’s busy.” I imagined watching Parker take in my work and cringed internally. I loved my artwork—wanted to share it with the world. I just didn’t want to stand there and watch them study it…in my room. Which was where I kept everything.

It felt too…personal, and all I could imagine was him forcing interest in something he thought was lame.

“Nah, I’d love to see it.” He pushed past my objections, and I forced a smile, desperately trying to hide my discomfort. I’d probably need to practice that face when he laughed at some of my drawings.

“You two should hang out more,” my mom said. “Nova always wanted a brother.”

And just like that, my cringe was back. I dropped my gaze to my plate, not wanting anyone else to see my reaction to calling Parker my brother. The last thing I thought of when looking at him was brotherly. When I braved a look up at him, he watched me in a way that didn’t remind me of a brother either. But as soon as I met his blue eyes, he looked away, making me wonder if I made it up.

By the end of dinner, I hoped he’d forgotten about the suggestion, but no such luck. We dropped our dishes off at the sink, and before I could make a break for it, he stopped me.

“Ready to show me your art?”

“Oh. Umm…”

My eyes shot wide, bringing a full laugh from his parted lips. I could imagine then that he sang as well as played the guitar I heard through the walls occasionally. There was no way a guy could have a laugh that melodic and not sing. The deep timber filled the room and sank into my chest, making me feel more at home than I had since we moved here.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to show me.”

“I just don’t usually show anyone, and you were kind of cornered into it, so no pressure to turn back. I know you’ve got plans.”

“I’ve got time. Besides, I’m interested. And we’re family now, right?” he joked.

That was not the reminder I needed right then as I wondered what his laugh would sound like with my ear pressed to his chest.

I hesitated, a million possibilities playing out in my mind. What if he laughed and hated it? What if he made fun of me? What if he tried to placate me and pretend he liked it when he thought it sucked, and then he made fun of me behind my back?

But then he smiled and closed the gap, his height more intense with each step closer. The doubts passed, and I clung to the warmth of home he ignited. Before I could question it anymore, I murmured a quick, “Sure.”

“Sweet.”

I laughed, shaking my head at his excitement.

Trying to brush off the nerves and act as cool as him, I turned toward my room. By the time we walked through the bedroom door, my legs shook like jello, and my lungs worked overtime.

Be cool. Be cool.

“Man, I think you got the better deal on the room,” he said, looking around.

I remembered the first time I saw the apartment and requested this room. My mom hadn’t understood when it was more of an oversized office with no closet. But she never did. She never saw the natural light streaming in the windows from all sides. She didn’t see the space to have my bed and a large enough area to keep my oversized workbench.

But Parker did.

“I bet you have a hard time leaving in the morning.”

“Why’s that?”

“The morning light through these windows has to be inspiring.”

A slow smile stretched my lips. That sensation of home grew almost too big. “Yeah, it is,” I agreed softly. “I get my best work done then.”

He turned away from the art tacked to the wall and smiled. In that moment, I realized maybe Parker and I weren’t so different after all. He may be outgoing while I hung back, but I think we both searched for a little understanding. Not many people understood the unique traits of an artist.

“What are those?” he asked, nodding behind me.

I whipped around, fully prepared to find a stack of my bras or something.

Worse.

My stack of journals piled as high as my nightstand. If I thought my drawings hinted too much to my inner soul, it was nothing compared to the nakedness that overwhelmed me at the thought of him reading my scribbled notes and poetry.

“Oh, um, just some writing stuff.” I waved my hand, trying to play it off.

“Cool,” he said, walking past me to the pile.

It took all I had not to slap my hand over the pile when he brushed his finger over the top one.

“Can I?”

No. Hell no.

“Um, sure.”

Wait. What?

All air ceased in my lungs, and blood rushed to my ears as he flipped through the pages. Maybe if I stood super still, I’d disappear, and I wouldn’t have to face the outcome of him looking over my words.

“You look at me, but you don’t see. You hear me, but you’re not listening. Why exist at all when the real me is a ghost haunting the person you really wanted?”

Hearing my words in his masculine voice turned my body into one live, vibrating pulse. This was it. This was the moment I’d pass out and make it a million times worse.

He flipped a few more pages, and I stood frozen like a statue.

“You should write music,” he finally said.

“What?” I squeaked out.

“Yeah. Your words are amazing. I could totally put this to a beat. I can