Aimee and the Heartthrob by Ophelia London Page B

stretched across the grass, barefoot, sliding a finger over the face of her phone every few minutes, reading her Kindle app. He watched her for a while, totally absorbed in the way the wind blew through her hair, how she nibbled her lip, how the bottom of her dress shifted across the backs of her thighs when she stretched.
    Hoping to redirect his craving, Miles flipped a page of his notebook and started writing. Words poured out, almost faster than he could get them down. After filling three pages of images and phrases and a few R-rated ways to demonstrate his cravings, he exhaled and wiped his palms on his jeans, his heart beating hard in his chest like he’d been running sprints or participating in another physically draining exercise. With Aimee.
    Damn. He’d really let his mind go too far this time.
    “Got anything good?” She rolled to her side, her elbow propping up her head, dark hair spilling down her back.
    Miles swallowed, instantly picturing what he’d just imagined. “Yeah, I…” He glanced at his notebook. Aimee’s name wasn’t written on the pages, but she was definitely all over them.
    She sat up and smoothed her dress over her long legs. Her toenails were painted pink. He shouldn’t be looking at her legs, not after what he’d just been imagining.
    “Anything ready to play? I’d love to hear it.”
    “Uh, no, not yet.” How was it that he’d spent the last hour writing a song specifically about Aimee? The one girl who should not be inspiring him.
    “I’ve been thinking,” she said.
    “About?”
    “What you said about Prince and his versatility. I think you should write a song on the piano, experiment, stretch yourself.”
    But the only stretching Miles could think about was Aimee across the grass, and what exactly he wanted to do with her. He swallowed again and wiped his forehead. Why was it suddenly so blasted hot outside? Frickin’ global warming. “Yeah, maybe.”
    “I’m serious. I know you don’t play, but you’re musical and amazingly talented. Seriously, Prince might be your idol, but he’s got nothing on you.”
    He couldn’t help grinning at the compliment, as ludicrous as it was. “Really?”
    “Absolutely. It’s the piano, you’ll figure it out. If nothing, it’ll be a good exercise, right? In fact.” She sat up straight. “Write it for me.”
    He automatically laid an arm over his notebook. “What?”
    “If you need motivation.” She flipped her hair off her shoulders. “Think of it like an AP Music Theory assignment. Promise me, Miles Anthony Carlisle, before my three weeks are up, you’ll write me a song on the piano.”
    Miles could’ve said he didn’t need the extra pressure of learning a new instrument and composing a song. He wasn’t a trained monkey. Being around Aimee, though, was awakening something inside him. Just like those signs she’d made in school, she gave him confidence and a desire to do more. She made him want to be better.
    He’d never been inspired by a girl before, a real girl he was with. But he sure as hell was now. He felt his lips pull into a smile. “What do I get out of the deal?”
    “Huh?”
    “Well, you want me to write a song for you—you’re actually ordering me to, if I heard you right.” He linked his fingers across his guitar. “What do I get? What’s the payoff?”
    “Besides composing a song that could possibly be your next number one hit?”
    He nodded.
    “I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “What do I have that you want?”

Chapter Eight
    Aimee knew she was playing with fire, but as long as she kept reminding herself that Miles wasn’t the guy she should fall for, that they were just friends, she was fine. So it was totally okay if they hung out. But every time she pictured how he’d smiled at her when she’d asked him what his payoff would be, the last thing she wanted was to be just his friend.
    The next morning, not quite ready to see her friend again, she skipped breakfast, and was starving