pretend if that’s what he wants. We can pretend to be friends if I can have him around me until I leave Paris.
Beckett
Everly hugs the vinyl to her chest and sways in the middle of the living room. The trumpet plays slow, sexy notes while the piano softly cascades in the background. I feel like I’m at a smoky bar, lusting over the beautiful lounge singer in an old movie.
I slump back in my chair, biting my fist, soaking all of this in. The music is intoxicating, but watching the way her hips gently swing back and forth is fucking killing me. She’s playing me like that steady pluck of the cello.
The snare drum hisses, and her eyes open wide, meeting my stare. Everly licks her lips, never stopping her soft sway. She’s looking at me like the first night I met her—when she caught me watching.
“Have you heard this before?”
Fucking hell, her voice is even husky now.
Her lips slowly widen into a tempting smile when I don’t answer. I drop my fist, knocking it against the table for a beat. I feel like I’m thirteen again, afraid to open my mouth because my voice might crack. I shake my head, but I don’t look away.
She tips her head back to the ceiling and laughs. “I think I want to listen to this every day. It’s just…”
There’s this thing between me and Everly—these tiny moments like this one that seem to pull me closer, open me up. I feel it. It’s like my body has been zipped up in a body bag, DOA, since I’ve been in Paris, but not now. Because with her I believe maybe there’s been a mistake. I’m surprised to discover there is still a part of me that’s alive—happy, even. Just another guy falling for a girl.
I can almost forget it all, sitting here, watching Everly dance.
“This is the song I want played when I walk down the street.” She shimmies her hips and mimics waving hello at passersby.
I can picture it, too—her all dolled up, shopping bags in her arms as she strolls down the sidewalk. The cheesy montage when she rounds the corner and knocks straight into me and we accidently kiss.
“It’d be a bit noisy if it was playing out loud. Lots of people in Paris with different soundtracks.”
She waves off my logic and walks back over to the stack of records. “These all belonged to your aunt?”
“Mmhmm.” I like the way her fingers flip the albums against each other with a definitive strike of curiosity, eager to see the next. “You would have liked her. She adored Coco Chanel.”
Everly peeks at me over her shoulder, the apples of her cheeks rounded as if she’s hiding a smile from me. She narrows her eyes, but I’m not sure whether I’ve said the wrong thing. Again. She turns back to scrutinizing the record collection.
The clock on the wall tells me it’s late, but it doesn’t feel that way. It was nine when we left the Eiffel Tower, and Everly’s been playing records for a few hours now at least. Time has a funny way of blurring into one long moment with her. I like that, too.
Everly takes the needle off the record, and the room falls silent. “This was all hers? The apartment, café?”
I expect my palms to start sweating or my heart to race, but everything beats on as normal. I’m so surprised that I confess everything. “It was until she fell in love and I showed up on her doorstep.”
She spins around, her head cocked to the side. So much for secrets. The longer I sit in this room with her, getting drunk off a night of simple pleasures, the more I’m in danger. She’ll know my National Insurance number soon enough.
I spin my glass of water over the table, an exhale rushing over my parted lips.
“You can’t stop there.”
I laugh in spite of myself and rub the back of my neck. “She won a hand of poker, and it changed everything.”
For a moment, Everly is quiet. She drops the needle, and Louis Armstrong croons into my suddenly too-small flat. Even though I’ve just taken a drink, my mouth is dry again.
She lowers herself on the
Beckett
Everly hugs the vinyl to her chest and sways in the middle of the living room. The trumpet plays slow, sexy notes while the piano softly cascades in the background. I feel like I’m at a smoky bar, lusting over the beautiful lounge singer in an old movie.
I slump back in my chair, biting my fist, soaking all of this in. The music is intoxicating, but watching the way her hips gently swing back and forth is fucking killing me. She’s playing me like that steady pluck of the cello.
The snare drum hisses, and her eyes open wide, meeting my stare. Everly licks her lips, never stopping her soft sway. She’s looking at me like the first night I met her—when she caught me watching.
“Have you heard this before?”
Fucking hell, her voice is even husky now.
Her lips slowly widen into a tempting smile when I don’t answer. I drop my fist, knocking it against the table for a beat. I feel like I’m thirteen again, afraid to open my mouth because my voice might crack. I shake my head, but I don’t look away.
She tips her head back to the ceiling and laughs. “I think I want to listen to this every day. It’s just…”
There’s this thing between me and Everly—these tiny moments like this one that seem to pull me closer, open me up. I feel it. It’s like my body has been zipped up in a body bag, DOA, since I’ve been in Paris, but not now. Because with her I believe maybe there’s been a mistake. I’m surprised to discover there is still a part of me that’s alive—happy, even. Just another guy falling for a girl.
I can almost forget it all, sitting here, watching Everly dance.
“This is the song I want played when I walk down the street.” She shimmies her hips and mimics waving hello at passersby.
I can picture it, too—her all dolled up, shopping bags in her arms as she strolls down the sidewalk. The cheesy montage when she rounds the corner and knocks straight into me and we accidently kiss.
“It’d be a bit noisy if it was playing out loud. Lots of people in Paris with different soundtracks.”
She waves off my logic and walks back over to the stack of records. “These all belonged to your aunt?”
“Mmhmm.” I like the way her fingers flip the albums against each other with a definitive strike of curiosity, eager to see the next. “You would have liked her. She adored Coco Chanel.”
Everly peeks at me over her shoulder, the apples of her cheeks rounded as if she’s hiding a smile from me. She narrows her eyes, but I’m not sure whether I’ve said the wrong thing. Again. She turns back to scrutinizing the record collection.
The clock on the wall tells me it’s late, but it doesn’t feel that way. It was nine when we left the Eiffel Tower, and Everly’s been playing records for a few hours now at least. Time has a funny way of blurring into one long moment with her. I like that, too.
Everly takes the needle off the record, and the room falls silent. “This was all hers? The apartment, café?”
I expect my palms to start sweating or my heart to race, but everything beats on as normal. I’m so surprised that I confess everything. “It was until she fell in love and I showed up on her doorstep.”
She spins around, her head cocked to the side. So much for secrets. The longer I sit in this room with her, getting drunk off a night of simple pleasures, the more I’m in danger. She’ll know my National Insurance number soon enough.
I spin my glass of water over the table, an exhale rushing over my parted lips.
“You can’t stop there.”
I laugh in spite of myself and rub the back of my neck. “She won a hand of poker, and it changed everything.”
For a moment, Everly is quiet. She drops the needle, and Louis Armstrong croons into my suddenly too-small flat. Even though I’ve just taken a drink, my mouth is dry again.
She lowers herself on the
Similar Books
