Here With You (A Laurel Heights Novel) - By Kate Perry Page 0,13

contest with that song."

"You won the talent contest because even then you were gifted and charismatic." She nodded at the sky. "Sunrise. Write down whatever thoughts you have about it."

He sighed like he was beleaguered schoolboy, but he followed her direction. She listened to the scratch of the pen against the thick paper as orange, pink, and red streaked across the sky.

The vivid hues sparked an idea in her own mind, and she opened her own sketchpad and began drawing a bra with variated colors like the sunrise. She drew quickly, with sparing lines, switching pencils to fill in the colors she wanted. She flipped the page to draw a dusk version with dark colors—midnight blue, purple, and gray.

"You draw underwear?"

She snapped the pad shut. Turning her head, she found Grif right there, so close, watching over her shoulder. "Don't spy on me."

"I'd prefer to call it observing."

She frowned. "Let me see your words then."

"No." He held his sketchpad away from her. "It's private."

"Remember that next time." She put her things back into her purse. "Did you come up with anything good?"

"I wrote a few things down." He sipped his coffee, a bleak look in his eyes. "That's more than I've done in the past several months."

"Don't you have someone who inspires you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Like who?"

In for a penny... "Like a woman."

Comprehension dawned on his face. He smiled ruefully. "No, I'm not dating anyone. I haven't in months. Being on tour is hell on a relationship."

"Do you want a relationship?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes. Eventually." He gazed at the sky. "Like what my parents have, and your parents. You know how close they are. One day, I'd like that."

"But not now?" she pried.

He was quiet for so long that she didn't think he was going to reply, but then he said, "I've been living the musician's life. Traveling, women throwing themselves at me. I haven't been as bad as some, I hope, but I haven't been a monk. It's a tempting lifestyle when you're in your early twenties. But, yes, given the right situation, I could see myself with one woman forever."

Nicole tried to picture the type of woman who'd be with him. Tall and blond, like that model he'd dated last year, according to the celebrity magazines. She frowned.

He turned his head to focus on her. "What about you? What do you want from life?"

"I just want to live my passion." That was the line she gave anyone who questioned her direction—or lack thereof—in life.

Grif stared at her. She wondered what he was thinking—his gaze was hooded and she couldn't read his thoughts. It made her uncomfortable.

But then he took her hand in his, holding it loosely. "This was a good idea, Nicole. Thank you."

She looked at where they were joined. She knew she should pull her hand away, but it was just a friendly gesture.

Only when was the last time one of her "friends" tried to hold her hand?

Right.

Still, even as she told herself to disengage, she couldn't do it. It was nice, sitting with him as the sun streaked pink across the sky. "I missed you," she heard the words slip from her mouth.

He rubbed his thumb along hers. "I missed you, too, Nicole."

Chapter Five

Rachel stopped by her French class after school, to ask Madame Roche a question. She could care less about conjugating the verb avoir in past perfect tense—she cared that it'd take a long time to explain because her teacher didn't know how to give a concise answer. By the time Roche was finished, the –sons of anarchy would be gone and Rachel's locker would be clear.

After ten minutes of explanation, she managed to extricate herself from her teacher's clutches. She walked down the hall, head lowered, just in case. Before she rounded the corner to her locker, she peered around the corner to check.

The coast was clear.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she headed straight to her locker. She just needed to switch one book and then she could leave. The quicker she was in and out, the better. She fumbled with the padlock, exhaling when it clicked open. She pulled the book out of her bag and looked into her locker.

Then she froze.

Dangling from the middle of the small space was a pair of yellow briefs with SpongeBob on them. A note was pinned to them: We found these and figured they were yours. You're welcome.

She tugged them down and shoved them in her bag. This had to stop. She'd