to undo all the progress we’d made.
Yes, I’d prefer it if Layne was into a few more rounds of kissing, but I was a big boy, I could handle rejection. Plus, I’d meant what I said. She did make me want to be a better person. And the better version of me wanted to help her get that scholarship so she could continue her passion, because her music was beautiful. And the world could always use more beauty.
“Hey,” I said, touching her shoulder. “What do you say we cut out early today? I’m starving.”
She looked at me warily, like she was waiting for the joke.
“How do you feel about pizza?” I asked.
“That depends,” she said coyly.
“On what?”
“The toppings.”
“Are there bad toppings?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Um, yes! If you think pineapple belongs on pizza, we can’t be friends.”
I laughed. “I’ve never tried it.”
“Really? I’ve found something the worldly Wyatt Nash hasn’t experienced?”
“Ah, yes, you’ve discovered my shameful secret. I’ve not had fruit on pizza. The horror!”
She laughed. “Well, we can fix that tonight.”
“But you just said it’s the worst topping.”
“Yes, but this is what our project is all about; trying new things. It’s only fair that I get to make you try new things, too.”
“Yes, but I’ve only made you try amazing things.”
“Subjective.”
I resisted the urge to smirk at her adorableness. “How so?”
“Well, I could’ve hated kissing you.”
I scoffed. “Not possible.”
She rolled her eyes. “Were you born this cocky or is it something you can teach me?”
I laughed, loving that she was finally loosening up a bit. I enjoyed our banter much more this way. “Fine, I’ll try the ghastly fruit pizza.”
Of course, I would. I’d do anything to prolong another evening with her.
Whether she was acting nervous or playful, the result was the same. I couldn’t get enough of my Penny Layne.
As we pulled up to my house, I started to second-guess my decision to bring Layne home. I looked over at her, relieved her eyes were transfixed on the music app on my phone rather than where we were headed.
It seemed our competitive nature wasn’t limited to the practice room, as Layne busied herself searching for a song to top the last one I’d chosen. Which was impossible because no one trumped The Beatles. But it was cute she was trying.
I realized letting Layne take control of the music nullified my radio rule in Scarlet, but at the moment I’d much rather have her focused on my car than the massive gates we were driving through.
I hated how ostentatious my house was. Northwood was a small town, surrounded by lots of forest and farmland. The people who didn’t live in town or the small suburbs just outside it had modest farmhouses in the country.
But not us.
My father had bought a gothic mansion. The thing might as well have a moat!
It was built in 1800 and something by some reclusive railroad tycoon. The only thing the place had going for it was that it was set far back from the road so no one could see how grotesquely grandiose it was. I also appreciated that the dated interior had been completely modernized. My father even had a state-of-the-art recording studio added. Not that he was ever home to use it.
I knew it was ridiculous that I was speeding Layne past the gargoyle-topped turrets since in a moment I’d be inviting her into Dracula’s Castle, where there’d be no denying my family’s affluence. But I guess I’d always been someone who enjoyed delaying the inevitable—hence my aimlessness.
I glanced sideways at Layne again. She was chewing her lip with determination as she scrolled through song after song. Again, I found myself envious of her unwavering devotion. It must be comforting to know one’s purpose in life.
When I was younger, I might’ve thought music was my path as well, but as my father chose it over me time and time again, I began to hate his career, and everything that went with it.
Sure, being a bigshot in the music industry had afforded us every luxury in life, but what good was it when he was never around to enjoy it—to enjoy me?
I often wondered why my parents even had me. I’d spent more time with nannies than either of them. It’s why I’d stopped bringing people around. I hated making up excuses for why my parents were never home. I also hated that once people saw where I lived, what kind of money I came from . . . they stopped seeing me.
It