He furrowed his brow. “So, you didn’t secretly sabotage my crust with clay?”
“Nope, you’re really just that bad,” I said, letting my legs swing from the counter I sat on.
Wyatt stood next to me, his green eyes sparkling as he moved closer. He caged me in, placing his toned arms on either side of my hips, making my throat go suddenly dry. “I don’t know,” he hedged. “I think I might’ve been hustled.”
“You can’t be good at everything,” I said, trying to sound like I wasn’t affected by his proximity. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Wyatt’s narrow hips pressed against my knees as he leaned in, stealing all the oxygen in the room. His cunning lips curved up at the corners, the delicate hallows of his cheekbones twitching with humor. “How is it a six-year-old knows how to cook? Are your parents chefs?”
My chest deflated. It was like my parents had walked into the room, completely killing the blissful buzz I’d had a moment ago.
I hated talking about them, well mostly just my dad, but either way, it was the last thing I wanted to get into. It brought reality crashing back, and with it came the truth that no matter how much fun I was having with Wyatt, it wasn’t real. This was just a two-week hiatus from my real life.
Our partnership would end as soon as the competition was over, so I shouldn’t get used to the hopeful feeling in my chest. Guys like him didn’t fall for girls like me.
Not that I wanted him to, I reminded myself.
This was strictly a musical partnership. Speaking of . . . “Didn’t you say you were going to blow my mind with vinyl?” I asked, changing the subject, as I ducked under Wyatt’s arm and slipped off the counter.
He frowned, probably shaken by my sudden mood swing. “Oh, um, yeah.”
“Great,” I replied, starting to clear the dishes.
Wyatt’s hand caught my elbow. “Hey,” he said softly. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I said, trying to pretend I was unfazed, but my voice betrayed me.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Layne. I shouldn’t make assumptions about what your parents do.”
“Well, they’re not chefs.” I huffed a laugh. “Anyway, it’s fine. You didn’t offend me.”
“Obviously I did something wrong.”
I sighed. “No, it’s just . . . I don’t love talking about my family.”
“Noted,” Wyatt said, nodding. “I can relate, you know?”
I laughed bitterly, somehow doubting he had a clue. “Really? You have a deadbeat dad, too?”
“Something like that,” he offered, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got the perfect record.”
“Oh yeah?”
He smirked. “It’s all about being misunderstood by parents.”
I laughed, unable to fight my grin as Wyatt’s easy warmth pulled me back under his spell.
So what if this wasn’t reality or if he didn’t really understand my life? Sometimes an escape was the best medicine.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Layne
“Okay,” I gasped, through breathless laughter and dance moves. “I can’t take anymore.” I let go of Wyatt’s hand and collapsed onto his bed.
He’d been right, he did have the perfect record, or twenty.
We’d listened to everything from Beastie Boys to Lilly Allen to Band of Horses. Wyatt’s vinyl collection was as surprising as he was. But the best part about it was whether we were raging against the machine or singing ballads about our achy breaky hearts, we were laughing.
I’d never danced or laughed so much in my life. And it was exactly what the doctor ordered. I felt light and invigorated as I waited for Wyatt to change the record. We were finally getting to the Mogli album, the whole reason I’d come to his house.
“I think you’re going to love her,” Wyatt said crashing onto the bed next to me.
We both lay on our backs letting the smooth sounds of a sultry voice fill the room. Her voice was rich, yet whispery and the lyrics . . . I was breathless.
“You think I sound like her?” I asked with awe.
“Yeah. You have that same unique flavor to your voice, and I feel like if you incorporated a bit of this beat into your second song it could work really well.”
I rolled onto my side, propping my head on my elbow so I could study Wyatt. His eyes were closed as he listened to the music and there was nothing on his face to indicate he was messing with me.