firsts—the curiosity, excitement, and thrilling fear of the unknown.
Her gaze dropped to the bowl of olives, and the gleam of curiosity died as a frown stole her smile.
“Have some.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t like olives? I didn’t like them until my agent and a producer took me to a vineyard in Italy. We had pasta, bruschetta, and olives … lots of olives. They went on and on about the olives, telling me to try them. I hated them, but I wanted to impress them.” Ian shrugged. “I don’t know if it was all the wine, or just forcing myself to eat dozens of those damn olives, but weeks later, I found myself craving olives. Isn’t that crazy?”
Jersey’s focus remained on the olives as she nodded slowly. “I like them. I just don’t eat them.” When her dark brown eyes met his, it sent cold chills cracking along his spine. She had more than one look that did that to him. Maybe he couldn’t see the pain in her vacant eyes, but he could feel it.
“We’re flying to Charlottesville in the morning. Is there something specific you’d like for breakfast?”
She shook her head, retaining that vacant look in her eyes like it had settled in for the night and there was nothing Ian could say or do to change it—except give her time.
“Do you drink coffee?”
A single nod.
“Cream? Sugar? Black?”
She shrugged.
“Eat. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.”
Her lips parted.
“What?” Ian slipped another olive past his lips.
Jersey shook her head. “There’s not always a tomorrow.”
Ian took the olive seed from his mouth and tossed it into the bag. “You’re right.”
“I should see if Chris is back.” She licked her fingers and wiped them on her jeans.
He studied her for a few minutes, the drift of her gaze to the floor then over his shoulder to Nick sitting on the edge of the bed, reading a book. “Nick, I’m walking Jersey to her room. Then you can stick me with needles.”
Jersey jumped to her feet and grabbed her bag.
“Can I carry your bag for you?” Ian opened the door.
She shook her head, stepping out into the hallway.
“Want me to sharpen your knife?” He walked beside her.
Jersey shot him a quick sideways glance. He kept his eyes on the length of the hall in front of them, biting his lips to keep from grinning. Ian pushed the button to the elevator. A few seconds later, the doors opened, and Jersey stepped into it.
“How about a song? I can sing you a song.”
Hugging her bag, she kept her gaze downcast as he followed her into the elevator and pushed the button to her floor.
Ian hummed.
Jersey twisted her lips to the side, tipping her chin farther down.
“I met a girl…” he sang.
“In the heart of Newark—”
“Stop!” Jersey snorted a laugh. “No. Just … no.”
“Come on. It’s a good start.”
“It’s not.” She giggled.
Ian liked that giggle so much it constricted his chest. Once again, she reminded him of someone from his past—a bittersweet, breathtakingly beautiful flash of a yesterday long ago that ended tragically.
She stepped off the elevator before the doors completely opened, leaving him to catch up with her.
“You know, most women would feel honored to have me write a song about them.”
“Then you should write them a song.” Jersey looked left and right. “God! Why are all the doors the same?”
Ian grinned. “What’s your room number?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t pay attention to your room number.”
“No!” She whipped around, stepping into his space, neck strained upward. “I didn’t look at the room number. I don’t stay at hotels and eat fancy food. I don’t jump around on a stage and write silly songs.”
Ian’s jaw unhinged, and he jabbed a fist into his chest, making a stabbing motion while falling back into the wall. “Silly songs … Jersey, I didn’t think you were serious about cutting out my heart. But that was brutal.”
Jersey tried her best; he could see her giving it her all to hold firm to her scowl, tiny lines wrinkling the corners of her eyes, but she lost the fight. “Jerk.” She shoved him.
He stumbled again, holding his belly while chuckling.
“You are mental. I can’t believe people pay to watch you.” She shoved him again, dropping her bag and strutting toward him as he moved away from her.
“Whoa …” He brought his fists up, mirroring her. “Really, we’re going to duke it out here in the hallway?”
“Maybe.” She smirked. “Ever been beat up by a girl, Coop? Or do you always have