More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,14
me and put me in front of a camera. Then they start talking about how I needed to get contacts and could my jeans be a little more expensive and have I ever thought about a gym membership and have they taken me to a dermatologist for that acne and feeding me pop songs that were already written and I couldn’t bear it.”
“They wanted to make you a star.”
He nods sheepishly.
I think on that. How it might have felt. To be tinkering around on your piano just for you. Feeling proud of something you’ve created only to have it spoiled.
“And you don’t want to be a star,” I clarify.
His small smile is grim. “Not at all.”
Huh. Definitely not what I’d expected. It’s clear to anyone who meets the Greenlys that Luke is quieter than Cullen, but I’d always assumed it was relative. “Can I ask why? Stage fright? Too shy?”
He doodles in the corner of a page. “Not really. It’s not that I’m afraid to play or even that I don’t like people. I just want to write songs. I happen to be a good singer, but I love to write the music. I don’t need the rest.”
“You’re right,” I say, with a teasing grin. “That does make you sound like a prick.”
He grimaces again. “Exactly.”
I’m still smiling, though, and I meet his eyes, willing him to feel my lack of censure. After a long moment of him fiddling with his notebook, I realize perhaps I suck at body language. I clear my throat, feigning boldness. “I understand, though. The heart wants what it wants and all.”
He shrugs, sipping his lemon water, not bothering with a straw.
I try again. “I used to dance classically,” I say. “And I wasn’t terrible. When I was around twelve, I was offered the chance to audition for a high-stakes academy in Detroit. But I walked.”
I trace the side of my cup, making squiggles in the condensation. “My dad threw a fit. I think he was hoping for scholarships or whatever. But”—I lift a shoulder—“I didn’t want it. Moving to someone else’s choreography, performing their vision, it wasn’t my thing.”
I raise my eyes to meet his, and he’s smiling. The kind of smile where you don’t even realize you’re doing it. I feel my lips pulling to match, and I look away, feeling warm.
“So, back to the present, Mr. Purist. Are you sure you’re okay writing for the showcase? You do realize this requires a performance on your part.”
“Technically,” he points out, “this requires a performance on your part. And yes. I knew about the showcase going into the semester, but my need for instruction won out over my misgivings. He continues lightly, “Besides, no one in my family knows I’m in the class.”
“Same,” I admit. “So, that works out.”
His white-blond brows scrunch together behind his frames. “No one knows you’re dancing again?”
It’s my turn to feel on the spot. “Nah. I don’t want to give anyone ideas. Now it’s just this creative outlet for me. It’s like, um, therapeutic. At any rate, that I need an outlet will make my mom feel guilty and sad. I’d rather avoid that.”
“Is this the dad thing?”
I clear my throat, stabbing at a cherry and not meeting his eyes. “Probably.”
He presses his lips together, understanding my “probably” to be a “definitely.” I hear a car door slamming outside and glance at my phone. “Damn, it’s already two.”
Luke looks surprised but doesn’t move from his chair. He closes his nearly blank notebook, and I apologize for the lack of productivity.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. This is exactly what we needed. If we’re going to work together, we need to know what makes each other tick.”
“Daddy problems?” I ask, feigning lightness.
His lips quirk in a half grin. “Among other things. It seems we both have our secrets, and I’m honored to be in on one of yours, Vada.”
That’s a really sweet thing to say, and suddenly I find myself surprised at how not awkward this has been. “Ditto, Greenly. Should we do this again?”
“I have a better idea,” he says, looking sly. “What are your thoughts on over-the-top weird art installations that require audience participation?”
Forget it. Awkward quotient just multiplied. “You mean like a flash mob?”
Another half grin topped off with rosy cheeks and eyes that hold a hint of a dare. He’s clearly recovered from his initial hesitation. The back door opens, and Kazi comes in with the cold, holding a case of fruit from the outside