Jace Sinclair: Jeez, you know how to cut a fella down, huh? But fine, about me.

Avery Rose: Still no comment.

Grinning, I wait for his response like I’m waiting for Santa on Christmas morning, with all the anticipation and hope of a five-year-old. He makes me giddy and excited. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath until the message comes through.

Jace Sinclair: Give me your number.

Avery Rose: Stalker, no.

Jace Sinclair: Yes, give it to me.

Avery Rose: Why?

Jace Sinclair: Cause I need it.

Avery Rose: For?

Jace Sinclair: Because I want the number for the most gorgeous girl on campus, the one who makes my heart race, and also the one who traced her tongue up my ab and wrote a song about it.

Swoon! He is incredible.

Avery Rose: Well then… ask nicely.

Jace Sinclair: Avery, beautiful Rose, can I please have you number?

Avery Rose: Yes

Once I send it, I fully expect him to text me. But instead, my phone starts to ring. Surprised, I read the number I expect is his and consider answering it. I should send it to voice mail just to mess with him. But I go ahead and answer it.

“Hello?”

“Tell me that song isn’t about me.” His voice is low, rough, and every bit dripping with naughty sex. I close my eyes, my whole body tensing up as I grip my blanket, for what, I have no clue. Holy hell, his voice is torture.

“No way. No comment,” I manage to say, and in return, he laughs softly.

“You’re gonna make me work for it?”

“I am.”

“Good,” he says then, sending chills down my spine. “What are you doing after your gig?”

“Probably coming home to go to bed.”

“Or, you could come out with me.”

“To?”

“A special place.”

“Your bed?”

“No, you horny thing, somewhere special.”

“Fine, I’ll bite—”

“Oh, thank God,” he moans and I giggle, my cheeks burning with not only embarrassment but need, too.

“Goodness me. I mean, where?”

“You’ll see, but you have to agree.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Say yes.”

“Fine, yes.”

“Awesome, cool, so yeah.” He pauses awkwardly which I think is so stinking cute, and I’m breathless as silence comes over the line. “So, not to sound like a complete stalker loser, like Markus has been calling me, but I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Grinning, I press my lips together as giddiness washes over me. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I’m supposed to say the same, huh?”

“It would be nice if I wasn’t the only stalker here.”

That makes me laugh, and soon he is laughing with me. “Yeah, you’re not.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” I open my eyes, looking at the ceiling, unsure what the hell is going on. Why are we so ridiculously cute and awkward? We had sex all night and morning. I shouldn’t be self-conscious, but I am. Along with giddy and unable to stop smiling. What does that even mean? “What are you doing to me?”

I can hear his smile in his voice as it drops an octave. “Nothing yet.”

“Jace, you know what I mean. I feel all schoolgirl-like.”

“Good, ’cause I feel like a kid going through puberty talking to my crush.”

“So you’re crushing?”

“Oh, yeah. Hard.”

“How hard?” I ask to lighten the moment because he is getting deep and I can’t handle it. He can’t be this into me, can he? I’ve spent so long thinking I was nothing, but he makes me feel like something. Then I can’t help but feel like I’m in deep. Which cannot happen. Not yet. I just met him. And I want fun! I don’t want something serious.

“Really hard, and don’t act like you aren’t crushing either.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

“Didn’t confirm it either.”

“Well, maybe I don’t word vomit like you do.”

“No, you just write hot-ass songs about me to show how you feel.”

“You’re full of yourself,” I accuse and he laughs.

“Fine, keep it under lock. I’ll find that key.” He probably didn’t mean it to be suggestive, but it is and I’m almost speechless as I bite my lip.

“I hope you do.”

“I will.”

The silence comes back and I grin. “What now?”

He doesn’t answer me right away, and I can just see him sitting there, smiling and looking all hot and shit. “Well, I have to go to practice.”

“Ah, hockey.”

“Yeah, the best sport ever.”

“That’s debatable,” I comment and he pauses.

“Not a fan?”

“Not so much.”

“Probably ’cause you haven’t seen me play. You should come check me out sometime.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup, and I bet you’ll love it after that.”

I want to watch him. Badly. But I can’t let him know that.

“I’ll even take you to dinner afterward.”

“Pizza?”

“Oh, yeah. Or hell, we can Netflix and chill for sure.”

“You’re very persuasive, Sinclair.”

“And you’re beautiful.” He says it so simply, with so much meaning, that my heart is racing as I suck in a deep breath.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Good, my goal is to keep you on your toes.”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head as I soar through the clouds. “So I guess I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yup, I’ll be in the front row, screaming for you because, baby, you’re my June Carter.”

“Oh wow, Lame Line Larry.”

He laughs. “Don’t hate, June.”

“Goodness me, does that make you Johnny Cash?”

“Your biggest fan? Yeah.”

“That’s corny.”

“Hey, I’m known for that,” he says with teasing in his voice. “But I gotta go.”

“For hockey,” I deadpan, a little sad. I don’t want to stop talking to him.