Page 55 of Under One Roof

I like when she calls me that. That she feels comfortable enough with me to shorten my name.

We dig in, but she doesn’t let the conversation drop. “You trust me, though?”

My mouth is full, so I can’t talk, but even if I could, I don’t know if I would. Too honest already. That I do trust her. Implicitly with my kids, and nearly wholeheartedly with me. I don’t trust people not to leave or give up. But I do trust Andi not to, and it grows stronger with every passing day. Instead of saying all that, I merely nod, and she grins, spearing a piece of strawberry and French toast. “For the record, I think you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

Before she can take her bite, I intercept her mouth, kissing my appreciation for her into it. I don’t stop until her fork clatters to her plate, spraying whipped cream on her so that she shrieks. I chuckle and lick a few drops off her neck. “Delicious.”

She swats at me, playfully ordering me to stay on the other side of the table until she’s done eating. After we both finish our breakfasts and clean up, I receive a text from Taryn informing me she’ll drop the kids off at noon, and I show the message to Andi.

She twirls her hair, a terrible actress, as she makes her twang thicker. “So many hours to kill. Whatever will we do to fill the time?”

I know she’s talking about sex, and, yes, but also… “Actually, I was hoping you could play something for me.”

She drops her hands to her sides. “Really?”

“Yeah. I want to hear one of your songs.”

“Okay,” she says with a big smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes later, we’re in the living room. Her on one end of the couch, guitar in hand, and me relaxed on the other end, facing her with one knee up on the cushions as she plucks a few chords.

She clears her throat. “I wrote this one a while back. It’s… Well, you’ll understand.”

When she starts to play, I watch her fingers dancing over the strings, her voice filling the room. She sings of heartache and leaving home, leaving a piece of herself on the floor of her bedroom and in the reflection of the mirror. It might be interpreted to be about a breakup, but I know it’s really about her parents. It’s melancholy yet catchy, and the way she closes her eyes, body swaying slightly, is spellbinding. The way her voice cracks and goes off on different notes makes me smile. She strums certain chords, and it sends chills down my spine.

The song is beautiful, and when she finishes, I have to clear my throat, chest tight with emotion. “That was incredible,” I say eventually. “You’re incredible.”

She stares down at her guitar, blushing as if she doesn’t know. “Thanks.”

“No, really. That was really good. I don’t understand why you’d leave LA. I mean, you’re obviously talented enough to make it big.”

She snorts a laugh as she sets the guitar down. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?” I lean forward. “You’re amazing.”

I’d heard the term fangirl before. Gracie says she’s a Swiftie and a fangirl. Well, that’s me. Fangirl. Whatever the Swiftie version for Andi is.

She redoes her hair, unraveling her messy bun only to redo it so it looks exactly the same, and I suspect it’s to waste time. So I sit and wait. With a huff, she gives in. “It’s all about who you know. Who you can get your foot in the door with. When I moved to LA, I didn’t know anybody or what to do. I was so green, I was literally still putting my songs on CDs and dropping them off with the people at the front desks of record labels.”

I frown. “What’s wrong with that?”

“They get thrown in the trash, and no one uses CDs anymore.”

I rub at my forehead, suddenly feeling one hundred years old. “It’s not like you were using cassette tapes.”

Andi’s brows pinch. “What?”

I drop my head. “Oh my fucking god. Remind me what year you were born?”

She bursts out with a laugh and slaps my leg. “I’m kidding! I know what cassette tapes are. I’m not that young.”

I sigh and meet her gaze. “Well, I feel that old.”

She crawls into my lap, scratching at my stubble. “You’re mature.”

She’s not making me feel particularly better, especially when she appears so young without makeup on. She’s got freckles.Fucking freckles. They’re dotted across her nose and cheekbones, faint but there, nonetheless. And those brown eyes of hers are so innocent. Makes me feel like a goddamn pervert when I focus on her lips and every thought I have is depraved.

“I’m a different generation,” I grate out, and she shrugs.

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