Page 2 of One More Made Up Love Song
My eyes widen as I look past him and down the aisle to where his fans are still trying on sunglasses. If they look this way, they’ll absolutely see him.
I abandon my cart and grab Freddie’s arm, tugging him to the opposite side of the store. I don’t stop until we’re standing between the condoms and the adult diapers. Perfect.
“What are we doing?” Freddie says, his voice at full volume. “Did you forget something?”
“Can you please stop talking?” I whisper-yell. “What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for you,” he says. “What’s taking so long?”
“I was searching every stupid aisle for your stupid candy,” I say. “Also there are two women four aisles over whowere at your concert. Feel like chatting with them right now?” I give him a pointed expression, and his face immediately shifts.
“Definitely not,” he says, his voice finally at a volume to match mine.
“Then stop talking,” I whisper, but it might already be too late.
“Are you serious?” a woman’s voice says. “Could it really be him?”
Freddie winces. He’s honestly so great with his fans. But he’s been on all night. He shouldn’t have to interact with anyone at two a.m., let alone women he doesn’t even know.
I breathe out a sigh and tug him toward me, backing us directly into the wall of diapers. “Please don’t hate me for this,” I say. Then I hook one hand around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck, twisting our bodies so his back faces out.
“What are we doing?” Freddie whispers, his mouth close enough for his breath to tickle my earlobe.
Goosebumps skitter across my skin, and I bite my lip, willing myself to think of something, anything, besides how good it feels to be this close to him.
I’ve got years of practice ignoring my feelings for Freddie, but this is a lot, even for me.
“Just play along,” I whisper back. Then I pitch my voice high enough that I hope the approaching women can hear me.
“Here, Johnny? You want to kiss me here?!”
Freddie practically snorts, his body shaking with suppressed laughter. “Johnny?” he whispers. “Is it 1967?”
“Shut up,” I say through clenched teeth. “Hug me a little closer.”
Freddie’s arms tighten, his body curling around me as he tucks me closer to his chest. “You know, this could backfire.”
Ha. He has no idea. It’s already backfiring because I can’t stop thinking about unzipping his hoodie and crawling inside, latching myself onto his body like a baby koala.
I knew going in that a tour would be tough.
So. Much. Togetherness. Time on the bus and time in his dressing room and time hanging out after concerts.
I prepared myself mentally. Made a commitment to minimize touching as much as possible. Promised myself I would set clear boundaries and handle Freddie’sLiving Out LoudTour with the utmost professionalism.
Doesn’t exactly sound like pretend make-out sessions in drugstore diaper aisles, but Freddie is the one who came in here in the first place. This is on him.
Or so I will tell myself.
And if I happen to enjoy the physical contact, well, I’ll at least never admit it out loud.
“Freddie Ridgefield caught making out with unknown woman in the diaper aisle,” Freddie continues. “It’s a good headline.”
“It isn’t going to backfire,” I say, but I tug him a little closer anyway, letting one hand skim up and down his back. “Just don’t look up.”
He nestles even closer. “You smell good,” he says into my hair.
His words send an immediate, pulsing heat racing through my body, but no, nope. No heat allowed. I force my brain to think of ice water. Buckets and buckets of dousing cold water raining down onto me, cooling whatever fire this man triggers.
