Page 37 of Beautifully Messy
“Wine?” he asks, returning with a glass in one hand, a large cup of water in the other, and an ice pack.Damn him.He sets the glasses on the side table, runs his thumb along the welt again, then places the ice pack on top, his eyes holding a softness that threatens to pull me under.
“Thanks,” I manage, the word catching in my throat.
Taylor Swift plays now. One of my favorites, a quiet, acoustic, stripped-down album. More to do with relationships ending than night conversations full of innuendo. I wrap my free arm around my knees, but I leave the ice pack in place. He did go to the trouble, after all.
“I love this album,” James confesses. “One of the best things to come out of the pandemic. I’m secure enough to admit I’m a Swiftie.”
“If that’s true, what’s your favorite song?”
It comes out half-teasing, half-daring; like I’m hoping he’ll name one of the overplayed radio hits and prove he’s not as thoughtful or sincere as he comes across.
He smiles. Slow.Knowing. “That’s tough. She’s the one artist I’d most want to headline the amphitheater. Imagine her, a piano, and a guitar.”
“I’d be the first to buy tickets,” I let out a wistful sigh.
“You’ll be the first person I call if it ever happens.” He leans forward, nothing playful in his tone.
I tilt my head, skeptical, keeping us in the safe zone. “Ahhh, but you still need to prove you’re a real Swiftie. I need a song. And not one of the chart-toppers.”
His mouth twitches, and he reaches for his phone, disconnecting mine from the speaker.
Taylor’s voice spills into the room, breathless, impossibly vulnerable. The slow, hypnotic beat winds its way through the quiet. The lyrics seep in, their meaning impossible to ignore, singing of that fragile shift where attraction becomes something deeper. SomethingDelicate. Something real.
The seconds stretch endlessly, each one sinking deeper, reaching through walls I thought were impenetrable.
When I finally meet his steady green eyes, he asks, “Does that work?”
I take a slow breath, swallow it all down. “Tell me more about the amphitheater.”
And so, we talk.
Forhours.
While Anna snores. While the fire crackles low. While the world falls away.
It’s the kind of conversation that feels like slipping into a favorite sweater. There’s no posturing, no need to perform. Laughter comes without hesitation, stories tumble out freely, and that rare ease that comes when someone... gets you.
“Have I ever told you how I discovered I’m allergic to cats?” James asks, and I see the mischief in his eyes.
“I'm guessing it's not a severe allergy based on your grin?”
“I was fifteen, desperately trying to impress this girl. Sarah Mitchell. She was way out of my league, but somehow I’d convinced her to let me come over and study.” He runs a hand through his hair, grinning. “Her family had this massive Persian cat named Duchess. Pure white, fluffy as a cloud, and, according to Sarah, ‘the sweetest thing in the world’.”
“Hmm. Sweetest thing. I can already tell where this is going.”
“So I’m sitting next to her trying to be charming, when Duchess jumps up, purring and rubbing against me. Sarah’s practically melting, saying Duchess never likes anyone, that this means I’m ‘special’.” He shakes his head. “I’m thinking I’ve hit the jackpot.”
“But?”
“I start sneezing, my eyes watering. I realize I’m having some kind of allergic reaction, but I can’t push the cat away because Sarah thinks this is true love.” His voice rises, animated. “So I’m sitting there, eyes streaming, trying to breathe through my nose, when Duchess decides my lap is the perfect place for a nap.”
I’m laughing so hard I have to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. And that’s when I discovered this ‘sweet’ cat had razors for claws. Every time I tried to shift, she dug in deeper. I was being held hostage by a furry dictator while slowly suffocating. I’m sure the red eyes looked great on me in my pursuit of the girl.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Twenty minutes! Twenty minutes of torture while Sarah’s going on about calculus, and I’m dying. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sneezed so hard that Duchess went flying off my lap, landed on the coffee table, and knocked over some antique vase.”
