had I known, I would of
course have gotten up and driven you back home. I am a gentleman, after all.
Even if last night I was a very sleepy, very conked-out gentleman. I hope
you'll forgive me. Was the couch comfortable, at least?”
I could still smell the sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon in his
hair. “Very.”
“Well,
let's talk about all this over a good old fry-up, shall we? Only – er, Neve?”
“What?”
“I do need to get dressed at some point.”
Shame.
“ Of course,” I was even more flustered than before. “I'll, just, uh – well,
I'll wait in the living room, okay?”
I
sat on his living room couch, looking out at the sea, unsure of how to feel. On
the one hand, I was relieved that Danny apparently remembered nothing of our
midnight adventure, and didn't think I was some kind of crazed stalker or
rapist intent on getting into his bed at all costs. On the other hand, it meant
that those kind words Danny had said, his caressing tone of voice, his kisses
and the words he'd used – they weren't for me. They were for his dream girl,
the girl whose name he'd cried out in the early hours of the morning – Peyton... I
should have known. He probably had a girlfriend. Someone like Danny Blue was
mature, worldly, sophisticated. What could he see in a bright-eyed college
freshman like me?
He
emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, shiny and showered, his black
jeans showing off the shape of his hips, a businesslike black blazer over a
decidedly grungy white tee, and a corded leather masculine necklace around his
neck. He looked like a fashion model stepping out of the magazine. “Sit,” he
said, pointing to one of the large stools at the kitchen's island counter. His
voice was firm – I almost bristled at the easy authority with which he assumed
over me; he sounded like the TA Mr. Blue, not the friendly, sexy Danny I knew.
But somehow I didn't mind. I sat at the kitchen counter while Danny loaded up a
frying pan full of bacon, mushroom, eggs, and sausages.
“Great
hangover cure from back home,” Danny said, “but it also works to give you
energy if you haven't slept.”
“I'm
not hungry...” I tried to protest, feeling I'd already intruded enough.
“We've
got a gig tonight,” said Danny. “You need your strength – and so do I. Besides,
the eggs are going off today and I need someone to help me eat them.”
He
plopped down two plates on the kitchen countertop. I was still too nervous to
eat, and only vaguely picked at my eggs, still feeling like an alien in Danny's
strange world, wishing I could get out of there, away from Danny, away from the
distracting image of Danny's naked body that refused to leave my head.
“Tsk
tsk!” he noted. “You're not touching your bacon. I'm almost hurt, Neve. I drive
all the way to the butcher's twenty miles from here to get proper English bacon
done right – won't you at least tell me if you like it?”
“I'm
good,” I muttered.
“Oh,
for goodness' sake, you're not one of those girls who just eats salad and
lettuce, are you? Given how much energy you expend singing I always figured you
just had a fast metabolism. Tell me you're not on a diet, please!” He laughed
and waved a fork full of bacon in my face. “When I was little my mum used to
tell me to open up for the “choo choo train”. I'm not going to have to do that
with you, am I? Because I know from experience – salad does not sufficient
energy make for a night of performance.”
“I'm
not on a diet!” I protested. “It's just that bacon makes me break out – and the
last thing I want to do before tonight is show up with pimples all over