The cushion sinks beneath my sudden weight, and Shawn turns his head to check out the idiot who nearly slammed right into him. I should probably introduce myself, disclose my affinity for stalking and ass-diving, but instead I keep my mouth shut and force a nervous smile. A moment passes where I’m certain he’s going to ask who the hell I am and what the hell I’m doing hijacking the seat beside him, but then his mouth just curves into a nice smile and he goes back to talking with the guys on his other side.
Oh, God. Now what? Now I’m just sitting awkwardly beside him for no apparent reason, and blondie is going to be back any second and order me to move, and then what? Then my shot is gone. Then I jumped out my bedroom window for no freaking reason.
“Hey,” I say, tapping Shawn on the shoulder and trying not to do something humiliating like stutter or, you know, throw up all over him.
God, his T-shirt is so soft. Like seriously downy-soft. And warm. And—
“Hey,” he says back, something between confusion and interest shading the way he looks at me. His eyes, glassy from drinks he’s had, are a deep, deep green, and staring into them is like crossing the border into an enchanted forest at midnight. Terrifying and exhilarating. Like getting lost in a place that could swallow you whole.
“You sounded really good tonight,” I offer, and Shawn smiles wider, giving the butterflies in my stomach a little puff of confidence.
“Thanks.” He starts to turn away again, but I speak up to keep his attention.
“The riff you did in your last song,” I blurt, blushing when he turns back toward me, “it’s amazing. I can never quite get that one.”
“You play?” Shawn’s entire body shifts in my direction, his knees coming to rest against mine. Both of us have worn-through shreds at the knees, and I swear my skin tingles where his brushes against mine. He gives me his complete attention, and it’s like every light in the room focuses its heat on me, like every word I say is being documented for the record.
A shadow falls over me, and the Abercrombie model from before glowers down at me, all blonde hair and demon eyes. “You’re in my seat.”
Shawn’s hand lands on my knee to keep me from moving. “You play?” he asks again.
My eyes are glued to his hand—his hand on my knee—when Demon Eyes whines, “Shawn, she’s in my seat.”
“So find a new one,” he counters, casting her a glance before returning his attention to me. When she finally walks away, my cheeks are burning bright red.
Shawn stares at me expectantly, and I stare back at him for a loserly amount of time before remembering I’m supposed to be answering a question. “Yeah,” I finally say, my heart cartwheeling in my chest at the feel of his heavy hand still resting on my knee. “I watched you . . . at a middle-school talent show”—please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up—“a few years ago, and”—oh God, am I really doing this?—“and it made me want to learn to play. Because you were so good. I mean, you ARE so good. Still, I mean”—train wreck, train wreck, train wreck!—“You’re still really, really good . . .”
My attempt to salvage my heartfelt reasons are rewarded with a warm smile that makes all the embarrassment worth it. “You started playing because of me?”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut while I wait for his reaction.
“Really?” Shawn asks, and before I know what he’s doing, he removes his fingers from my knee to take my hands in his. He studies the calluses on the pads of my fingers, rubbing his thumbs over them and melting me from the inside out. “You any good?”
A cocky smile curves his lips when he lifts his gaze, and I confess, “Not as good as you.”
His smile softens, and he releases my hands. “You’ve been to a few of our shows, right? Normally wear glasses?”
Is that me? The girl in the freaking glasses? I’ve screamed from the front row for more than a few of the band’s shows at the local rec center, but I never thought Shawn noticed me. And now when I think about how dorky I probably looked with my thick, square frames . . . I’m not sure I’m glad he did. “Yeah. I just got contacts last month—”
“They look good,” he says, and the blush that’s been creeping across my cheeks blooms to epic proportions. I can feel the heat in my face, my neck, my bones. “You have pretty eyes.”
“Thanks.”
Shawn smiles, and I smile back, but before either of us can say another word, Joel is pushing at his arm to get his attention. He’s shouting and laughing about some joke Adam told, and Shawn shifts away from me to rejoin their conversation.
And just like that, the moment is over and I didn’t even say anything close to what I came here to say. I didn’t say thank you or tell him that he changed my life or express anything even remotely meaningful.
“Hey Shawn,” I say, tapping at his shoulder again when Joel’s laughter dies down.
Shawn turns a curious gaze on me. “Yeah?”
“I actually wanted to ask you something.”