To Whatever End - Lindsey Frydman Page 0,1
God, is that him? Talking to me?
After plastering a normal-ish look on my face, I swivel around. My eyes widen at the guy mere feet from me now, notebook held against his jeans. A wry grin plays on his lips, and wow, he’s even more beautiful up close. Amber eyes with a hint of gold, perfectly complementing his hair. A long, straight nose and a fierce jaw with stubble covering it. He’s a handful of inches taller than me.
I glance around, as if there’s even a remote possibility he was talking to someone else. Nope. No one here but the two of us.
“Figured most people have better things to do with their summer afternoons,” he says.
Wrapping my arms tightly against my chest to fend off my embarrassment, I lift a brow. “And why would you assume that?”
He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. “People are predictable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just…you don’t look like the kind of girl who spends her free time inside a museum.”
Maybe I should be offended, but I can’t help being amused. I’ll play along. “All righty then, what does a girl like that look like?”
He grins. I love the way it tips up his lips, pressing dimples into his cheeks. I love dimples. But I hate that I love them; I can’t have “normal,” so attraction is frustrating and ultimately, I’ll end up disappointed.
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “But not like you.”
My heart flips at his words, and I think about touching him to see where this goes for us, but that makes as much sense as playing with fire. I’m better off not knowing. Ignorance is bliss, right?
I lift both brows. “Are you judging me?”
He laughs again, raising his free hand out to the side. “Not at all. I never imagined running into a girl at this museum who’s as pretty as you, though.”
I shake my head, ignoring the way my heart rate increases. Sure, it was one thing to admire him from afar, wondering and fantasizing, but it’s nerve-racking to have him inches away, talking to me. Flirting with me? I don’t talk to guys. Not like this. “Well, why are you here in the museum on a Tuesday afternoon, then?”
He taps the pad of paper against his jean-clad legs again, glancing toward the nearest painting. “Writing.”
My feet move of their own volition. I take a few slow steps toward him and motion toward his head, where the earbud had been earlier. “And listening to music?”
His grin deepens, revealing straight white teeth. “I was writing lyrics.”
My gaze returns to the pad of paper, though it’s still closed, tucked against his side, giving nothing away. “That seems more like something you’d do in a coffee shop. Or outside, under a giant oak tree.”
Mystery Guy with the earth-shattering smile laughs again. I like the sound. Like the way it echoes in the tall, open gallery, and the way it fills the air with liquid sunlight. “I like museums,” he says. “Everyone in here shuts the fuck up.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around how—and why—he isn’t here for the art at all, when he continues.
“Coffee shops are loud and filled with hipster-wannabes. They play bland background music. And sell overpriced coffee.” He lifts one shoulder, twisting toward the wall of paintings. “Museums are way better.”
He makes a good argument. “Let me guess, you’re in a band?” I nod toward his notebook.
“No band. Just me.”
I give another nod and attempt to keep my face neutral while my brain violently warns me to quit. We’re getting closer to treacherous territory—hope. Hope that touching him leads to a vision that won’t break my heart.
“Do you play an instrument?” I ask.
“Sure do.”
I wait for him to elaborate, to tell me which one, and when he doesn’t, I step cautiously closer. Close enough that I can smell him. I’m not that familiar with men’s cologne or aftershaves, but it smells like…a guy. A hot guy. That’s a scent, right?
Music Boy stares like he’s the one waiting for me to finish instead of the other way around. Finally, I shake my head and resist rolling my eyes. “What do you play? The guitar?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“I’ve heard dating musicians can be fun,” I say, thinking of the story Olivia told me about her sister and the drummer.
“Who said anything about dating?”
Oops. Apparently, my dating hiatus has turned me into a girl with no game. “Uh, I didn’t mean—” My cheeks warm, and the back of my neck tingles with embarrassment. “I just meant, you know, in general.”
“Actually,