Mal is smart.
He must know that.
Which means he invited me here for a reason.
Ahem.
"This is it. Finished. Locked. And this time, I don't want to hear any of that good shit. I want to hear that it's perfect or I want a specific criticism." I turn the laptop to face him. "I spent all week working on this. Every frame is in place."
His lips curl into a tiny smile as he looks up at me. "Noted."
Here goes nothing.
I take a deep breath and hit play.
His eyes stay focused on the screen. They stay beautiful and unreadable.
I'm not sure why those butterflies in my stomach are rising up into my throat—if it's because I want his respect as a fellow artist or if it's because I want him throwing me on that couch and fucking my brains out.
Or both.
I respect Mal as a writer. That's most of why I love him. His persona. Whatever.
My crush is intellectual as much as it's physical.
Intellectual respect is sexy.
Anyone who says otherwise is boring or stupid.
Mal continues watching in silence.
His eyes are fixed on the screen. He's focused. Interested.
The song trails off into the outro. The video is over.
He looks up at me, his expression blank. "You look nervous."
"And how did you feel when you were first playing for some big executive?"
"I don't get nervous."
r /> "Ever?"
"Not about performing."
I play with the soft fabric of my dress. "Well… that's very nice for you, being some sort of weirdo who doesn't get nervous."
"Didn't say that."
"How can you not get nervous before you step onstage for thousands of people?"
"I know my shit."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense."
He nods.
I nod back.