“That was my hoodie, wasn’t it?” he asked suddenly.
Well, shit. Of course it was. I’d stolen it before I moved to L.A., mostly out of spite, but a fraction to remind me of him. That was five years ago. Since then, the hoodie had evolved into my favorite thing to lounge in. I knew it was his, but it was such second nature for me to wear it, it never occurred to me how it would look for Santiago to see me in it after all this time.
I attempted to play it cool, snagging the soft, worn material between two fingers. “Oh, is it? I hadn’t remembered.”Lies! If lightning strikes me dead right now, I can’t even be mad. I brought it on myself.“Would you like it back? I rarely wear it anyway.”
If he attempted to take it back, I might have actually gotten violent.
This hoodie was the most perfect piece of clothing I owned. I wasn’t a small girl, but Santiago dwarfed me, therefore his sweatshirt hung down past my butt and the sleeves covered my hands when I wanted them to. I’d worn this thing to bonfires on the beach, camping in Yosemite, to ward off the chill in movie theatres, and when I had the flu last year and couldn’t leave my couch.
When he didn’t answer immediately, I looked up at him through my lashes. He had his bottom lip pinched between his fingers as he studied me like a damn puzzle he couldn’t decipher.
“I’d wondered where it had gone. Hoped it was in your possession. I know it doesn’t get too cool out in L.A., but it’s good you kept it.” Letting go of his lip, he rubbed the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You made it all soft.”
I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “That’s just fabric softener.” And washing it a million times.
“I should invest in that.”
“Fabric softener?” He nodded. “Don’t you have someone who does your laundry now that you’re a famous rock star?”
He gave a little scoff, eyes settling on my face. “Don’t know what kind of money you think musicians make these days, but two semi-successful albums haven’t made me king just yet. Maybe Mo, since he writes most of the music, but we don’t talk about money.”
“And my mama would murder me for bringin’ up the subject. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
He sipped the rest of his tea in silence while I slurped down my mocha in contemplation. I’d been so busy over the last few days, I hadn’t thought much about how I’d deal with being around Santiago every day.
There was a twinge in my chest. An old hurt resurfacing. I knew full well not to trust the quiet, rumbling, gentle nature of the scruffy man at my side. He wasn’t a nice man. It was possible he’d matured over the years, and I truly hoped he had, but anyone who said the kinds of things he’d said to me and did what he did…well, they’d be a little bit rotten down to their core.
If I knew anything, it was that you couldn’t change your core.