“I’m not sitting in your lap, Moses.”
He patted the sliver of space beside him. “Sit here. I want to talk to you.”
Relenting, mostly because I wouldn’t really mind being close to him, I squeezed in beside him. He promptly slung my legs over his and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I should have protested, but I leaned into him and accepted the snuggle instead. I was leaving in a couple days, and there wouldn’t be anything like this on the road, so I soaked it up while I had it.
“Blurred lines,” I murmured.
“Yep.” He kissed my temple. “Where you been, Michaela?”
“This week? I’ve been packing, getting ready to head out. I’m tired already.”
His free hand rubbed slow circles on my belly. “So don’t go. We can hang out a lot more if you stay.”
“You want me to quit the tour I’ve been working my ass off to get ready for days before it’s slated to leave?”
He let his head fall back against the chair. “Guess it sounds crazy when you put it that way.”
“You think?” I shifted so I sat sideways in the chair. “Tell me about this chair. I hate it, but it’s so comfortable, it’s confusing.”
“Why does everyone always rag on this damn chair?” He lifted his chin and raised his voice. “Yael, Michaela hates my chair.”
From the open kitchen, Yael lifted her beer bottle in cheers. “I knew we were destined to be friends.”
Murray sputtered. “Everyone hates that chair. It’s a universal truth, like baby carrots are superior to carrot sticks.”
He sat near us on the large, perfectly normal sectional sofa, a guitar laying on his lap. He grinned at me, absently strumming the strings. He was no Mo, but when he smiled like that, I got the tiniest twinge in my belly. It was that damn rock star effect. They all had it. Pretty sure it came as a packaged deal with their first record contract.
“But... but…” I stammered.
Mo shook his head. “Don’t. You can’t use logic when Murray makes declarations like that. He has a theory about the edges of regular carrots sticks detracting from the enjoyment of the flavor or some insane shit like that.”
“Give me baby carrots or give me death,” Murray yelled, fists pumping in the air. A few people clapped, and I figured they’d been the ones responsible for the smell of weed. No sober person would get that excited about carrots. I refused to believe it.
“We’ve spent a lot of time on tour buses, staring at the walls,” Mo explained.
“So have I. It seems I’ve been missing out, because I’ve never once discussed the shape of carrots. Also, weren’t we talking about your chair?”
He smacked the puffy arm, and it bounced back up. “It’s the only thing in this place I picked out for myself. The rest was done by a decorator Yael hired. It’s nice, right? But it’s so perfect. I walked in here when it was done, then walked right back out, and ended up at this furniture store for mobsters.”
I laughed. “What? I don’t have any idea what that means.”
“It means the place looked like it furnished Tony Soprano’s house, along with all his friends. This chair was sitting under a spotlight, waiting for me. And I thought…well, perfect is good, but what about interesting? What about a ridiculous piece of furniture that makes me laugh, but also cradles my ass like it was made of angel clouds?”
This piece of my heart I’d been keeping well guarded since I forgave Mo swelled and pressed at the walls I’d hidden it behind. I loved this story—loved the way he thought.
“I’ve always thought flaws were what made people—and I guess fancy-schmancy apartments—interesting,” I said.
His hand returned to my stomach, touching me gently. “You must think I’m fucking fascinating then.”
“I keep coming back, so maybe I do.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a brunette with long, long legs who’d been staring daggers at me since I walked in. I hadn’t paid her any mind, even though I recognized her from that night in the penthouse as one of the serpents who’d been slithering on Mo. She had no cause to dislike me, and women who were catty toward other women for no good reason were as boring as Mo’s perfect living room had been.
“Mo, I thought you told me last night you didn’t have a girlfriend.”
Oh, now I was paying attention.
Mo didn’t even hesitate to respond. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Michaela’s more than that.”