Yeah, yeah, yeah
I tilted my head as his chocolaty voice filled the room.
“You didn’t hear it, did you,” he said as more of a statement than a question.
“No, sorry.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I thought it was a bit subtle. It was on the album but never released as a single.”
I swallowed tightly. “I didn’t buy your last album.”
“You didn’t?” A mixture of surprise and hurt crossed his eyes.
“No. You’re out of my life, Robbie. Or at least you were. Why would I want to hear your voice, hear about your conquests?” I folded my arms and sighed. “Didn’t you think it might hurt me?”
“But that song was about you, how much I regretted letting you walk away.”
“Yeah, but 'Strawberries and Screams’, come on. I don’t know how you got away with some of those lyrics.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, a real meaty guffaw that echoed over the music.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s not about one of my conquests,” he said, still grinning broadly.
“So who is it about?”
“Nina, Ian’s wife. He wrote it here, in this apartment, just after they met.”
“Oh.” Now I felt silly. I’d flicked that damn song off every time it had come on the radio for so long I didn’t know how I was ever going to get out of the habit.
“Have you never seen a picture of her?” he asked.
I shook my head, tried to avert my gaze but instead looked at the reflection of his beautiful, golden back in the mirror behind him. Wide and tanned with the deep gutter of his spine perfectly outlined by long strips of tendon.
“She’s got wild strawberry-red curly hair and the palest skin I’ve ever seen,” Robbie said as I salivated at the memory of scratching nails down his taut flesh. “Ian was inspired by his wife to write that, it has nothing to do with me. I just sing the words while he bashes it out on his strings.”
“Oh.” I curled my fingers into my palms.
“So you don’t need to get jealous, pumpkin.”
My lips flattened. “I’m not pumpkin, for your information, I’m Dr. Calahan.”
“Yeah, I know.” He stepped closer, real close, and the scent of his freshly showered skin filled my nostrils. “You’re important and respected in the medical world, but,” he said with a naughty glint in his eye, “you’ll always be my little pumpkin.”
The song about the girl next door finished and in its place ‘Party Animal’began with its trippy tones and Robbie’s excitable voice.
I looked at the hollow of his throat—his smile was just too devastating—but then all I could think of was the taste of his skin on my tongue. “Then I guess I should be glad you didn’t write a song about pumpkins and squeals,” I managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
“Mmm, not a bad idea. I’ll see what the guys think.” He paused. “Pumpkins and squeals, she tastes like a meal,” he sang.
“Don’t you dare,” I said, shocked that he might take my stupid idea seriously.
His grin dropped and he reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “You look amazing,” he said in a soft voice. “Even better than I remembered.”
My skin tingled where his fingertip had brushed the small patch behind my ear. “You don’t look any different,” I said, although that wasn’t strictly true. He was more handsome, if that was possible, his jaw a little squarer, his eyes greener, and he’d taken to sporting a dense layer of stubble. “And I still don’t understand,” I carried on in as stern a voice as I could muster, “why you were so desperate to see me after all this time.”
“I’ve always been desperate to see you. I just got caught up in the roller coaster ride the band has taken us on over the last few years. It’s only now we’ve managed to catch our breath and get used to what happened when we were first catapulted into the limelight.” His gaze captured mine. “It’s only now I’ve had the chance to sit and figure out what’s really important to me outside the insane world of the music industry.”