Sometime After Midnight by L. Philips

Author:L. Philips
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-08-07T21:27:26+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Cameron

“Holy shit.” Nate’s guitar case hits the floor with a soft thud, the strings within vibrating a tuneless chord. “This is your bedroom?”

I look around the place, taking in with new eyes the room I’ve had since I was moved from the nursery as a toddler. It’s really more than one room. A suite, to be precise. There’s a small sitting room off to the left of my bed, with a couch and a few armchairs. Beyond that, the outside wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows with French doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the pool. The shape of the whole house makes a squared-off U, wrapping itself around the pool, and so even though my balcony is opposite the one we were on before, I can also see down below into the city. Naturally, I have my own bathroom and a walk-in closet that is just as full, although not as spacious, as my sister’s. The suite is all done in shades of sand, cream, and slate. Masculine, but not hard or cold.

I am usually ecstatic about this room. Proud, even. But looking at Nate, who is looking around it in what seems like shock, I feel a little silly for its size and opulence. Plus, now that I think about it, maybe working in my bedroom seems a little forward. Or desperate. Or both.

“It is. I hope you don’t mind working in here. We could go to the pool house if you’d prefer.”

Nate shakes his head, though the pale skin along his neckline goes all blotchy. “This is fine. Besides, this is where you keep everything, right?”

I laugh. “If by everything, you mean my notebooks, then yes. The piano is in the living room, but I’m not sure we need it?”

Nate shrugs. “Maybe not just yet. Let’s just try to write a little, and if that’s the kind of sound we want, we can move.” He picks up his case and looks expectantly at me. “So, um, where should I . . . ?”

“Oh. Um, here. I’ll grab my notebooks. The couch over there . . . ?”

“Yeah, I’ll tune up.”

He crosses through my bedroom and I turn around so that I can rummage through my nightstand. I can hear him lift out the guitar, the subtle scratch of callused fingers teasing the strings, then the case getting pushed aside. As he starts tuning, I make myself take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, and breathe out for ten. It doesn’t help. When I reach for the knob on the drawer, my fingers are shaking visibly.

“Pull it together; you’re a Pierce,” I scold myself, and dig into the drawer. I pull out my most recent notebooks, which probably contain the least embarrassing attempts at songwriting that I possess. On some level it helps knowing that it’s not just nervousness about an impossibly cute boy currently playing his guitar in my bedroom (seriously, dream come true), it’s also that, for the first time, I’ll be sharing my intimate, mortifying, and probably hopeless lyrics with someone else.

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