Page 2 of Forever More

“No.”

“No?” I cough out the word and then it falters when I turn to look at him for the first time. Holy shit. 34C is hotter than hell. I’m met with storm cloud gray eyes that are framed by thick lashes. One of his eyebrows is quirked up as he stares at me while his lips are curved at the corners. His shoulders are broad, and his dark brown hair is a little long where it curls at the base of his neck and over his ears. Tattoos mark his biceps but are hidden by the cuffs of his old school Nirvana T-shirt with a hole near the collar.

I’ve seen 34C from afar, heard his voice way more than I’ve actually laid eyes on him, and boy is that a travesty. Staring at him might have just made living in this shitty apartment tolerable.

“No,” he reiterates, that smile of his widening with the acknowledgment that I was checking him out. “You look sad and lonely. Left behind, actually. And—”

“You don’t know shit about me,” I argue, embarrassed to be caught feeling sorry for myself.

“You’re right. I don’t.” He shrugs. “But I know it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow, and everyone I know has left to go home, hang out with family, watch football games, and do who the fuck knows. They’re all going to be there while I’m stuck here feeling sorry for myself that I don’t have any family to go home to.”

“Oh.” I stutter, surprised by his candidness and selfishly feeling happy that I’m not the only one left alone. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. You’re in the same boat, right? Stuck here alone?”

“Um. Yeah. I guess.”

“You either are or you aren’t and by the way you’re sipping that drink and looking miserable out here, I’m thinking you are.”

My sigh fills the space between us as I pick up the bottle by the leg of the table—the one I put there so I didn’t look like a drunk stealing sips during the afternoon—and pass it over to him. “Do you want to share in my misery?”

The smile he flashes is so bright it’s blinding. “Lyric Evermore,” he says and holds his hand out to shake my free one.

I stare at it for a beat, almost as if I’m confused over how this man is suddenly in my space, and I’m perfectly okay with it. And then I burst out laughing.

“That can’t really be your name, can it? I mean, it’s a stage name, right?”

“What’s wrong with my name?” he asks, brows furrowed like a little boy, and I suddenly feel like an ass.

“Nothing is wrong with it. In fact, it’s pretty damn cool for a musician to have that name—”

“Ah, so you listen to me rehearsing then? You know I’m a musician.” His cocky smile does things to my insides I don’t want to admit to. “And you like it.”

I stare at him and give a little shake of my head. “You have a good voice. I’ll give you that.”

“Why so stingy with the compliments?” I just stare at him with a blank face, caught off guard by his comment before he barks out a laugh and says, “I’ll take good voice. It’s better than some of the rejections I’ve gotten. But let’s get back to the matter at hand—why are you making fun of my name?”

“I’m not. It’s just—” My cheeks flush. “How does a singer end up with a name like Lyric when no one could know he was going to have a voice good enough to sing to begin with?”

He purses his lips and nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “You have a point there, one I may have pondered before myself, but I assure you, it’s my real name. Ironically. Supposedly my parents were really into music. And drugs.” His expression falters for a beat before the smile returns full force to cover up the sudden slip of emotion. “But that’s a story for another day. So . . .” He sticks his hand out to me again. “Lyric Evermore. Hopeful rock star with a fitting name. Singer who you’re stuck listening to rehearse. Guy who’s stuck here this weekend without anywhere to go.”

I laugh, my cheeks hurting from smiling so hard, as I take his hand. “Annie McIntyre. College student who’s broke as hell. Girl who has nowhere to be this holiday.”

“So, see? It’s official,” he says and cringes when he takes a sip straight from the bottle.

“What’s official?”

“This. Us.”

“Excuse me?” I choke over my own sip and his laughter floats through the empty complex.

“Yeah. Our own Evermore-McIntyre-Thanksgiving.” He takes another sip and uses the bottle to motion to the space around us. “We’ll drink some, laugh some, order takeout from that taco shop right down the street that has a sale running.”

“One should never eat from a place running a sale on their food.”

“Let’s be daring Annie McIntyre. I mean, it’s better than being alone.”

I stare at him and shake my head. “Who said I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with you?”