Page 7 of Fake Autumn Crush

"I'm thirty-two, for the record."

Her lips twitch. "I know."

"Of course you do." My head hangs. "I don’t have any secrets."

"I was going to say that you must be older because you're so wise." Her eyes twinkle. "You know…writing songs specifically so that women will become your biggest fans."

"Hey now!"

Julia laughs as I nudge her with my elbow. She nudges me back, which turns into us poking each other with our index fingers up and down each other's arms and shoulders, almost like we’re typing.

It’s like she completely forgets we're in public, with people across the street taking photos. She lightly pokes me in the jaw a few times, then trails her fingers along my stubble. The second I begin to melt from the feeling of her hand on my face, she snatches it away.

"Are you saying I should shave?"

"Not at all. I just wondered if it was scratchy or not."

It’ll probably feel scratchy between your thighs when my face is buried in your softness.

I blink sharply at the unconscious thought that pops into my mind. Damn. Focus. "So, shall we get motoring on the rest of this list?"

"Sure."

We organize the day to have a few ten-minute walks, plus a couple of drives through busy areas. Julia is a great help at the outdoors store as we shop for stuff I'll need at the cabin. We also hit the dollar store for new notebooks and interesting pens. All green ink, of course.

She's becoming more comfortable with me, and her cheeks are no longer turning scarlet whenever I look at her. I hate that she’s so shy – wait, no. She should be however she is. I hate that I make her uncomfortable. That's it.

"Two more stops," she says as we get back into the car. "Dinner and an art gallery opening." She looks down at her outfit. "But I can’t wear jeans to those."

"Let's go to your place so you can change. I have a spare outfit in the trunk."

She's quiet on the drive. When we reach her place, I say, "It's fine if you don't want a stranger in your home. I can change somewhere else."

"It's not that."

The street is quiet as I pull into a parking lot a few buildings away from hers. We get some things from the trunk, then once we're in the elevator I ask, “Is there anything I can do to put you more at ease? I really don't want to make you tense, Julia. You're doing me this huge favor, and I'm very grateful."

She sighs as the elevator dings open at her floor. Once we're inside her apartment, she sets down the flowers and hunts for a vase to put them in water. As soon as her hands are busy, she begins to speak. "At first, I was worried about messing this up. I mean, this whole getting over the scandal thing, plus building excitement for the new album. But now, after hearing more about your writing process, and how your entire album – possibly your first double album – depends on you being in the right headspace…" She shivers hard. "I just don't want to screw this up for you."

“Julia." Moving closer, I gently take hold of her elbows as she steps back from the flowers, which are now perfectly arranged. "I'm grateful for your help. And I'm glad that my writing process is different this time." Leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Am I allowed to tell you that I find your sweetness inspirational?"

She sputters a giggle. "Sweetness? Me?"

"Of course! It was very sweet that instead of instantly saying no to this dating idea, you asked the waitress for her opinion. That you immediately wore the clothing I suggested. That you're doing this gigantic favor for some guy you don't even know."

She starts to protest, but I place a finger across her lips. "People think they know me through my music, but that's not the real me. That's a filtered version."

She nods up and down against my finger. "I think I see what you mean."

"I also think it's very sweet that you're coming to dinner with me tonight." I lightly poke the tip of her nose. "We're hungry enough for steak, right?"

Her smile feels directly connected to the center of my chest. “Iron is good for brain power, which in turn will be good for your writing. So, sure."

Julia disappears into her bedroom, so I change right there in the living room, checking my reflection in the kettle. Then I spend some time perusing her bookshelves. There's a couple of small antique clocks.

“Hey," I call through the door. "At the Morrison offices, is your desk the one with the big copper alarm clock and the blank white wall behind it?"

"Yes."