Derek followed Layla to her house, surprised at how familiar the streets had become to him over the last few days. He still hadn't gone in his own house, but he'd been driving around plenty, familiarizing himself with the town as if he actually belonged there.
There was the school and Chuck's, of course. And the gas station, the grocery store, a pharmacy-slash-general store, a pizza parlor, and a little hole in the wall library that always seemed busier than it should. Oh...and a hardware store.
He'd been in there several times over the last couple days, usually right after he took an out of the way detour from his hotel by Layla's house. His house--the one he hadn't been in since he signed his name on the dotted line--had plenty of woodworking projects just begging for his attention. Other than the turret, it had been a major selling point.
Derek had resisted buying any of the supplies he needed because starting a project meant he was staying long enough to finish it, and until tonight he knew that would never happen. After that kiss, though...maybe some sandpaper and stain was in order.
He smiled as he turned into Layla's driveway, watching as she climbed from her car and scowled at him through the glow of his headlights.
He was starting to love that frown, especially because he was beginning to suspect the harder she glowered, the harder he'd have to work in bed to replace it with that look she'd given him on the piano bench. And boy, he was nothing if not a hard-worker.
Layla waited for him in her driveway, glower stuck in place. He noticed her eyes dart yet again to his pants as he walked toward her, so he lazily ran his hands over his thighs, just to tease her a little.
Her eyes widened before she turned and motioned for him to follow. Derek held back his grin.
Inside, her house was the same as he remembered it. A big, monster of a farmhouse that still managed to feel small and cozy in that way old farmhouses did.
The furniture looked worn yet inviting with its mismatched swatches of plaids and flowers mixed among the heavy wood of the tables and such, but the place didn't look like Layla. It was more like it was someone else's house, and instead of redecorating, Layla had thought to leave her stamp in the neatly stacked piles of books and sheet music covering almost every flat surface in the place.
The only thing that wasn't covered with music or books was the worn-looking upright piano angled in the corner of the room so the person playing it could see out the window instead of staring at the wall. Instead of books, a haphazard row of mugs lined the top of the piano, as if Layla liked to drink her tea while practicing but couldn't remember to wash out her mugs when she was done.
While she was shrugging out of her jacket, Layla caught him checking out her used mug collection. She hurried to grab them, three in each hand.
"Sorry," she said as she brushed past him into the kitchen. "I live alone and I'm busy. Sometimes I forget what the place looks like."
"No need to apologize. The place looks great. It's like someone actually lives here."
Layla made a dismissive sound. "Sometimes it doesn't feel that way."
"Why not?" Derek didn't like the slightly sad way her eyes drifted around the room.
She shrugged then abruptly waggled an empty mug in his direction, a guilty look on her face. "And you don't need to worry about the piano. I'm very careful not to spill anything on it."
That was such a band teacher thing to say. And fucking adorable as hell.
"Good. Because I have ways of finding out if you're telling the truth," Derek said.
Layla laughed at his cringe-worthy joke.
He hung his jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table and had a seat while she got the plates out of the cupboard. She bent to pull the pie from the fridge, treating him to a great view of her very curvy ass.
Layla set the pie on the counter, then squatted down in front of the open fridge, digging for something on the bottom shelf. As she squatted, her jeans rode low on the curve of her ass--and damn, the woman had ass--exposing a swath of skin where her narrow waist met the flare of her hips along with the top of her panties. Blue with white polka dots.
He thought maybe he should suggest a different game, like a round of connect the dots. And to make things interesting, he'd use his tongue instead of a pencil.
Derek's dick agreed wholeheartedly, growing hard as he thought about what Layla would smell like...what she would taste like. He shifted in his seat to accommodate his sudden erection.
He was here for pie. Banana cream. And not the figurative kind that involved his banana and her cream. Real, actual pie.
She stood and turned to him, a triumphant smile on her face and a wine bottle in her hand. Her smile faltered as she met his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" Like he wanted to eat her? Probably because he wanted to eat her. He leaned back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee and resting an elbow on the tabletop.
Her lips tightened, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to look at his pants. Her cheeks flushed the the a lovely shade of pink. She set the wine bottle on the counter and pulled a couple glasses from the cupboard. "Do you like red?"
"You do." Derek couldn't help but say it. He stretched one leg out in front of her.
"Excuse me?" The pink on her cheeks intensified.
"Like red." He tilted his head. "Wine. And I like what you like."
She cleared her throat and twisted off the cap. "It's from a local winery. Not the fancy stuff you're probably used to, but I like it."
"You can stop doing that now."
"What?"
"Assuming you know exactly who I am. I happen to like local wines. I grew up in upstate New York, for fuck's sake. My family owned a winery."
"Really?" She blinked at him. "That's awesome. I guess it's hard for me to remember you have a real life before…you know." She gestured at him vaguely with her wine glass before filing it.
"Yep. I'm a real boy." Derek smiled at her. "I'm not too good for local wineries or mom and pop diners or any of the other things you think I think I'm too good for."
"You're right. I'm sorry." She handed him his glass and took a swig out of her own. "It's just..."
"Stop. It's just me, Layla. Relax."
He was used to two kinds of women. The kind that was so nervous to be around him they couldn't formulate a coherent sentence without crying, and the kind that was so aggressive, they thought his dick inside them somehow made their life worth living.
And while he wouldn't mind Layla wanting his dick inside her, he couldn't stand the thought of her being nervous around him. He couldn't stand the thought of her making assumptions about him even more.
She nodded, then topped off her glass before setting it on the table with the open bottle. She started to sit, then jumped up again. "I almost forgot about the pie."
Layla returned to the table with two massive slices of the best looking banana cream pie he'd ever seen. He smiled as he looked at her plate. At least she wasn't the kind of woman who pretended not to need food to subsist.
"What's wrong?" she said as she cut a big chunk off with her fork.
"Nothing at all."
"So...since I don't know who you really are, why don't you tell me. What's life like for your friendly, neighborhood rock star? I haven't asked you a thing about it yet."
"Intentionally?"
She shrugged. "I've been accused of being obstinate. I didn't want you to think I cared more about fame than I did about reality."
"Well, I'd like to continue that way for now. I'd rather not be a rock star tonight, if that's alright with you." Derek couldn't take his eyes off her mouth. She had a little speck of whipped cream at the corner of her lips, and he wanted nothing more than to lick it off.
Her tongue darted out and took care of the distracting speck of cream, and he had to shift in his seat to make room for the bulge in his pants. What was he, a teenager? What grown man got a boner during a normal conversation with a woman.
"Okay. Tell me about Derek Taylor, then," Layla said. "Where did you learn to play the piano like that? And that's a Derek question, not a rock star question."