Rocker Shenanigans: Sylvie + Shandor
I swear his eyes grazed mine before they dismissed me because I’m not famous. Not my sister. But gosh, I want to change his mind. Have to.
I do a quick scan to test my conclusions, but no, only the old cougar with the scandalous miniskirt could have been the other recipient of that smoldering message. Maybe she… no. No! I know nothing about that overload of hotness except he doesn’t need a desperate grandmother to feed his ego. Okay, I don’t know that. Sometimes you just have to have faith, right?
I can’t tell if he wants me to approach or stay the hell away, but I don’t have a choice when the paralysis wears off and my bare legs start guiding me toward his loose-cut jeans. Jeans that hide… I blush. I don’t usually worry about what could be going on in a guy’s jeans.
Say something, Sylvie. And not about his pants.
“I like your guitar.” Ugh! WTH?! I might as well have said I liked his subscription to Time Magazine.
He just stares at me for a moment, and I’m praying that slight slip in his expression is because he didn’t hear me.
He’s so not grateful for my praise, but I can’t stop now that I have his attention. I find myself rising on my toes, hoping the slim muscles in my toned thighs are making a pretty picture beneath my tiny shredded shorts. Yes, it’s December. It’s also the Bahamas at a resort that promised a buffet of hot rockers. Funny, I suddenly only notice one. And he needs to notice me.
“I’m Sylvie Drake,” I continue, even though I know that means nothing to him. “My sister is Holland Drake.”
I shoot a thumb toward the opposite corner where my dear sibling is… hanging on Luke. If Luke, then Casey. Thank you grade-nine Algebra, and I’m suddenly annoyed I never got that promised text from Holland. Then again, since my attention zeroed in on this inferno, I haven’t noticed much else. My phone could be replacing the moons of Jupiter with all its flashing and I wouldn’t know it.
His brows knit because that’s what he said, except he didn’t. Still, I don’t know how to correct him with him looking at me like that. Even slanted in confusion, I feel the intensity of those golden embers shaded by dark lashes. Darnit, I’m Sylvia. It’s fine. I can be Sylvia because he’s… my body doesn’t need words as it answers his piercing concentration with all kinds of adult stuff. Holland would kill me if she knew what was going through my head. So much worse than gin and tonics. So much tastier. Tastier? Too adult. The lady with the miniskirt thinks he’s “tasty.” I think he’s… crap. I suck at this. What would Holland say?
“What key are you playing in?”
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