Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) by Crystal Cierlak Page A

a tug of regret in my stomach at the thought of him never singing again. “That’s too bad.”
    “I’m writing though, and that’s been successful. I think I prefer letting other people sing my music to singing it myself.”
    “Have you been in New York the whole time?”
    He nods. “Just about. It’s easier to blend in there than here.”
    Yes, I recall the pandemonium his presence would create everywhere we went, especially at the height of his fame. Strange though, I thought he loved it.
    “This conversation seems so sad,” I blurt out at random and I see his face pick up a bit. “We’re drinking champagne and we’re here together in the same room without crying or screaming. We should be doing something fun!”
    Honestly, I don’t know where it’s coming from. I must be drunk. Nick smiles at me and I think I see a bit of a spark in his eyes again. He pushes back a mess of dark blonde hair from his forehead and leans back into the chair before taking a sip of champagne.
    “Fun like what?”
    I search the ceiling as if the answer is hiding there somewhere between the wooden beams. “Honestly, I have no idea. What did we used to do for fun? When we were younger and dumber?”
    “Whatever we wanted.” His voice is deepened and he’s looking at me with hooded blue eyes. It’s obvious there is an undercurrent to his words as I can practically feel my skin responding as it always has before.
    “Ugh, maybe we are getting old?” I abruptly stand up and kick off the shoes I forgot I was wearing. “I think I’m already having hot flashes,” I joke. My skin has warmed considerably beneath the cashmere sweater and I’m not sure if it’s from the temperature, the alcohol or him. I grab for the hem of the sweater and I yank it off above my head, tossing it onto a nearby chair with a few items folded neatly on the seat cushion.
    “Nice shirt,” he says, and the shit-eating grin is back. “Maybe you should keep it since you’re so obviously in need of clothing.”
    “Honestly I forgot I was wearing it. What’s with all the fitted clothing by the way?”
    Nick looks down at his sweater and jeans and then back up at me. “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing,” I shrug animatedly. “It’s just different for you.” Or maybe fashion has changed that much in the past few years? He used to be all about being comfortable; sports jerseys, loose jeans, comfortable sneakers. He wasn’t quite as polished as he appears to be now. But then again, was I?
    He stands and stretches his long frame out into the room. “What, don’t you like it? You know, I got fat for a while,” he says through a grin.
    No way. “I don’t believe it,” I shake my head.
    “When you’re not touring and working out every day you tend to get on the flabby side. I hate to say it but after our divorce I kind of let myself go.” I can’t imagine it. He’s thinner and more muscular than I remember him and it’s difficult to picture him ‘flabby.’
    As he stands in front of me I can plainly see that wherever he did let himself go he certainly came back from. I can just make out the faint outline of seriously toned abdominal muscles beneath the fabric of his sweater. Even his pants are sitting on his hips suggestively, and I wonder if that’s purposeful or just part of his frustratingly natural attractiveness.
    “Have I let myself go?” I wonder out loud. It never occurred to me to look and until I saw my reflection before dinner tonight I don’t even think I remembered what I looked like. Nick steps forward and reaches out his hands for my waist slipping his fingers around my hips and pulling me toward him until I’m just inches away.
    “You’ve never looked better.” The way he’s staring at me… No one has or could ever do the things he does to me with just a look. Not that I would have noticed if anyone else had even tried.
    “Are you going to kiss me again?”
    Nick’s eyes are darker, filled with unspoken intent.