Following Me by Linde, K.A. (good e books to read txt) 📕

It wasn’t styled like it had beenyesterday.  Today, it looked more like he had just rolled out of bed, but in agood way.  He was humming something to his own tune, but Devon couldn’t makeout the song.

She knew that she shouldn’t bewatching him like this.  It was rude, and surely he would notice, which wouldbe truly embarrassing.  She was just having a hard time pulling her eyes away.

It was strange to say the least. He was the kind of guy her sister, Dani, would fall all over herself for.  Shewould flaunt herself in front of him until he noticed her, and in Dani’s case,it didn’t take very much time for guys to notice her.  Her mother had jokedabout Devon being the difficult one, but that was only because she had boycottedcowboy boots and her Dixie nickname, but Dani was the one her mother needed toworry about.  Dani still traipsed about in too short sundresses, and she hadearned the name Pearl from half the guys in school for good reason.  It wasslightly disturbing since she was only seventeen and a senior in high school. Devon was terrified of her going off to college, especially since she hadchosen a big state school.

Devon wasn’t the one to getcaught up in a guy’s appearance, especially with Reid back in St. Louis.  No,she didn’t even want to think about St. Louis right now.  Brennan was nice tolook at, that was all.

Brennan turned around then andlooked right at her.  Her cheeks instantly colored when he caught her staring. He didn’t do anything more than smirk before she buried herself in the menu shehadn’t yet touched.

Devon felt his eyes linger onher, and the feeling wouldn’t leave.  She wasn’t used to being under scrutiny. She pondered whether he had felt her eyes staring so heavily, if it had beenthat obvious.  She glanced back up when her cheeks weren’t flaming hot.

Brennan smiled at her, walkedback over, and leaned both of his elbows on the bar like he had doneyesterday.  “You want something to drink?”

“Just water, please,” Devon said,averting her eyes.

Brennan poured her drink andhanded it over.  “Were you here yesterday?” he asked, returning to hisposition.

“Yeah.”  Devon nodded.  Shefolded her menu, removing her diversion.  “I was here with Hadley.”

“I knew you looked familiar. You’re the little Southern belle.”

“Devon,” she corrected.

“Right.  How’d you end up with afriend like Hadley?” he asked.

“What does that mean?”  Was heinsulting her roommate of two-and-a-half years?

“Don’t take this the wrong way,but you’re a square, and she colors outside of the lines.”

Incredulously, Devon looked up athim.  “How could I not take that the wrong way?”

“Because I told you in advancenot to,” Brennan said, shrugging.

“Telling me in advance impliesthat I’m going to take it the wrong way.  It totally negates everything you sayafter that,” she told him, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s too early to be negatingthis and implying that.  I’m a bartender.  Order a shot,” Brennan said.

He didn’t back away as she glaredat him.

“I think you can imply and negatewith the rest of us.”  Devon flipped her pen between her fingers faster.

“Can and will are differentthings,” he said, stepping back.  He walked over to the bar, pulled out twoshot glasses, and filled them with tequila.  After he passed one over to her,he set a napkin on the countertop and placed two limes on it.  “You keepflipping your pen like that, you’re going to cause a nervous breakdown.  Now,drink up.”

Devon sighed.  This was a badidea, especially after last night.  But the shot didn’t feel like it came witha choice.  Rather, it felt like a challenge.

“Salt?” she asked.  If she wasgoing to do it, she was going to do it right.

Brennan placed the salt on thecounter.  She licked the skin in between her thumb and forefinger and held herhand out to him.  He smirked at her, and then without any further prompting, hepoured some salt onto the spot.  He did the same to himself.

“Are we toasting to anything?”Devon asked because she couldn’t help herself.

“Nope,” Brennan said, picking uphis shot.

She did the same, clinked herglass against his, and then tipped back the tequila.  Devon gagged as theburning liquid rushed down her throat.  She reached for the lime and sucked onit until the fire cooled.

Brennan chuckled softly as hetossed his lime and cleaned up the shots.  “Now, what do you want to eat?”

Devon flipped her pen around. When she realized she was doing it again, she placed the pen on the counter. “I’m not picky.  Anything without mayo.  Whatever you like.”

“Huh,” he said, taking her menu.

“What?”  She licked her lips andeyed him apprehensively.

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

What was his angle?  Shecouldn’t figure it out.  That was the second time he had seemed to assess herin some way that she couldn’t figure out.

Brennan walked back into thekitchen.  When he didn’t reappear, she wondered what he was doing back there.  Washe goofing off with the waitress?  It didn’t seem likely.  It wasn’t thatshe expected him to stay out here and talk to her or anything.  She had hatedforced conversations with her customers, but she hadn’t thought theirconversation was forced.

Shrugging, she pulled out hernotebook and flipped it open to the page she had been working on when she’dbeen at The Bean with Garrett.  It had flowed so easily then.  Shewished writing was always like that.  Sometimes, it felt like she was trying toforce her way out of quicksand.

As much as writing was a release,she kind of hated it.  She felt like she relied on it to express herself.  Whenshe thought about it, she figured it kept her voice subdued.  She didn’t needto yell or scream or cry out at anyone when she could do all that on paper. She could pour every emotion onto paper until she felt like she was bleeding. It wasn’t enough.  It was never enough, but it helped.  It helped keep herwalls up.

More than anything, she wishedshe didn’t have the same skill as her parents.  Because when the words flowedout of her, they weren’t a perfect flowing script, a well-crafted novel, oreven something as simple as a journal.  They were lyrics.  All of her writingcame out in the form of a song.  What made it