Josh froze in surprise before letting out a resigned laugh. “Of course she did. When?”
Heather lifted a shoulder. “Last night. She brought you lasagna.”
“Ah, right. Trevor and I were out grabbing a drink. So, you coming?”
Heather frowned. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
She stared at him. “Because it’s a family holiday. A big one. And I’m not family.”
He lifted his wineglass. “You have other plans?”
She bit her lip. “No. My mom isn’t coming this year.”
“Perfect.” He lifted his glass. “You’ll come to my folks’. The dinner will be mediocre, but the pie’s magnificent.”
“Well, it is all about the pie,” she said hesitantly.
He winked. “Exactly. Speaking of baked goods, when are we making our banana bread?”
“We don’t have a banana bread,” she said, taking a small sip of her wine, and then another.
“I’ve dutifully followed you all around the city to plan the wedding of my ex. And let’s not forget that I made your friends brunch yesterday and did your shopping. There’s definitely going to be a banana bread.”
And sex. Please let there be sex.
“You know what? Fine,” she said, taking another sip of wine and seeming to relax slightly. “You just say the word, and we’ll make the damn bread.”
“I think I like this agreeable version of you. Would now be a good time to call in other favors?”
“If that’s your way of negotiating more band practice, the answer’s no. Always no. Also, I noticed it’s been just you playing lately. Where are the guys?”
“Listening in on me, were we?”
“Avoiding the question, are we?” she shot back.
Damn. He was avoiding the question.
He wasn’t ashamed of canceling practices lately, although he was perhaps a little embarrassed that he’d made up a white lie about having a female companion in order to do so.
The truth was, he hadn’t had female company in . . . weeks. Was that right? Hell.
As far as why he’d canceled practice—no clue other than the fact that he just wasn’t feeling it. He’d wanted to play music, but not under the pretense of his group being the next Stones.
He’d wanted to play the music just for him.
And for his nosy neighbor, apparently.
“You ever just . . . need a minute?”
Heather cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
Josh rolled his shoulders, feeling foolish. “I don’t know. Forget it.”
She reached across the table, her fingers stopping just short of touching his hand, and he had a fierce and strange wish that she’d complete the gesture and make contact.
“You okay?” she asked.
He winked. “I’m always okay.”
She merely stared back at him with a steady gaze that quietly called bullshit.
“I like your voice, you know.”
His wineglass froze halfway to his lips. “Why, thank you, 4C.”
“No, I mean . . . I really like it. Better than your lead singer’s voice.”
Josh studied her. “Trevor’s voice is perfectly suited for the songs I write.”
“Only some of the songs you write,” she argued. “The loud, bang-the-drum noisy ones.”
He laughed. “Such high praise.”
“The ballads. Those are better suited to your voice.”
Josh winced. “I don’t write ballads.”
“Well, what would you call them?” she asked softly. “The quieter ones like I heard you singing last night. They’re slow. Pretty.”
“Okay,” he said, pointing at her with his wineglass. “We can call them ballads, but we’re not calling them pretty.”
She smiled. “I think you like those songs best, too.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, picking up his menu and holding it in front of his face to block her prying gaze.
Heather snatched it away. “Why’d you cancel band practice last night?”
“Because I had a woman come over,” he snapped, the lie rolling off his tongue before he could think better of it. He instantly felt like shit. Lying to the guys about this was one thing. It was what guys did.