Read Online LOW: A Rockstar Romance by Vivian Lux - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vivian Lux
Ads: Link
suggestion. It was one of expectation.
When it cut to commercial, I looked around and realized that sometime in the past thirty seconds I had slid to the floor. I was now barely two feet from the television.
When the commercial was over, he was on set, sitting across from the anchors. He already had them laughing.
And I was already smiling from ear to ear.
"Here with us today is Lowell Stowe..."
"Low," he interjected, reaching for his mug. Then he smiled and I felt my insides drop. The way he slid his tongue over his lower lip was so disarming that the female anchor nearly dropped her pen.
Holy shit, it was him . I reached for my phone, and just for good measure, I swiped to the pictures he had taken and held them up to compare. Same strangely warm eyes. Same lazy smile. Same dark hair, thick and glossy, that fell in a shock across his face when he leaned forward, forcing him to run his long fingers through it again and again.
The guy on the TV was the guy who had texted me.
Me.
It was enough to make me forget that this entire sad year of failure ever happened. My shell was falling to pieces, all around me.
I pressed the tips of my fingers to my lips and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. It was something charming, that was for sure. The female anchor was laughing very loudly and batting her eyelashes at him. He took another sip from his mug.
And then the camera panned away and a car commercial blared in my face.
It was over. I sat back on my heels, wondering why I felt so crestfallen.
"You're up early."
I nearly jumped a mile to hear my mother's voice over my shoulder. I had been so lost in what I was seeing that I hadn't even noticed her come down the stairs, much less enter the room. I scrambled up off of the floor and hit a bunch of buttons on the side of the TV at once, too addled to look for the remote. The picture on the screen turned hypercolor but did not go away.
Why did I feel guilty? Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar?
"Just enjoying the quiet," I stammered, taking a deep, steadying breath and reaching for the remote. The show was back on, closing credits appearing over a shot of Low, walking off the set, waving to the ardently cheering crowd. I felt like standing and applauding myself.
My mom shook her head. "I need more caffeine in my system before I can even begin to try to figure out what you're up to right now," she said, and turned to stagger, zombielike, into the kitchen.
I sat back on the couch, clutching my ice-cold mug.
Then my phone started to ring. I spilled my coffee across the couch, cursed, grabbed the throw blanket off the back, used it to mop up the spill and then answered my phone all in the space of about ten seconds. "Hello?" I said breathlessly, giving the coffee soaked blanket a sharp kick in the direction of the laundry room.
"Did you watch?" he asked, by way of greeting.
At the sound of his voice, low, slow, and sleepy, and even better, just for me, my whole body when into high alert. My palms began to sweat, sending my phone sliding down my cheek. I let out an impatient little squawk, grappling with my phone, which seemed to suddenly be coated with Teflon. When I finally jammed the thing back into my ear, he was laughing. "You okay over there?"
"Yes, sorry," I breathed. "But, to answer your question, yes. Yes, I did watch." I sounded way more bitchy and sarcastic than I meant to be. This was the first time he and I had actually used the phone to talk to each other. I missed the breathing room that texting gave me to think over my replies. I was much better in print than I was in person.
"I don't believe you," he teased.
"Well, how the heck am I supposed to prove it to you?" I demanded, keeping my voice low. "I am sitting here, in my living room, with Good Day LA still on." I turned up the volume and held out the phone for him to hear the music.
"Yeah, no, you could have just turned it on right now when I called," he said skeptically. He
When it cut to commercial, I looked around and realized that sometime in the past thirty seconds I had slid to the floor. I was now barely two feet from the television.
When the commercial was over, he was on set, sitting across from the anchors. He already had them laughing.
And I was already smiling from ear to ear.
"Here with us today is Lowell Stowe..."
"Low," he interjected, reaching for his mug. Then he smiled and I felt my insides drop. The way he slid his tongue over his lower lip was so disarming that the female anchor nearly dropped her pen.
Holy shit, it was him . I reached for my phone, and just for good measure, I swiped to the pictures he had taken and held them up to compare. Same strangely warm eyes. Same lazy smile. Same dark hair, thick and glossy, that fell in a shock across his face when he leaned forward, forcing him to run his long fingers through it again and again.
The guy on the TV was the guy who had texted me.
Me.
It was enough to make me forget that this entire sad year of failure ever happened. My shell was falling to pieces, all around me.
I pressed the tips of my fingers to my lips and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. It was something charming, that was for sure. The female anchor was laughing very loudly and batting her eyelashes at him. He took another sip from his mug.
And then the camera panned away and a car commercial blared in my face.
It was over. I sat back on my heels, wondering why I felt so crestfallen.
"You're up early."
I nearly jumped a mile to hear my mother's voice over my shoulder. I had been so lost in what I was seeing that I hadn't even noticed her come down the stairs, much less enter the room. I scrambled up off of the floor and hit a bunch of buttons on the side of the TV at once, too addled to look for the remote. The picture on the screen turned hypercolor but did not go away.
Why did I feel guilty? Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar?
"Just enjoying the quiet," I stammered, taking a deep, steadying breath and reaching for the remote. The show was back on, closing credits appearing over a shot of Low, walking off the set, waving to the ardently cheering crowd. I felt like standing and applauding myself.
My mom shook her head. "I need more caffeine in my system before I can even begin to try to figure out what you're up to right now," she said, and turned to stagger, zombielike, into the kitchen.
I sat back on the couch, clutching my ice-cold mug.
Then my phone started to ring. I spilled my coffee across the couch, cursed, grabbed the throw blanket off the back, used it to mop up the spill and then answered my phone all in the space of about ten seconds. "Hello?" I said breathlessly, giving the coffee soaked blanket a sharp kick in the direction of the laundry room.
"Did you watch?" he asked, by way of greeting.
At the sound of his voice, low, slow, and sleepy, and even better, just for me, my whole body when into high alert. My palms began to sweat, sending my phone sliding down my cheek. I let out an impatient little squawk, grappling with my phone, which seemed to suddenly be coated with Teflon. When I finally jammed the thing back into my ear, he was laughing. "You okay over there?"
"Yes, sorry," I breathed. "But, to answer your question, yes. Yes, I did watch." I sounded way more bitchy and sarcastic than I meant to be. This was the first time he and I had actually used the phone to talk to each other. I missed the breathing room that texting gave me to think over my replies. I was much better in print than I was in person.
"I don't believe you," he teased.
"Well, how the heck am I supposed to prove it to you?" I demanded, keeping my voice low. "I am sitting here, in my living room, with Good Day LA still on." I turned up the volume and held out the phone for him to hear the music.
"Yeah, no, you could have just turned it on right now when I called," he said skeptically. He
Similar Books
