Read Online Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart by Tiffany Truitt - Free Book Online Page B

that play everywhere that is “Scottish” except Scotland. We live off amusement park renderings, and Bean’s Little Catherine sounds like the real thing.
    “It’s so simple, but so complex at the same time,” Annabel pipes in, breaking my inner monologue. I’m sort of a dick about listening to music. The whole world falls away when I first dive into a song, and I tend to forget if there are other people in the room, but Annabel’s words seem to come straight from my own head, pulling me from my Kenneth Branaghing.
    “The instruments are what’s simple. Simple chords. Simple rhythms. But her voice is so powerful…where she chooses to take her pauses says as much as where she chooses to push through the notes,” Annabel continues.
    In that second, I think about shoving my deadlines up my editor’s ass and kissing Annabel Lee. I can say with 100 percent certainty it’s the first time the thought has ever crossed my mind. I can’t be blamed. Not entirely. ’Cause if ever a girl gave me a hard-on by simply talking about a song, it was in this moment. I’ve been around a lot of girls who said they dig music, but they never talked about it like that. Annabel saw what others didn’t.
    I shift my body so I’m leaning against the record stand, staring down at her profile. She looks straight ahead, slowly bouncing her head up and down to the tune. The moon shines through the window of the shop, blasting off her red hair like a copper penny lying on the road on a blazing summer day. Suddenly, her head turns slightly and her eyes find mine.
    In all the years I’ve known Annabel Lee—granted, most of them at a distance because I was afraid she’d rip off my balls for what I did—I’ve never looked at her like this. Nor have I ever seen this particular expression on her face. It’s hard to describe. It’s like a record I’ve listened to my whole life played backward.
    And with one damn rat, the moment is gone.
    I’m not sure if I want to catch the damn thing and drown it in poison or give it a kiss. “Please tell me that was not what I think it was,” Annabel demands, pointing to where we both know a rat scurried by.
    “How about those photos?” I suggest, quickly stepping away from her to grab my camera from its bag.
    Hero. The rat is a hero. I was going to kiss this girl, and it would have been a nuclear mistake.
    “What do you want me to take pictures of?” Annabel asks, pulling tight on her ponytail.
    “Anything. Everything. Whatever you want,” I say, holding the camera toward her.
    Annabel reaches forward but quickly pulls back. She bites on that dangerous bottom lip of hers and looks up at me. “I don’t know. It feels kind of weird using someone else’s camera.”
    “Come on, a camera is a camera,” I reply.
    “Would Jimmy Page say a guitar is just a guitar?” she counters, raising an eyebrow.
    Really? A Jimmy Page reference? That’s like a metaphorical nip slip. I grab her hand, place the camera in it, and take a step away from her. “I would have told you to bring your own camera, but I thought it might have tipped you off that I was planning on kidnapping you and murdering you, or that I wasn’t just there to give you back your picture. One of the two.”
    If Annabel noticed my need to put distance between us, she certainly doesn’t show it. She goes to work examining the camera. Her hands move around it, adjusting and playing, and it’s not long before I have to turn and begin to examine the decaying posters on the wall. How gentle she is with the camera, and yet there isn’t an ounce of shyness about her. She is confident with it. Despite her pleas otherwise, Annabel is the master of it.
    This is the Annabel I remember. Zero fucks given about things like fear.
    The click of the shutter makes me jump, and I pray to Kanye that she didn’t notice. I’ve escaped full schmuck status too many times tonight, and soon I know she’s going to figure me out. Fate gives a guy only so many