So I Married A Rockstar - Season 2

Ch. 12: Higher Than Giraffe Tits

Over the next few days, we settled into a routine. I dodged calls, texts, and emails from Louise Hoffman, while Finn disappeared to his music room for several hours a day, but the rest of the time we talked, played games, and ate meals together, and it felt strangely normal, almost like we'd been doing this all along.

Neither of us brought up the sizzling attraction that I knew we both felt. It was the elephant in the room that we skirted around, but every day it felt like it was getting bigger. Soon, we wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore.

One afternoon, when Finn was spending longer than normal in his music room, I decided that I'd use music to entertain myself too. I didn't mean to bring up any of Finn's songs, but they featured so heavily in my playlists that stumbling onto them was inevitable.

I'd plugged in my earphones, because it felt a bit weird to play Finn's music in his house, but once my absolute favourite tune came on, I couldn't help singing along, completely forgetting that Finn would be able to hear it.

I was out of my chair and shaking my ass in what was probably a very uncoordinated way, when movement shifted in my periphery and I glanced towards the kitchen. Finn was leaning on the island unit, trying and mostly failing to hold back a smile.

My immediate reaction was embarrassment. My dancing was as bad as my singing, and not generally something I wanted anyone to see, let alone the ridiculously hot rockstar that I was trying not to fantasise over. The fact that I was butchering one of said rockstar's own songs was the cherry on the cake of cringe.

My second reaction was that I couldn't undo the eyesore that Finn had just seen, so I might as well own it.

"Enjoying the show?" I said, putting one hand on my hip.

Finn's lips twitched. "It was an experience."

"Consider it a tribute," I said.

"It sounded more like a punishment."

"Ouch." I returned to my seat and folded my arms, fixing Finn with a challenging look. "Okay, then, Mr Big Shot Rockstar. Why don't you show me how it's done?"

Finn's smile broadened, a hint of that old arrogance touching his lips. "Wait," he told me.

"For what?" I asked, but he was already walking out of the room.

I waited in my chair, anticipation thrumming in my veins, until I heard the footsteps that signalled Finn's return. He walked into the room, and my tongue just about flopped out of my mouth.

He was wearing the ripped jeans from my dream, and though he wore a black T-shirt rather than that grey vest, I was still seeing my most erotic fantasies come to life. His hair was messier than usual, as if he'd raked his fingers through it, and black liner was smudged around his lashes, making his eyes smoky and dramatic.

Fuck me sideways. It should have been illegal for anyone to look that fucking good.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was the way he prowled towards me, a swagger in his step, a dark promise in his eyes. That was the look a man gave a woman when he was about to make sure she couldn't walk straight for a week.

My mouth was drier than the Sahara. Other parts of me were wetter than the Amazon rainforest.

Finn pulled his phone from his pocket, and tapped the screen a couple of times. A steady guitar riff filled the room – one I immediately recognised. "Up From Hell" – one of my favourites from Finn's last album.

He prowled closer, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips slightly parted, and my knees fell open a little on pure instinct.

When the vocals on the track were meant to kick in, they didn't; instead, Finn started to sing.