Strut the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #4)

26. Practice

26

Practice

I’d always imagined Zack would live in some kind of frat house with shoddy siding and a decent porch, surrounded by guys who walked around in muscle shirts and boxer shorts on lazy Sundays. They’d drink beer and play video games, maybe set up a competitive dart or ping-pong area.

But his home, or at least the place he sent me to, was disarmingly tame. A few snowcapped hedges lined up under simple, framed windows. It looked like any one of the small, single-family houses on the street I grew up on. We could’ve been neighbors. It shouldn’t have been surprising, considering we went to the same high school, and yet it was still surreal to me.

I tugged my cropped, studded, leather jacket tighter around my chest and clomped past cars in the driveway to the sidewinding walkway. It snowed last night, so he must’ve shoveled early this morning. That was nice of him. It was probably his early-morning workout, some kind of gentlemen’s duty.

I rapped my knuckles on the white door and waited. There were no interior noises, no music, nothing indicating a rock band or human was present. An old-school doorbell beckoned me on the right of the door frame. I wasn’t touching that. It was way too intrusive. Instead, I texted Zack.

Me: Here

I stuck my hands under my arms and shivered. How long was he going to keep me waiting? I shuffled sideways to peer through the window. All I could make out was wood flooring, a few miscellaneous cleaning supplies, and a long, somewhat yellowed, flowery rug. Not my first guess for his interior welcome mat.

A door smacked open, and Zack’s voice thundered through the walls. “Coming.”

I stuck my phone in my pocket and tried to look unaffected.

He thrust the door open, warmth from inside rushing out to envelop me. He panted out, “Hey.” His lip ticked up as his gaze raked my outfit. “I didn’t realize it was Halloween.”

I smacked his arm and pushed my way inside. “You told me to be ready to rock.”

“I didn’t mean literally.” He chuckled, closing the door behind me.

The weather was cold enough without comments like that on an outfit I’d painstakingly put together. I glared at him and brushed off my stitched sleeves. “Well, thanks for leaving me out there to freeze.”

“Who told you to wear a metal-infused jacket in the snow? This thing could cause an injury.” He jokingly punched at the studs and my back.

My stomach fluttered. “You are so annoying.” I pawed back at him, the two of us batting at each other’s clothes like kittens trying to get attention. It was fun. Almost flirting. To footballers, though, this was probably just playful roughhousing.

He flipped up my collar. “You know, you didn’t have to dress up just to hang with me.”

Oh, did he think I was being inauthentic again? I smoothed the collar down and scuffed my boots on the rug to get rid of any snow. “Yeah, well, I figured since we’re filming…”

“Right.” He tugged his ear and glanced down the hall. “I’ll take you downstairs to officially meet the band. Oh, and, uh, they know about us, so don’t worry about that.”

I grabbed his wrist in a panic. “Wait, do they know , or do they think they know?”

He furrowed his brow and glanced up. “They think they know,” he said slowly.

“Okay. So, if they’re your friends, I should try to make a good impression. We can use them as practice for meeting your fam.” I rearranged my clothes and hair, ducking to catch my reflection in a nearby, low-hanging mirror.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Zack took my hand and warmed my raw, frozen fingers. “If anyone gives you attitude, you can throw your jacket at them.”

“Only if I can’t find any lemons,” I joked.

We grinned at each other, my heart swooping along with my stomach as we descended into a dimly lit basement. Low chatter between his bandmates made my pulse race with nerves I hadn’t experienced since my first college mixer. For some stupid reason, I wanted these people to like me. Maybe this jacket was too much. They’d probably think I was a desperate fangirl, especially after I cheered at their last gig.

Palms sweating, I turned my attention to the walls to plan the best backdrop for our shoot. His family must’ve hung old childhood artwork and posters from various bands and TV shows. It kinda served as a developmental timeline for Zack. Teeth chattering, I dragged my feet amid the surreal, modern art museum quality of the history hanging here. What did Zack’s interpretation of the tooth fairy as a no-nonsense woman in gloves say about him?

But then a bed under the stairs caught my eye–and a dresser with donuts on top of it. Did he live down here?

He squeezed my hand and led me past retro workout equipment to his band. The drummer was in a bold print shirt, spinning idly on his stool, while the other guy lounged in flannel pants on an old beige sofa, his instrument propped against the arm. They looked casual, almost unwashed. Did he not tell them we’d be filming?

He jerked his chin at them. “Hey, this is Nicole.”

“Hey,” they chorused.

“Wow, that was almost in harmony,” I said. My chest tightened at the bad joke, but at least Zack snorted a laugh.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

“We’re not that bad,” the drummer amended.

“We’re not that good either,” he said.

“We need more practice,” lumberjack-flannel guy said pointedly, picking splinters out of his hands.

The drummer shrugged. “We’re just having fun. Zack’s already got three jobs. The band doesn’t need to be another one for any of us.”

“Three?” I tucked my toes behind my heel when the bandmates eyed me. “Fancee’s, the bar, and…?”

“Shoveling. Er, landscaping. It’s seasonal, though. It’s nothing.” He rubbed his ear on his shoulder.

“Nothing?” Lumberjack bristled.

It didn’t seem like nothing.

Zack abandoned my side for his guitar. “I mean it’s not steady.”

Lumberjack frowned. “He didn’t tell you about his other jobs?”

I pulled my collar, hoping the studs on my jacket would protect me like a hedgehog’s quills. “We only just started dating. His work doesn’t leave much time for chit-chat, either, which is why I’m happy he’s at Fancee’s with me.”

The drummer grinned at my outfit and rubbed his goatee. “Maybe your style will rub off on him. So, why do you work at the mall? I thought you were a model.”

“Oh, I am.” Didn’t I look like one? “But it’s not a steady gig either. I like to keep busy, keep hustling. That’s probably part of why we’re compatible.” If he knew about my side gig selling feet pics, he’d probably shovel me right out the door. I grimace-smiled at Zack. This wasn’t going over as easily as he’d said it would.

“Sit down.” He pointed to the couch with the neck of his guitar. “I mean, you can.”

“Gee, thanks.” I teased. My swagger evaporated as I sank onto the old sofa, my spine straight so the studs on my jacket didn’t press too hard into my skin.

Zack fiddled with his instrument. “Okay, Lance, if you'd actually like to practice…"

“I’m coming.” Lumberjack Lance slid past me without making eye contact.

The drummer leaned over. “Don’t worry, we do a reduced set for girlfriends.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want them getting bored. Any requests?” the lumberjack asked, his tone flat.

“Um…” My mind went blank. I couldn’t think of a single classic rock artist, nor their prior setlist. Was this a test? “I doubt you’d do any Stylin’ Myles, so how about…” My gaze flitted to Zack’s barely concealed scowl. “KISS?”

“KISS?” Lumberjack Lance glanced at the drummer and Zack, his tone considerably lighter. “I guess we could do one of their songs.”

Zack flashed me a smile, pride glinting off his dark eyes and swelling my lungs. My insides twisted tighter than boot laces. I passed the test. All we needed was a little KISS.