Indies POV,,
I wear my new band tee out of the store.
"Now this," I say, pulling at the hem of the shirt as Luke and I walk out of Double-Take, "is way more my style than that awful sequined thing was."
Luke laughs loudly. "I still think it's brilliant that we're dressed exactly the same."
"Yeah, it's pretty great," I say, grinning. I take the car keys out of the pocket of my shorts and hit the button to unlock the doors.
Luke reaches out and takes the car keys from me.
"Let me drive this time," he says.
"What? No way, this is my car," I say. I try to take the keys back, but he holds his arm up, and since I'm so short, I can't reach.
"You don't trust me not to wreck your truck?" Luke asks, smirking.
"You're from Australia."
"What does that have to do with my driving ability?"
"You drive on the wrong side of the road there," I say. I jump for the keys, but Luke raises his arm even higher and miss his hand my several inches.
"So you think I can't drive an American car? Indie, I'm offended."
I jump again. "That's not what I said."
He grins and starts walking to the truck, still holding the keys.
"I'm driving," he says.
"Luke, give me the keys!" I say, but he only laughs and slides into the front seat of the truck.
Luke rolls down the passenger seat window, grinning at me. "You gonna get in the car or what?"
I put my hands on my hips and raise my eyebrows. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He pats the faded, worn-out leather on the passenger seat. "C'mon, Indie, get in the car."
I stare critically at him for a minute, on the verge of telling him that there's no way on earth I'm letting him drive my truck, but then I meet his blue eyes and all my skepticism simply melts away, though I try to cling to it. Darn it. Why does he have to be so cute?
"If you wreck my truck, you're buying me a new one," I say as I pull the car door open and slide into the passenger seat.
Luke laughs. "I'm not going to wreck your truck," he says as he puts the keys in the ignition. The truck roars to life and He pulls away from the curb, merging smoothly with the oncoming traffic.
"Where are you driving us, anyway?" I ask.
"Er, I dunno. I just wanted to drive."
I raise my eyebrows again. "Really?"
"Yeah." A red light flashes and Luke brings the car to a halt. He glances at me. "Where should we go?"
"Um—" I'm very aware of the red light I can see in my peripheral vision, silently pressuring me to say something before it turns green again.
"I'm starving," I say, saying the first thing that pops into my head. "Can we get something to eat?"
"You read my mind," Luke says just as the light turns green.
Twenty minutes later, after a very indecisive conversation about what we want to eat, several illegal U-turns, and an almost-collision with a Prius who tried to steal the parking spot we clearly got to first, Luke and I find ourselves sitting at a white-tableclothed table in a quaint Italian restaurant that's only a few blocks away from my ballet studio, but that I've never seen in my life. It's small and cramped, but clearly popular. We took the last empty table in the place, and almost immediately after we sat down, at least five couples walked into the restaurant. Our table is in the corner, wedged between the front window and the door to the kitchen; the door hits the back of my chair every time a waiter walks out carrying a tray of food.
"Do you want to move tables?" Luke asks the fifth time this happens, just after we've ordered our food.
"To where? All the other tables are taken," I say. "I'm fine. It isn't a big deal."
"Here, I know. I'll switch seats with you."
"What, so you can get hit with the door instead?"
"Yup," Luke says cheerfully, standing up. "That's what a guy is supposed to do on a date, right? Be all chivalrous and stuff so his girl has a good time?"
My heart flutters when he says "his girl." I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, that's how he thinks of me. I have to say, I wouldn't mind it if he did.
"Luke, I'm fine, really," I say, feeling my cheeks turn pink.
He folds his arms across his chest. "I'm not sitting down again unless you switch seats with me."
His deliberately raises his voice when he says this and people all around the restaurant turn and stare at us. A few of them raise their eyebrows at me.
"You're so obnoxious," I say, quickly standing up and moving to Luke's vacated seat.
"Only when I have to be," he says, grinning.
We get through the breadsticks (a/n indie why are you eating your date?!!!!) and appetizers in peace; we crack a lot of jokes and other restaurant patrons stare at us a lot because we laugh so loudly and frequently. My stomach seems to be a constant riot of butterflies through the whole conversation, and I can't stop smiling. Guys don't often make me feel like this—but with Luke, it's just so easy. Effortless, even.
Luke gets lasagna and I get grilled chicken salad for our main courses. The food's excellent, and for a few minutes, we're both silent as we eat the food. When I'm about halfway through my salad, I happen to glance out the window. I see a cluster of two or three girls standing across the street, whispering nervously to each other and glancing back and forth from each other to the restaurant and then back again. I'm about to brush it off, when I see one of the girls pull an iPhone from her pocket and hold it up, like she's taking a picture of the restaurant window.
My insides freeze. It shouldn't be a surprise, I guess, that girls are noticing Luke and taking pictures—he's a member of an internationally famous band, after all. But those pictures are sure to get posted on the Internet, maybe even get leaked to a magazine or something—and if my dad somehow sees them, I'll be in huge trouble. He's very, very picky about me hanging out with guys, particularly when it comes to guys I date. The last time he caught me going on a date with a guy I hadn't told him about, the bruises didn't fade for nearly six weeks.
Dad probably won't see those pictures anyway, I think, as the other girls pull out their phones, too. He doesn't surf the net. He'd only see them if they showed up in a magazine or a newspaper or something, and that won't happen. Besides, I think, in a further attempt to calm myself down, we don't even really look like we're going on a date, anyway. It's not like we're holding hands or anything.
Just as I think this, Luke suddenly reaches out and starts to take my hand, the one that's resting, open and empty, on the table. His hand is so, so warm, and soft, too; my burst is pounding with excitement and pleasure, but out of the corner of my eye, I can still see the girls with their phones.
It takes all the willpower I possess, but I pull my hand away. Luke's face immediately crumples, though I can tell he's trying as hard as he can to hide it.
"It's not you," I say quickly, feeling awful about making him look that way and wanting to make that expression go away. "It's just—there are girls across the street taking pictures."
He glances at them and then back at me. His faces is only slightly less crumpled, so I elaborate, "It's just—those are sure to get on the Internet, and if my dad sees them—"
"Is he protective?" he asks.
That's one way to describe it. "Yeah."
"Oh. Well, I get that," Luke says. His face loses some of its crumpled look, but he still looks a bit disappointed.
"If it's any consolation," I say, feeling rather bad, "I would've held your hand if they weren't there."
Luke smiles so widely that my cheeks burn red. "Really?" he asks.
I nod, smiling too. "Really."
He smiles even wider, if that's even possible. "What if there was a way to hold hands without them seeing?"
I raise my eyebrows, my face still hot. "How?"
"Put your hand under the table," he says.
"What?"
"Just do it."
Skeptically, I slide my open hand under the white tablecloth. For a second, nothing happens. Then, I feel Luke's long fingers intertwine with my own. My cheeks burn even more.
"How's that?" he asks, smiling.
I smile back. "Perfect."
We spend the rest of the meal holding hands under the table.
Lukes POV,,
Indie drops me off in front of my hotel about an hour later, and I walk into my room feeling lighter than air, singing "Hey Everybody" under my breath—it's been stuck in my head since we left Double-Take.
"Luke's singing after a date," Calum calls loudly as I throw my hotel key and shoes on the coffee table, still singing. He's sitting on the couch scrolling through TV channels and I can hear Ashton and Michael rummaging around in the kitchen.
"Uh-oh," says Michael.
"He needs a dollar but he ain't got enough it's not the end of the world yeah, we've all been there before and it goes oh—"
"Is he seriously singing our song?" Ashton says.
"Hey everybody," I belt, "we don't have to live this way—"
"Okay, Luke, we get it, you like her. Quit singing that song."
"We can all get some yeah we can all get paid," I bellow as I go into the bedroom and collapse on the bed.
I find myself staring at the ceiling, looking at the chandelier hanging there. The tiny little crystals hanging from its gilded gold frame catch the light, sending glittering lights all across the walls. It reminds me of Indie's eyes, how bright they are, how they shine with laughter, how they catch the light like jewels. Indie. It all comes back to Indie.
Suddenly, Ashton's, Calum's, and Michael's faces are all hovering above mine, blocking my view of the chandelier.
"Well?" says Ashton. "How was the date?"
I sigh. "Perfect," I say. "Absolutely perfect."
"Oh, Cupid got him good," Michael says.
"You'd have to be crazy not to like her," I say, thinking of the way she smiled and blushed after I held her hand under the dinner table. "Absolutely crazy."
"Well, you've got another date with her soon, don't you?"
"I said I'd call her after I figured out what our schedule was." But honestly, I'd skip an interview if it was the only time she could see me. I'd do a lot of things if it meant seeing her again. But I don't plan on telling the boys that.
Almost as though he knew what I was thinking, Calum says, "Just don't forget that we're here for promotion and interviews and stuff, okay? Not a girl."
"I know that," I say. "I'm focused, guys, I promise."
But when the boys leave and go back to their TV watching or whatever it was they were doing before, I just lie there and stare at the ceiling and watch the crystals on the chandelier, thinking about Indie's eyes and anxiously anticipating the time I'll get to see her again.
a/n this chapters dedicated to @justcausemendes because shes so sweet. hope y'all like it :-)
-allison
word count- 1,993