“Oh yeah? How long’s it been?”

“I’ll only answer that question if you answer it first,” I threw back.

Trev’s eyes twinkled at the challenge. He took his time pulling the slice of tomato out of his burger, then said, “Almost seven months. I haven’t been with anyone since I broke up with Nicole.”

Well, that was interesting. “You ever hear from her?”

He shook his head. “No. And I won’t. She’s clever enough to know to stay away. She’ll never get anything else from me, monetary or otherwise.”

I swallowed down a bite, well believing it. Trev could come across like a fun-loving, amiable bloke, but I knew he had a darker side. He’d spent his formative years stealing cars for one of London’s most powerful crime lords, after all. I guess if he’d shown any of this side to Nicole after she pulled her fake sex tape stunt, she’d have run a mile and never looked back.

“Nice change of subject, by the way,” Trev commented.

I narrowed my gaze, a smile tugging at my lips. “Glad you’re impressed.”

He stared me down and I relented with a sigh. “Fine. I beat you anyway. I haven’t been with anyone in just under a year. Go me.”

Trev let out a low whistle. “A year? How do you manage it?”

I arched a wry brow. “How do you?”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

We ate in quiet for a few minutes. Trev had almost finished his burger when he eyed me curiously. “You remember that bloke you slept with? The one who looked like me?”

I shot a look at the ceiling. “Is this sex-life embarrassment day or something?”

“Yes, it’s now a national holiday,” said Trev, amused.

I scowled at him. “Funny. And yes, I remember him, why?”

“I did it, too.”

“You did what, too?”

“Slept with someone who looked like you.” He cleared his throat. “A few someones, actually.”

My heart pulsed. “When?”

“After we broke up. You kind of ruined me for everyone else. I’ve only been able to get it up for curvy girls with dark hair ever since,” he said, all matter of fact.

“You’re lying.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Why do you always think I’m lying when I give you a compliment?”

“That’s not a compliment. It’s a creepy confession of sexual obsession.”

“I wouldn’t say creepy.”

“You slept with girls because they looked like me. If that’s not Grade-A creep behaviour then I don’t know what is.”

“Well, you did it, too. So we’re both creeps.”

I chuckled. “Wow. Congratulations to us.”

Trev’s expression warmed and I felt a blush suffuse my cheeks. The ridiculous thing was, I didn’t feel creeped out. I knew I should, but I didn’t. Maybe Trev was right when he said we were both as obsessed as each other. I distracted myself by clearing away the food packaging. Trev watched me, his features deep in thought.

“I do have a point though, about the compliments. You’ve always had self-esteem issues.”

“Show me someone who doesn’t.”

“I don’t. Go ahead, tell me I’m fantastic and I’ll agree with you one hundred per cent.”

“Yeah well, you’re your own special breed.”

“Of fantastic-ness, I know.”

“Fantastic-ness isn’t a word.”

“Everything is a word. You just have to make it up and give it meaning. Anyway, I think you have these issues with self-esteem because of your family.”

Oh great, here we went again. I sighed. “My family really seem to be a favourite topic of yours these days.”

“I can’t help it. I care about you. I want to see you find some peace about it all.”

“I’ve found as much peace as I’m going to find.”

“People who write songs like yours haven’t found peace, Reya.”

“Well, in that case, at least my art is flourishing. I’m gonna go take this rubbish out,” I said, gathering the crumpled papers and leftover food into a bag. Trev took it from me and set it aside.

“Later. We’re talking,” he insisted and pulled me back down to sit on the bed.

I huffed a long, unhappy sigh and eyed him grumpily. “Fine, talk.”

Trev considered me a moment, then said, “I think one of the reasons you rarely open your eyes when you sing is because of your family. I think they programmed you to feel ashamed.”

I arched a quizzical brow. “Of singing?”

“Yes. Didn’t they only ever let you play instrumental pieces? And if you sang, it was always hymns, right?”

I bit my lip, remembering how I used to wait until everyone was out of the house before I played my own songs, the ones I wrote in secret. Paula caught me once and I made her promise never to tell our parents. “Uh-huh.”

“So, when you finally broke out on your own, you could play all the music you’d been hiding for years. You could finally stick it to your parents by singing songs they’d never approve of, in bars and clubs they’d never be caught dead in.”

“Maybe,” I allowed.

“But,” Trev went on, putting extra emphasis on the word, “you still subconsciously feel like you’re doing something wrong. You don’t look at the audience, because it’s safer behind closed eyelids. Looking at people when you sing takes bravery, because you’re talking directly to them, you’re confronting them with all the truth inside your lyrics. If you keep your eyes closed, then you don’t have to confront them. You can still put out your truth, but you don’t have to see the effect it has on the people who are listening.”

Who is this deep-thinking man and what has he done with the carefree, risk-taking boy I loved?

I stared at him, my entire body tense as his reasoning fed my thoughts. He was right. Man, he was so right it was scary—scary because he saw me so much clearer than I even saw myself. I couldn’t tell if I adored him for how much thought he’d put in to figure out the why’s of my behaviour, or if I hated him for making me feel so exposed.

“Who died and made you Sigmund Freud?” I asked defensively, the joke falling flat.

Trev ran a hand through his hair, his expression tender with a hint of self-deprecation. “I have been spending a lot of time in therapy. Maybe all the psycho-babble is rubbing off on me.”