He’s gone.
The kitchen—and bedroom—are eerily empty. And quiet.
Even Waylon is more subdued than usual, curling around my ankles and letting me pet him.
“I know, buddy. I miss him too.”
Once I’ve showered and crawled into bed, I open my phone and pull up the video for “Living on the Edge.” Now that I’ve heard it a few times, I’m starting to like it, and it’s somewhat intoxicating to watch Tate performing. Sweaty. Fingers moving over the frets of his guitar like it’s an extension of his hand. His body perfectly in sync with both the guitar and the melody.
He’s just as mesmerizing on stage as he is in bed, and after about twenty minutes, I force myself to close the app.
What’s the point of sitting here torturing myself?
There was a connection between us but neither of us is in a position to do anything about it. We discussed it briefly but there were no good options for us.
He’s leaving.
I have to stay here.
Despite the teasing from the girls at work, there’s no way for us to be together, even to explore a relationship.
It’s better that we don’t keep in touch. It would be like rubbing salt in an already raw wound for me because I don’t want to think about all the groupies he’s inevitably going to be having sex with. Women he’s going to show the same pleasure he showed me.
Except he doesn’t go down on most women.
That, at least, makes me feel marginally better. Knowing that I got a part of him most others don’t. It’s not enough, but nothing short of all of him would be enough. I’ve never met anyone like him and probably never will again.
That’s what makes this so hard.
How do you move on from not just the best sex you’ve ever had but also the hottest, kindest, most thoughtful man you’ve ever been with as well? I can’t imagine finding anyone better. Or even close.
If my dating life wasn’t already abysmal, it’s going to be exponentially worse now.
There’s no way for me to not compare every guy I meet to Tate.
Because after experiencing a man who literally checks all my boxes, I don’t know how I could ever settle for less.
And those shoes are going to be impossible to fill.
Chapter 13
Tate
My flight was delayed but I still get to the hotel in time to shower, change clothes, and meet up with the band. We have a brand-new tour bus, and it’s nicer than our old one, so that’s a bonus. It’s still a bus, and I’m still going to hate sleeping on the small bunks, but I have one more night at a hotel before we head for Ottawa tomorrow.
“So.” Angus gives me a grin as we head for the venue. “How’s Summer?”
I point to the shopping bag of pies at my feet. “She sent presents.”
“Did she send pie?” Mick asks, reaching for the bag.
I playfully slap his hand. “She did—but you’ll wait until I’ve fed the crew. We can have what’s left.”
“How is that fair?” Jonny demands.
“Because I said so.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Did you have fun?” Sam asks.
