My eyebrows shoot up. “Hope you’re joking. Because that’s the last thing I’d ever want.”
“I know. I’d never fake it with you; you’re too important to me.”
“Good.” I sigh in relief. “But now I have to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Your fake orgasm.”
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, come on,” I tease. “You brought it up.”
It takes a lot of cajoling and the promise of more éclairs to get her reluctant agreement.
“Okay.” She hesitates another moment, her cheeks turning pink, before tilting her head back dramatically. She closes her eyes and lets out exaggerated pants, followed by an over-the-top howl.
I burst out laughing.
“Shut up.” She swats my chest, fighting a grin. “I read that most men like women to scream.”
“That wasn’t a scream, baby. That was a werewolf mating call. I’d be like,Hell, no, I’m out. I got me a shifter.”
Her laughter bubbles over, and it’s the best sound. When it fades, she leans her head against my shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to my skin. “Thanks for making me laugh. For not making it weird.”
The basement is part entertainment center and part arcade. LED lights frame each wall in pale blue, giving the room a cool, ethereal vibe. Chunky recliners face a large-screen TV that is mounted on the wall for viewing pleasure. A mahogany pool table sits off to one side while a pinball machine blinks brightly in the corner. A shelf holds a messy stack of video games, controllers, and a VR headset.
“I can see why Sophia hosts here all the time. This place is a social haven.”
“That’s what I was going for. Someplace where Soph would want to hang out with her friends, and I could keep an eye on things.”
His admission makes me smile because, of course, he would do that. Chaz isn’t just a protective big brother; he’s the kind of man who would build an entire space to make sure his sister was safe and happy. He’s a man who loves deeply, with his whole heart.
He’s the kind of man who took such good care of me—again. Despite his own disappointment, he did everything possible to make me feel better when I would have otherwise spiraled. I burrow into the neck of his sweatshirt I’m wearing, inhaling his scent—sandalwood and spice and everything nice. Just like him. I press a spontaneous kiss to his cheek.
“What was that for?”
“Just because.”
He grins and kisses me for real. His hands slide up the back of my thighs in the way he likes to do. But it doesn’t go any further. Maybe he understands I’m not ready to try again so soon. Maybe he’s not ready either.
We play a game on the Avengers pinball machine, a clear nod to his Marvel obsession. Iron Man, Thor, and the Hulk make flashy appearances, the machine buzzing and chiming with each hit. It’s fun and ridiculous, and I suck at it. We laugh at my enthusiastic attempts, and Chaz—naturally—shows off his skills, though only a little bit.
Afterward, he takes me to the back of the room, opening the door to his studio. It’s tucked away like a retreat from the world. A glass partition frames the recording booth, its seamless panes reflecting an adjustable microphone, a stool, and video cameraequipment. Outside the booth, the walls are lined with polished wood slats, their russet finish shining under track lighting.
There must be half a dozen guitars laid with care around the room, most of them acoustic. A big amplifier dominates one corner, and a table stretching along the back wall holdsan array of production equipment. Its buttons and dials blink like a spaceship’s console. On a small desk, piles of handwritten music sheets are scattered in disarray. I resist the urge to straighten them, sensing this organized chaos is his creative process in its purest form.
“So, this is where the music happens,” I say, looking around.
“On a good day.”
Above a worn loveseat hangs a cluster of mismatched picture frames that I’m drawn to.
“Aw, look at this one,” I exclaim. It’s him as a young boy, sitting cross-legged on a rug with a guitar almost as big as he is in his lap. There’s a front tooth missing from a wide grin spreading across his cute, chubby face. Beside him sits a man who must be his father—same smile, same warm, intelligent eyes.
“Me and my dad,” Chaz murmurs from behind me.
“That’s where you get your dimples.”
