Watching Winter’s eyes change as she comes is the hottest thing ever, and I drive into her harder.
“Fuck.” I drag my finger across her hip and flick her clit lightly. “Win, I’m coming…”
She moans loudly as I release inside her, and as I feel her clench around me, I realize she’s coming for a second time.
I start kissing her as we’re both coming down from our highs.
We kiss for a long time, and I realize how deep in I am with this friends-who-fuck thing we have going on.
“Let’s go to bed and talk properly,” she says in my ear. “I want to hear all about your dad and what the police told Liam.”
Friends-who-fuck is clearly the wrong way to describe Winter and me. The truth is—
I’m in love with her, and she’s leaving.
But I don’t want to rock the boat when neither of us seems certain as to what the future holds.
“Let’s do that,” I say as I kiss her cheek.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Winter
The next month and a half pass quickly. Hunter and I grow closer, spending as much time as possible together.
He seems more at peace now that the killer has been found and is in prison. When he first told me, he was angry and in shock, which I would have expected. And that game he played—holy crap. He and Liam looked like one person as they played that game for their daddy. I was so proud of them, and as I watched it, tears streamed down my face.
But once the shock wears off over what the murderer did the night he shot and killed Mr. Storm, Hunter seems to relax. He’s more open, more willing to be vulnerable with me. We have some good talks, and I find myself really wishing I weren’t leaving.
I’m falling for him. Like really falling for him. Honestly, I love him. But I don’t know how to broach the concept of dating because Hunter isn’t into commitment. Plus, I’m going to be leaving eventually. And what would we do then?
I channel my attachment to him through sex. Which we have a lot of. Like every night he’s in town.
And when he goes away on a team road trip, I miss him. Also a lot.
But now, we don’t lose touch. He calls me every night even if it’s just to say goodnight before he has to hop on the plane to fly to another city.
I put my loneliness into working on my musical, which is coming along.
One day, I stop by to visit an old friend.
Mr. Les Anderson was my first piano teacher. He taught me the classics and how to read sheet music and write songs. His lessons were my musical foundation. But he also taught me how to play the songs I wanted to sing. From rock to pop to country, we sat side by side at his piano and played for hours.
I went by after school when all my friends were hanging out or doing homework, and Les gave me invaluable training for my future. He had lived it. He used to be a director on Broadway, and he’d walked away to slow down and have a family.
I didn’t understand his choice then, but I certainly have a better grasp of it now.
I walk through the French Quarter and stop outside a burnt orange building with a green arched doorway and matching shutters on the windows. The second story has the quintessential New Orleans cast-iron balcony with the same green shutters and an American flag hanging from the window.
I push open the door.
I see Les right away. He’s sitting at the piano, and he’s got his back to me. His hair is white now, and he’s a little more hunched, but he’s still playing. Still singing, too.
“Hello, old friend,” I say as I walk across the room.
Les turns around on the bench. His entire face lights up when he sees me.
“Winter Allen. My dear.” He stands up and opens his arms.
