“It’s beyond weird, which is why I never tell them who I am,” I explain, hobbling on my sore feet to the sofa. “Because they all end up treating me like I’m some sort of celebrity adjacent, and I hate it. Plus, I can’t do my damn job.”
“How do they know?” he asks. “Because everyone on that tour seemed to recognize you straight away.”
He joins me on the couch, his head falling back on the cushion. He looks as tired as I do, but I worry it might actually be worse. He’s been putting in a lot of hours during the day, touringproperties and meeting with contractors. Then he comes home and leaves again to work another full day with me.
It can’t be sustainable.
“Jace is an attention whore,” I grumble. “And he loved to brag that he was dating the sister of Hendrix Creed?”
“That’s fucked up, Pres. Being with you should be the reward. Not anything else. Just you.” I feel momentarily stunned. Is he talking for himself or just in general? Before I can answer, he continues. “Feel free to hide in the office next time they come.”
“What? No way,” I argue. “We were too busy. I can put up with a few fan girls asking about my brother’s chiseled abs.”
“That’s horrifying. Truly.”
I laugh. “It could be worse. I could be Asher’s sister. That poor man never gets any peace.”
“I saw him that night at Velvet. Even on the security camera, he never looked completely relaxed. Like, he always seemed to be looking over his shoulder, even when he was joking with his bandmates. Is it really that bad?”
“Yeah. When he came over to our house for dinner a couple of months ago, he had to use a decoy driver and switch cars halfway here, just so that he could throw off the paparazzi that park outside his house twenty-four seven.”
“That’s insane.”
I nod, noticing how he’s not showing an ounce of jealousy as I talk about Asher. I couldn’t even mention his name in Jace’s presence without him storming off in a tantrum. “It’s definitely not glamorous.”
I adjust my sitting position, trying to take all the pressure off the balls of my feet, but I can’t seem to get comfortable. Hollis must notice because he motions toward me. “Give me your feet.”
“What?”
“Swing your feet onto my lap, Pres. They are obviously killing you, and I guarantee a foot rub falls safely within the guidelines of our friendship.”
Are you sure about that?
I eye him warily but do as he says, and the second his fingers press into the arch of my foot, I let out a small moan.
“Well, shit, give me a fighting chance here, Pres.”
I burst out laughing. “Sorry, it just feels really good.”
“Exactly what I was aiming for,” he tells me with a smirk. “Just try to keep the sex noises to a minimum, ’kay?”
My lip twitches. “Will do.”
He resumes his massage, and I try my damndest not to whimper or moan or do anything else remotely sexual while he releases the tension from my tired feet.
He is really good at this.
Is it a natural talent, or is there a string of women before me who have benefited from his skilled fingers?
A surge of jealousy flares to life deep in my belly.
Nope. Not gonna think about that.
In fact, I’m not going to think about anything except reciting the alphabet backward. That and plain oatmeal.
Dirty socks.
Anything but the feel of this man’s hand on my?—
