“I mean…something happened.”
“Something naked?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit,” she says, interest piqued. Kenna approaches, takes a seat beside me on the bed. “And?”
Memories wash over me.
The need, the sweat, the moans, the urgency.
The way he hardly looked at me the next morning as we packed our things and hit the road.
It’s been almost forty-eight hours since our mouths were all over each other, and it’s like it never even happened.
Swallowing, I peer down at the floor. “I don’t know. He kind of shut down.”
“Fucking men. Seriously.” She huffs, standing to grab her vape pen and returning to the bed. She takes a drag and puffs out a thick cloud. “I mean, he has been acting weird lately. Like a fuse ready to blow.”
“It’s strange,” I murmur, brow creasing. “I can tell he’s into me. He cares. A lot. But I think he’s scared. Like he’s going to hurt me somehow. Ruin this before it even gets off the ground.”
Kenna sighs, dropping the vape to her lap. “It’s complicated, mixing romance and business. Especially in this capacity. You’ve both been thrown into the spotlight, practically overnight, and you were already walking this thin line. It’s easy for things to fall apart.”
“I don’t want it to. I feel like I’m finally ready to go all in, while he’s moving further away.”
“Is he still hung up on Alex?” she wonders.
I fold in my lips. “Maybe. But I think it’s more than that. He’s been getting these headaches…says he feels different. I’m worried.”
Empathy splashes across her face. “Migraines are no joke. My mom would get them, and they would incapacitate her for days. Unfortunately, my father didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body and was convinced she was faking it to get out of having sex with him. Probably why she started banging the furnace guy.” A huff of disdain. “No wonder I have commitment issues.”
I reach over and link our hands together, her golden-tan skin contrasting my porcelain. “I think you turned out all right.”
“I have a boatload of childhood trauma, anxiety masked as sarcasm, and a deep distrust of utility workers. But yeah. I guess I’m pretty great.”
My temple dips to hers with a smirk, and we sit like that for a while, silent, hands clasped. Then I breathe out a sigh and sit up. “We should probably find the guys and head to the venue.”
She pops off the bed. “Ready when you are. Here, take my spare key.” She tosses me a keycard. “My room is loaded with merch that I don’t want to haul back home. Slap on that salesgirl smile and help me get rid of it.”
“On it.” I tuck the card into the back pocket of my faux-leather pants, then take a minute to fluff my hair in the mirror and rearrange my sheer, long-sleeved top that’s slipped over a lacy camisole. My lips are a bold shade of plum, my hair lightly curled and set, and my eyelashes are a mile long thanks to Kenna’s magical mascara.
A smile stretches.
I look good.
Five minutes later, all four guys have been texted, and we’re gathering in the lobby, waiting for a limo to take us over to the performance venue.
Chase strolls over to the group wearing black ripped jeans slung low on his hips, a threadbare band tee clinging to his frame, and a leather jacket that looks like it’s survived more mosh pits than he has. His silver ring flashes on his thumb as he adjusts the guitar case over his back.
His hand rakes through waves of shaggy brown hair, tousled just enough to look accidental.
He looks like trouble.
The good kind.
The kind you write songs about and never fully recover from.
Stormy hazel eyes flick my way as he saunters over to the group, a pair of scuffed boots thudding against the marble floor with every step. Our gazes hold for several seconds before he gives me a long, drawn-out once-over.
