Weston’s office was at the end of the hall, and it was not what I expected. It was clean and organized, with a big desk, a safe in the corner, and an entire wall made of glass that looked out over the main floor.
I walked up to it, frowning. “They can see us?”
“Two-way mirror,” he said, dropping into his desk chair and waking up the computer. “I can see the whole floor. They see their own reflection. Helps me keep an eye on things.”
I stood at that mirror while he worked, watching the dancers. The redhead was back at it, flipping upside down on the pole in a move that would’ve put me in traction, and I found myself weirdly impressed. That took some serious athleticism.
But that wasn’t really what my mind was chewing on.
My mind was chewing on us.
Last night in the barn happened. The shower had definitely happened—twice, if we were counting, and my sore thighs said we were definitely counting.
He’d said he loved me, and I’d said it back.
But what did that actually mean in the light of day, when his life was here, and I had a tour that resumed in nine days?
I lived in Texas, and my label was in Nashville.
I had a career that employed over two hundred people. I had contracts and obligations, and one more stop on my Rebel Hearts tour.
He had the Kings.
“Songbird.”
I jumped.
He was leaning back in his chair, watching me, the payroll apparently forgotten.
“What?” I said, way too fast.
“You’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes, and you’ve got that little crease between your eyebrows.” He pushed back from the desk and patted his thigh. “C’mere.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked you to come here.”
Bossy. So freakin’ bossy.
I went anyway.
He caught my hand and pulled me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me against his chest.
“Spit it out, Songbird.”
I picked at an invisible thread on his shirt. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing that puts that look on your face is stupid.”
I blew out a breath. “What does this mean?” I whispered. “Between us. Now.”
He went still under me.
“We slept together,” I rushed on, the words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked. “And we said things, and I meant them, I meant every word, but I have a tour that starts back up in nine days and you?—”
“Hattie.” His hand came up and cupped my face, tilting it until I had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were steady. “You’re mine.”
I bit my lip.
