I bring my jeans back over to the bed, pluck my iPhone out of them, and drop them on the floor. As I deactivate the alarm, I pause, my gaze zeroing in on the reason for the reminder: CHECK ON LUCAS’S ATL FLIGHT!
Last night, just as Heidi and I were leaving our hotel room, I realized that I had never confirmed today’s flight with Sienna. It was too late to call her then, so I had tipsily left a message for myself. It was a stupid move on my part because I should have taken care of it immediately.
“I go on vacation, and I’m still doing work.” As I climb back into Wyatt’s bed, I know I shouldn’t complain. Making sure my brother’s trip to Atlanta goes smoothly is my responsibility, it’s what he pays me for, and it’s something I shouldn’t have left on a to-do list for my replacement just because I was in a hurry to get the hell away from Wyatt.
I log in to both of Lucas’s email accounts and search through the last six days of messages three times, going back to well before I left for vacation. Finally, I give up and send Sienna a text message.
6:32 a.m.: Hey, babe, what email address did you send Luke’s confirmation for the flight to Atlanta to? Don’t see it in the regular email and was worried.
A few more texts and a thirteen-minute phone call (where I fib and tell her I’m just checking up on her because I had a bad dream that today’s flight went horribly) later, I’m frantically scouring every travel website in existence for a couple of tickets.
“You’re sexy when you make that face,” Wyatt says, flipping over on his side. He’s been lying beside me since a few minutes into my conversation with Sienna, but this is the first time he’s faced me directly since getting out of the shower. He traces his fingers in lazy circles across my kneecap, finally pressing the end of his thumb and middle finger against the sensitive spots that make my muscles jump.
He did the same thing and more the entire time I was on the phone with Sienna, driving me to distraction.
“Concentration is—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“If you pull a fucking Lucas and say it’s my friend, I swear I’ll lay you down right here and show you how easy it is to forget about being an assistant.”
“No protection, babe. Remember?” I refuse to go down that road with him.
He snorts. “Ky?”
I glance up from Travelocity.com and the roaming gnome’s creepy face to raise an eyebrow. “Wyatt?”
“My tongue doesn’t need a condom.”
Remembering precisely where his tongue had been before I started frantically searching for plane tickets makes my mouth go dry. “Don’t you have a song to write, or...I don’t know, a guitar to strum while I do this?”
“Guitar is in there.” He jerks his thumb toward the hotel closet. Laying his head on my lap, he blows on my belly button. “Besides, I’m resting. Cal and I are road-tripping it, starting tomorrow.”
I clench my phone but manage to keep my brown eyes focused on the screen. So, he’s really leaving tomorrow morning. “Really? What for?”
“Last minute guest thing for another band.”
Now, he’s got my full attention. The search for my brother’s flight is momentarily forgotten as I place my phone down beside me and frown. “A guest gig? That’s not really your type of thing. Is everything alright?” When he nods, I narrow my dark eyes suspiciously. “Are they paying you in booze and vag?”
“God, you’re so eloquent sometimes.” He reaches up to my face and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. When he moves his hand, I readjust the same lock of hair, putting it back where it was. He flashes me a little grin. “No, it’s for Cal’s cousin. They’re transitioning members and had some prior commitments. It’s only a few shows.”
This is not the Wyatt McCrae I know. My Wyatt would tell Cal’s cousin to go fuck himself. “Is everything alright with the band? You and Lucas aren’t ending your bromance, are you?” My tone is playful, yet slightly serious.
The corner of his lip tugs up just a bit. “Everything’s fine.”
I tighten my shoulders, so I won’t drop them in relief. Your Toxic Sequel is like my family, and I’d take their breakup as badly as I would my own parents. I pick up my phone, but I can’t resist peeking over the edge of it to study him. “You and Cal are doing bar shows?”
“Yeah.” He must not miss how my features suddenly go taut. He curls his long fingers around my hand and brings it down to rest on his chest. “What’s that look for?”
“Can’t find a fucking flight,” I say sharply.
“You don’t want me to do bar shows.” He’s using the voice, the one that’s an octave higher than how he usually speaks. It’s tender and laced with a healthy dose of surprise.
“Babe, you can do whatever you want.” Using the hand he’s not holding, I jab at the keypad on my phone. “I just want to find Lucas—” But Wyatt stops me mid-sentence by plucking my phone out of my grasp. “What are you doing?” I ask in a heated voice.
Sitting up, he punches a number in before tossing the iPhone into my lap. “Helping you work out Lucas’s bullshit again.” His incredible blue eyes are full of amusement as he rolls over to the other side of the mattress.
For a long time, I stare at his chest, specifically at the tattoo on his rib that says, Worse At What I Do Best, before I climb out of bed.
When I turn my back to him and drop my gaze to my phone and the number Wyatt has saved as Private Jet, he adds, “How the hell do you think I got here from Nashville so fast last night?”
Oh hell. He didn’t mention he had gone through so much trouble to get to me. I assumed he flew in through Southwest, his usual airline of choice. I’m glad that my face is turned away from him, so he can’t see my look of surprise and how I then have to squeeze my eyes shut because of the sudden burn I feel from the tears threatening to escape.
“Thanks for this.” I pick up and drag my green shirt from last night over my head. “For the travel information, I mean.” My jeans go on next, and when I wiggle my bottom to finish pulling them up, he sighs.
“Hate to see that ass disappear.” Because my bra cups aren’t exactly overflowing, Wyatt’s always had a thing for my butt. “It’s too perfect to cover up, beautiful.”
I flush. “I’ll see you around.”
He doesn’t respond until I’ve opened the door to his hotel room, and what he does say will stay with me for the rest of the day. “Tonight, Kylie. Tonight you’re fucking mine.”
As if I need a reminder.
My face is still prickly when I let myself into my room five minutes later. Cautiously, I peek around the corner to where our queen-size beds are separated by only a nightstand, and I see that Heidi is alone. She’s sitting on her bed in a midriff-baring tee and boy shorts, plucking food off a tray loaded with the continental breakfast.
“You’re up early,” I say.
She takes a long sip of coffee and makes a face at the Styrofoam cup. “So are you. Did you screw Prince Albert to get him out of your system?” When I slide down on the edge of my bed to face her, she lets out a dramatic sigh. “You didn’t, did you?”
Heidi’s been my friend for the last four years. I met her on tour when she was dating the lead singer of the band that had opened for Your Toxic Sequel. We bonded instantly over our mutual love of music. Our similar backgrounds—my parents are both youth ministers, and her dad is a former televangelist—brought us even closer. She’s been there for me through the bullshit and the tears and our inability to commit because of the past, and she gets me.