Anyone But You

by Jerica MacMillan

  “Yes,” I croak, all out of sorts.

  This chick. She’s sweeter than spun sugar, and here I am having filthy thoughts about all the ways I want to defile her.

  She beams at me. Fucking beams. “Good. I said I’d chug champagne, but I can’t drink that.” She makes a face at the glass on the table. “You can finish it. I’m not one for shots, much less sipping liquor like that. I just can’t do it.”

  “Oh, V,” I say chuckling. “You just gave me a challenge I can’t resist.” One of many, but we won’t get into the others. “Now I’m determined to turn you into a girl who loves top shelf liquor.”

  Sticking out her tongue, she makes a gagging sound. “No, thank you. Hard pass.”

  I shake my head, sipping my tequila. “Oh, yes. We’ll make a proper rock star entourage member out of you yet.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Viola

  There’s a dark promise to Mason’s words that have me squirming. Mostly on the inside, because I’m still keeping a tight leash on my emotions and reactions, not wanting to give him too much power over me. Not wanting him to know how he affects me sitting there all loose and relaxed in his standard concert wear of equally faded jeans and T-shirt. The fabric looks soft, and more than once over the last few weeks I’ve had to stop myself from running my hands over him to feel just how worn in it is.

  I can’t help but adjust my position a little. Kicking off my shoes and pulling my legs under me, I squeeze my thighs together as his deep, sexy voice tickles over my skin, combines with the slow, sultry bass beat filtering through the speakers, and warms me everywhere.

  It’s not a sexual promise. But it sounds like a double entendre. Like maybe he wants to turn me into a groupie. Or …

  Nope, that’s the only other thing I can think he could mean by “rock star entourage member.” That sounds a lot like a groupie.

  Which he already mistook me for once.

  Does that mean that’s all he sees me as still? Just another pussy? A challenge he has yet to conquer?

  That thought cools me off considerably. No matter how sexy his voice or how firm his abs, I’m not that kind of girl.

  Well, he said he wants to get to know me. What better way to make that perfectly clear?

  Sipping my champagne, I’m determined not to drink too much. I need to keep a clear head, and the alcohol is already turning my cheeks and the tips of my ears warm.

  “First thing you should know is that I’m a lightweight,” I say, pointing at him with my glass. “I don’t need hard liquor to catch up to you. In fact, I’m probably already more tipsy than you from two glasses of champagne and a tiny sip of tequila.”

  “That so?” he rumbles, his face mostly shadowed from the position of the lights. His body is loose and liquid, like someone poured him into that position on the couch. He has this easy confidence like he belongs. No, like he owns the place.

  It’s distracting. And infuriating.

  Because here I am, curled up in a tiny ball in the corner, like I don’t deserve to take up any more space than absolutely necessary.

  Fuck that noise.

  I stretch my legs out on the couch, my toes mere inches from his thigh. He gives me a look of surprise, but there’s challenge mixed with it.

  Oh, am I invading your domain, Mr. I’m-A-Rock-Star?

  Too damn bad.

  He reaches for the bottle and refills my champagne glass.

  “Anything else I should know?” he asks as he settles back into his corner, his free hand landing next to my foot.

  “Yes.” I give a decisive nod. “Lots, actually.”

  He gestures with his glass. “Please share. I’m fascinated.” The words sound almost sarcastic, but even though that smirk is still tugging on his lips, I think he might mean it.

  “You should be.” Right? Yes. I am a fascinating creature. Full of surprise and whimsy. And champagne.

  I take another drink. “I worked at the most boring job in the known universe before coming here.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.” I point at him. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  He shifts, his body flowing into a new position with his elbow on the back of the couch and his cheek propped on his fist. It’s mesmerizing. “Why was it so terrible?”

  Taking another sip of champagne, I rifle through the various ways to explain exactly how and why my last job was so terrible. “I worked at an insurance agency.”

  He hisses. “I can already see how this could go wrong in so many ways.”

  With a chuckle, I raise my glass to my lips again, surprised that I only get a few drips. Mason reaches forward with the bottle and refills my glass again. I blink at the bubbly liquid. How many glasses have I had now? Shrugging, I sip it again. It’s good. And the bubbles tickle my nose. And I’m warm and relaxed and Mason is asking me questions about me and not ordering me around and I’m just going to go with it because soon this little bubble of contentment will pop and we’ll be back to our strained version of friendship where we’re not really friends but at least we maybe don’t hate each other anymore.

  I should maybe stop drinking the champagne though.

  One more sip. “Right. Yes. My boss was only a few years older than me, but he talked down to me like I was twelve and dumber than rocks.”

  Mason looks affronted on my behalf. “What? Seriously?”

  I nod solemnly. “Seriously. He’d explain things to me a million times, like I couldn’t figure it out the first time. Or the second. Or the third. And so on. Once he asked me to email a particular client list, and then got mad at me for emailing them, saying he didn’t actually want me to do that and now I’d embarrassed him.” I hold up a finger. “That was actually the last straw. I’d already interviewed with you guys and was planning on giving my notice that day, but instead I just told him I quit, effective immediately, and here we are.” Residual anger at him calling me a liar simmers through my bloodstream, but I do my best to shrug it off, staring down at my half-empty champagne flute and twisting it between my fingers.

  Mason’s hand lands on my foot, warm and heavy, his thumb drawing tiny circles around my ankle bone. “That sucks, V. I’m sorry.” He sucks in a breath and holds it for a second before expelling it on a sigh. “And I’m sorry I was such a dick when you started. I was …” He shakes his head. “It’s not an excuse, though. I was in a bad place, but that still doesn’t make it right that I treated you so badly.”

  “You’ve apologized already,” I remind him.

  He nods, his dark hair falling forward, but he pushes it back with his free hand. “I know. But somehow I feel like you don’t quite believe me.”

  “I do,” I say softly. And I do. Now. I believed him before, intellectually, but somehow this time, in this setting, unprompted by anything but my story of my old job, his apology settles deeper into my soul. It feels real. Honest. Sincere.

  Something about revelation and forgiveness is making me extra tired, though. Or maybe that’s just the tour catching up to me plus however many glasses of champagne I’ve had. My limbs feel heavy, and my neck doesn’t want to hold my head up anymore. Setting my champagne down on the table, I slump a little farther down the couch, resting my head against the back.

  Mason pulls both my feet into his lap and caresses my calves and shins. It’s soothing. And unexpected. And I don’t quite know what to make of it, but I’m too tired to examine what’s happening too closely.

  “We should head back,” he says after several minutes. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

  Rousing myself, I pull my feet out of his lap and sit up, slipping my shoes back on as I blink a few times and rub my eyes. “That sounds good. I’m really tired.”

  Mason stands and crosses the room. Opening the door, he pokes his head out, telling Dave to get the car brought around I presume, then comes back in our private room. His eyes never leave mine as he approaches, and there’s a soft look on his face I’ve never seen
before. He holds out a hand and pulls me to my feet, staring down into my eyes without relinquishing his hold on my hand.

  My throat works convulsively as I’m caught in this staring contest with him, and when I wet my lips with my tongue, his gaze zeroes in on the motion. His lips part and his chest inflates as he inhales, but then he seems to shake himself out of a trance and drops my hand. Stepping back, he shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a small smile. “Shall we?”

  All I can do is nod. I’m afraid my voice will be either a breathless whisper or a croak if I try to answer, and I’m not willing to risk either one. He gestures for me to precede him to the door and follows close behind me as Dave leads us through the maze back downstairs to the back door of the club.

  Once in the car, we’re back to our usual roles, me on one side of the backseat, Mason on the other, both of us staring out our separate windows.

  Except I keep stealing glances at him, trying to be surreptitious about watching the way the streetlights and headlights play over his features, his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, sensual lips.

  Good god. Sensual lips?

  What the fuck am I thinking?

  I’ve definitely had way too much champagne.

  Mason doesn’t like me. Not really. Sure, he might think I’m hot, might fancy a quick fuck, but that’s not what I want. And whatever tenderness or affection he might’ve shown me tonight is an anomaly. Or part of some elaborate scheme to get into my pants.

  I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but apology aside, trying to be his friend will never work.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mason

  From the way Viola was almost asleep on the couch at the club, I’m worried I might have to carry her to her room by the time we get to the hotel.

  But she seems to revive herself on the way home, and manages to get into the hotel under her own power. She’s not quite walking in a straight line, and she’s gigglier than normal—which is to say she’s giggly, which is not at all normal for her when she’s around me—but she doesn’t look like she’s about to slump to the floor and start snoring.

  Dave takes up his place outside the elevator, and I follow Viola down the hall to her room. She glances up at me outside her door as she pulls the key out of her oversized messenger bag. “I’m fine, Mason. You don’t need to see me inside.”

  “Sure, if you say so,” I agree, but make no move to head for my own room.

  Cocking one hip, she crosses her arms and stares me down, just like she did at the club. “What’s your game here?” All her giggles have vanished, and her stare is laser focused, making me feel like the subject of an interrogation. All she needs is a bright light to shine in my face.

  I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “No game. But you said yourself that you’re a lightweight. You had four glasses of champagne. If two was enough to make you tipsy, then I just want to make sure you get to your room without hurting yourself.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes still narrowed. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she demands, making nice sound offensive somehow.

  “I thought we’d decided to be friends.” I have to swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat, once again hating that word. Because there’s a long list of other things I’d like to be with Viola. Naked tops the list. Also fuck buddies. Very few of my feelings for her can be labeled friendly.

  Despite that, I’m not trying to get into her room to do any of those things tonight. I really am just trying to make sure she gets into bed safely.

  Whatever she sees as she studies my face seems to be enough. Or maybe she’s decided not to care, because she grumbles, “Whatever,” and waves her key card in front of the lock.

  I follow her inside, scanning the room for the case of bottled water I know she always has. It’s tucked under the desk in the corner, and I go retrieve one and hold it out to her as she removes her giant crossbody bag and drops it next to the bed. Her gaze still full of suspicion, she takes the bottle from me, cracks open the lid and takes a long drink.

  When she replaces the cap, I shake my head. “Drink it all.”

  With a put-upon sigh, she obediently takes another gulp. “I’m going to have to pee in five minutes if I down this whole thing right now.”

  I shrug, stepping closer. “Yeah, probably, but it’ll flush the alcohol out of your system faster, and you’ll be less likely to have a headache tomorrow. Speaking of which, where’s your ibuprofen?”

  She narrows her eyes again. “In my bag. Why?”

  Without answering, I turn to her bag and toss back the flap.

  “Hey!” She grabs my arm, stopping me from rummaging. “That’s my bag, thank you very much.” She hip checks me out of the way, pulls out a small bottle of store brand ibuprofen, and holds it up in front of my face. “Here.”

  “Thank you.” I take it from her, grab another water bottle, and set both on the bedside table. “There. Now you’re all set for tomorrow.”

  The suspicion is gone, but she still looks confused when I turn back to her. “What?” I ask, suddenly self conscious.

  “You’re trying to take care of me.” She says it like an accusation.

  “Umm, yeah?” I rub a hand along my jaw and let out a small laugh. “Figured it was time I repaid the favor. Since you’ve put me to bed and left water and ibuprofen for me enough times.”

  “I’m not really drunk, though,” she says.

  “Sure,” I agree unconvincingly.

  “I’m not.”

  I step closer and free a strand of hair caught on her lip. “I believe you,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I’m whispering, but something about the moment just seems to call for it.

  Her eyes are wide, guileless pools, and I feel myself swaying closer to her. She might not be drunk, but I’m getting there. She’s intoxicating.

  Blinking, I force myself to straighten. Then, on impulse, I stoop down and brush a kiss on her cheek.

  She gasps, turning toward me.

  And her lips are right. There.

  So close. So tempting. So pink. Parted and begging for a kiss.

  I don’t know who closes the distance, or if we both move together, but her lips are on mine, soft and lush and sweet.

  I step closer, wanting to touch her, pull her against me. My hands move up and down, outlining her curves in the air, but I don’t touch. Not after last time. Not after the way she shoved me away. I don’t want to give her a reason to.

  Her hand slides up my chest, and I brace myself for her to push, savoring whatever seconds remain of her lips under mine.

  But she doesn’t. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer. And my hands finally land on her hips and slide up her back. Much as I want to grind my dick into her belly, I don’t think she’d appreciate that right now. And if she’s not pushing me away and slapping me across the face for daring to kiss her again, then I’m counting this as a win.

  But I’ve had enough to drink that I’m horny as fuck, and with her soft lips, soft curves, soft sighs as she opens and welcomes my tongue into her mouth, my control is fraying.

  Easing back, I end the kiss, and we stay frozen in this tiny universe of our creation with my hands on her hips, her hand tangled in my shirt, and our eyes locked.

  She’s the first to move, lowering down to flat feet. I hadn’t even realized she was up on her toes until now. Then she releases my shirt, her hand sliding several inches down my chest before lifting as she backs away from my grasp.

  “Um …” She looks around the room, everywhere but at me. “I’m, um … I’m tired. I should get to bed.” She finally meets my eyes then, and I hear the word she’s left unspoken—alone.

  I clear my throat. “Right. You should. Me too.” I take two steps toward the door. “Night, V,” I whisper.

  “Goodnight.”

  And then I leave, heading back to my room with my heart pounding in my ears.

  Viola just kissed me. And she didn�
�t slap me and tell me to leave her alone, even if she did kick me out pretty fast.

  I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, though. Because if I’m trying to actually be friends with her, I’ve just fucked up my chances once and for all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Viola

  Mason leaves me alone the next day but seeks me out on the plane the following morning, sitting down next to me on the loveseat I’ve claimed. Other than a polite smile and a muttered, “Morning, V,” he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he kissed me two nights ago.

  I stare at him for several long moments, not sure what to make of this. Not sure what I expected, honestly. Do I want him to acknowledge the kiss? Isn’t it better just to pretend it never happened?

  And it’s not like it means anything to him. Obviously it doesn’t. He’s kissed a million women. I’m literally one in a million. For him a kiss is probably as blasé as a hug is for a normal person. I mean, if it meant something, then he wouldn’t be sitting here next to me, reading a book, and acting like I’m not even here.

  “Do you need something, V?” he asks without lifting his eyes from his paperback.

  I snap my eyes back to my tablet, where I’m supposed to be reviewing the schedule for the next few days. “Nope. I’m good.”

  Closing his book, he leans closer to me, on the boundary of invading my space. One finger tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You sure about that?” His voice is low and rough, and I have to suppress a shiver.