Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3)

by Jasinda Wilder

  I swallowed. “So you were at the wedding just to meet me?”

  “Well, call it killing two birds with one stone. Seven is one of my very few real friends, so I would have played his wedding regardless, but I also had to meet you. So yes, you were the main reason I was there, other than as Seven’s friend and being the wedding music.”

  Silence.

  “So, dumb question maybe,” I said, tracing the ridge of his breastbone where it met his shoulder, “but how does this work, then? If we’re not going to have sex for who knows how long, what do we, like, do?”

  He chuckled. “I dunno. We’ll have to figure that out.”

  “I mean, you get what I’m saying, right?” I moved, and water sloshed out of the tub. “If I even go on a date in the first place, it’s always been with the sole and express purpose of deciding if I want to have sexual relations with the individual in question. What does a date just to hang out even look like? And what do you do afterwards?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t fuckin’ know, Laurel, I really don’t. I’m no expert at nonsexual relationships by any stretch of the imagination. And you being naked right now is making this really fuckin’ hard, let me just say that right now.”

  “Making this hard, like the situation, or making you hard?” I ran my hand under his tank top, over his tattooed chest.

  He groaned. “Goddammit, woman.”

  I mirrored his groan of frustration, swishing away in the water and sliding under the surface; I stayed under for a moment or two, and then resurfaced, scraping my hair back away from my face. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m just used to thinking with my dick, metaphorically speaking.”

  A laugh. “Same.”

  I lifted the drain plug. “I want it too, Titus,” I whispered.

  “You do?” He twisted in place, eyes narrowing in on mine. “You really do?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I do.” I searched him. “Titus, just…” I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper. “Just don’t…don’t change your mind about this—about me. Okay?”

  His mouth met mine with rough demanding force. “I won’t, Laurel. I promise I won’t.”

  10

  Some days, we had to take it hour by hour. For two people who’d never bothered even trying to have a nonsexual relationship with a member of the opposite sex, let alone a meaningful romantic relationship, this was fucking torture.

  We took it week by week, too. Sometimes, we had to plan our dates to be in places that precluded any shenanigans. Which, as I discovered, was somewhat problematic, since my boyfriend—*gulp* I had a boyfriend—was the Titus Bright.

  We’d go to dinner, and half the dinner would be Titus taking selfies and signing things, and he was always gracious. Walk down the streets of downtown LA or Rodeo Drive, shopping or whatever, and he’d get stopped a dozen times in a quarter mile. Once, memorably, we got surrounded leaving a coffeehouse early in the morning, we got surrounded by a swarm of paparazzi and fans, like you’d see on TMZ or whatever. It was awful. They were all shouting questions at us, cameras were flashing in a blinding barrage, crowding us and crushing in on us, and they wouldn’t leave us alone. Finally, Titus wrapped his arm around me, pressing himself in front of me.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “I don’t want to be an asshole here, but if you don’t let us through, I’m gonna start swinging.”

  Immediately, the crowd backed off and parted.

  He moved us out of the circle of the crowd, and then glanced at me for a moment. Back to the crowd of paps. “Okay, guys, here’s the deal. This is the only statement I’m going to make.” He glanced at me again, and I knew he was about to out us as a couple publicly; I squeezed his hand and nodded with a smile. “This is Laurel McGillis. She’s my girlfriend, and I love her. End of statement. Get your photos, and then leave us alone. Please.”

  I turned my body into his and smiled my professional smile, holding it and then adjusting my position and my head and my smile and holding that again—I knew the drill from my brief stint as a model.

  Titus turned us to face this way, then that, letting the other photographers get their shots, and I played along, and we ignored the shouted questions about marriage and babies and how did we meet and will Titus ever do a normal tour again.

  Finally, Titus held up a hand. “Okay, ya’ll. We gave you the scoop, and this the exclusive, okay? You guys know I’m private, so take this as the gift it is. Now leave us the fuck alone. It’s all you’re gonna get from me.”

  And then we were hustling away, his arm protectively wrapped around my shoulders, fast-marching us to where my car was parked.

  There were long days alone, showing houses and going through closings, while Titus traveled for pop-ups in various places. He’d show up at my house in the middle of the night, sometimes, and I’d leave the side door unlocked for him and he’d climb into bed behind me, half dressed, and wrap his long arm over my side and sidle up behind me and I’d be half awake, and suddenly safer simply because he was there.

  There was a movie premiere he was invited to, since he’d done a couple songs for the soundtrack—he’d recorded them a good year before we met, while the movie was still in production. This was exciting for me—I got to buy a fancy dress and get it tailored, and Titus somehow got me a jewelry set on loan, a pair of massive diamond earrings and a matching necklace worth a shuddery, gobsmacking amount of money, even to me, who’d grown up with a diamond-crusted spoon. There was a Rolls-Royce limousine, and the red carpet and the gauntlet of flashing cameras as I hung on to Titus’s arm for dear life, ignoring the shouted barrage of questions. We were posing for photos in front of the media wall.

  “Do you think the reporters ever get tired of shouting questions and being ignored?” I asked him, doing my best attempt at ventriloquism.

  He snorted. “I guess not. Mainly because every once in a while, we’ll answer one.” He smirked at me. “Case in point. Yeah, you, second row. With the white tie. What was your question—can you repeat it?”

  There was a brief hush as the chosen paparazzo asked his question again, more loudly. “Titus, do you think you’ll ever propose to Laurel?”

  Titus smiled at me, speaking to me rather than the reporter. “Yes, I do.” He laughed. “Now, don’t go getting your hopes up, I’m not proposing right now. But yet, someday in the near future, I will propose. It won’t be public, though, so don’t get to thinking you’ll be able to get spy shots of it happening. Trust me, it’ll be private. But it will happen, and soon.”

  My heart leaped. Jumped, twisted, soared.

  A promise—that was him reassuring me, promising me.

  As we moved away from the media wall through the throng of reporters and gathered celebrities—most of whom Titus seemed to be on wave-and-a-chin-nod familiarity with—I pressed my lips to his ear for a private word.

  “Titus, I hope you know I’m not expecting that. A proposal. I’ll never try to tie you down.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, twisted to face me, nose to nose. No smile, here—serious, piercing. “It’s not tying me down, you goose. It’s choosing roots. Choosing home.” A soft kiss. “I know you didn’t ask. You don’t have to.”

  “I just want you to understand that I love you and I’m fine with the way things are now.”

  A grin, then, finally. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not.”

  I let it go, then. We made it into the theater, where we hobnobbed with A-list celebrities and I pretended to not be starstruck as I met household name after household name. There were quite a few curious looks at us, at the perennially single Titus Bright, whose name was, once and for a long time, synonymous with the rock star life, with alcohol and drugs and women and crazy antics, who had been a tabloid darling for the absolutely insane pace of his life, who had been seen and photographed with a who’s-who of gorgeous women—none of whom he’d ever been seen or photographed with more than once; that Titus Bright, now very publicly in a relationship with a noncelebrity.

&
nbsp; Thank god for him I cleaned up well, wasn’t afraid of publicity, and didn’t get scared of cameras being in my face.

  I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  Ten in the morning, Six Chicks office—I was pounding coffee and wishing I’d had breakfast, ignoring my growling stomach, and missing Titus. He was only halfway through one of the longest series of shows he’d done in months: eight shows in four weeks across the Southwest and into Texas, two in Vegas in two days, three in Lake Tahoe, Sacramento, and San Francisco, respectively, and then a whole further series of eight more shows in the Pacific Northwest, working his way through Oregon into Washington State and up into British Columbia.

  He was slated to be gone almost two and a half months.

  The upside of his unique way of doing shows was that he could spread the timeframe out, so the schedule wasn’t as grueling; in the old days, touring the traditional way with Bright Bones, they’d have done eight shows in eight days in eight states, and that would have been just the first leg. Titus’s way, as Bright Star, he could take his time, and if he felt like adding a show or two in a particular location because he felt the city in question wanted more, he could do it on a whim. No stadiums to book months ahead of time, no ticket sales to worry about. The downside was, he was gone almost as much as a traditional tour schedule, but he performed fewer shows. It was the nature of the beast, I knew. Now that we were together, he was spacing his pop-up tours farther apart than before, so he’d have a month or two home with me before he had to leave again.

  It never got easier, him being gone.

  Today was a bad day, for me. I missed him. I was cranky. I was horny. I had bombed a showing the day before—not really my fault, as I’d done my job as well as ever, it was just the prospective buyers were what we called house hunter tourists. Wealthy, qualified buyers who could afford the home in question, and who were, ostensibly, looking for a second or third or fourth house. But they weren’t serious. They just took these vacations that basically consisted of looking at expensive houses as a form of entertainment. Wasting my time, my resources, getting my clients’ hopes up that a sale was imminent, and then… “Oh, we’ll be in touch.” Translation: nada.

  The worst.

  I heard a diesel rumble but ignored it—this was a busy stretch of road, and you heard all sorts of vehicles.

  “Um, Laur?” Teddy’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think that’s for you.”

  I blinked. “What? What’s for me?” I looked at Teddy, who pointed at the storefront windows.

  Giant black semi, taking up half the road. Was something that massive even allowed here? I sat at my desk in confusion. That was Titus’s rig, obviously, but he was still on tour. What was he doing here? Why bring the rig?

  There he was, my man, in full rock star regalia: tight black jeans, ripped to the point that it was a wonder they had any structural integrity left, high calf-length combat boots laced all the way up, and a loose, flowy, gauzy, white linen button-down left unbuttoned almost all the way, showing his ripped torso and all those tattoos, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Hair loose, wild, glossy black. Mirrored aviators. Leather bracelets, hemp bracelets, and rubber bracelets running up his right wrist, and a wide leather band, with a heavy gold watch on the right.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Teddy breathed. “That man is sex on a stick.”

  I cackled as I leaned back from my desk and watched him approach. “Yes, yes he is.”

  “I can honestly and legitimately say I do not in any way, shape, or form comprehend how in the ever-loving sam hill you’re staying celibate around him.” Teddy was damn near drooling—I didn’t blame her, I was too.

  I sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She laughed. “So what you’re saying is, it’s as hard as I think it is?”

  “Harder. Literally, the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.” He was striding across the room, then, with that long-legged cocky swagger of his.

  He didn’t stop when he reached my desk, but rounded it and before I knew what was happening, he was scooping me out of my desk chair and holding me in his arms, one arm under my knees and buttocks, the other around my shoulders.

  His lips slanted across mine, eager, impatient, wild. Kissed me breathless. “Hi.”

  I grinned, expecting him to put me down. “Hi. Guess you missed me, huh?”

  He just stared at me. “More than you know. Touring is the business, but now that I’ve got you in my life, waiting for me, it’s just…it just sucks without you.”

  I held on to his neck and shoulders, took the opportunity to kiss his neck, his throat, his stubbled jaw. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you today, but I’m glad I got to. I was missing you, I don’t mind admitting.”

  He smirked. “You were missing me, huh?”

  I sighed, nuzzling against his chest. “So bad.”

  “Well, good news. I rearranged my schedule.”

  “So you’re home?”

  “Nope.”

  I frowned. “I’m confused, then.”

  Instead of putting me down, he carried me across the office toward the front door. “You’re coming with me.” He kicked open the door and angled through it.

  I frowned at him. “Coming with you where?”

  “On tour.”

  “Titus. I have to work. I have showings all this week and next. I’m closing in a couple weeks on a property. I have to stage—I have meetings with prospective clients.”

  He didn’t slow, or put me down. “No, you don’t. It’s all be rescheduled. I worked it all out with Lizzy.”

  “I don’t have anything packed.”

  “I sent Bex to your house. She packed for you.”

  I huffed as he ascended the three small steps at the side of the trailer, up near the front, meaning toward the tractor part. Inside, it resembled a swanky modern high-rise penthouse: spacious, clean, sleek lines. From the outside, the exterior looked opaque, glossy black—within, the entire length of the trailer was windows, tinted or mirrored or something to prevent anyone seeing in while still letting in light. A couch ran one entire wall, curved around the back end, terminating in a J-shape at a kitchen area midway along the far side opposite the entrance, with a built-in table, booth-style. Instead of a single TV screen, the entire wall—the wall of what I considered the front, nearest the tractor part of the tractor-trailer—was turned into a giant screen via at least a dozen smaller TVs programmed to function as a single screen. The entrance, on the side near the front, admitted you into the kitchen and living area, but if you went straight it led you up a short, steep flight of steps that turned a ninety-degree angle and led, presumably, to the bathroom and bedroom. Yeah—when I said the trailer was huge, I meant huge—the upper half would be big enough for him to stand up in as easily as the lower half, and Titus was not a short man.

  “Damn.” I blinked as he set me on my feet. “This is…amazing.”

  “Custom designed and built. Don’t even ask how much I paid.” He laughed. “But, it’s home.”

  “You mean, it’s your home away from home.”

  He kissed me. “Exactly. Home away from home.” He gestured at the stairs which led up. “Your bags are up there already.”

  “You said you rearranged your schedule?” I asked, as I moved through the living area, taking in the high-quality luxury finishes with an expert eye—the phrase, no expense was spared certainly applied, here. “Meaning, what?”

  “Meaning, I moved things around so our route took us this way, so I could come pick you up. You’re gonna be with me for the whole Northwest leg.”

  “You and me, alone, on a tour bus or whatever you want to call this, for two and half weeks?” I gave him a look that was half smirk, half frown. “That sounds amazing, and like a lot of temptation when we’re supposed to be eschewing sexual relations.”

  He held me by the arms. “It’s not about avoiding sex, Laurel. It’s about buildin
g our relationship. And a road trip is a great way to do that.” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Unless you don’t think you’re up for it. Being that near me, for that long, without sex.”

  I huffed. “Of course I’m up for it.” I was wearing a miniskirt, and I swished the hem of it teasingly. “The question is, are you?”

  He growled. “As long as there’s no teasing, yeah.”

  I held out my hand for him to shake. “No teasing. Just a good old-fashioned celibate road trip.”

  He shook my hand, and then yanked me up against him, wrapping his arms around me in a tight embrace. “I really did miss you.”

  “Every moment of every day, Titus,” I breathed. “I’m glad you did this. Surprised, though.”

  “Well good—it was supposed to be a surprise.”

  We took our seats and the giant rig went into motion—I’d have thought there would be more sway and sense of movement, but it was shockingly smooth. It turned out to be easy, being with Titus on the bus. Once you’re used to ignoring the hormones and the desire, it becomes easier to sink into just…enjoying his presence. Being near him. Soaking up his energy, his warmth. He sprawled out on the couch, one foot on the floor, the other along the couch-back, and I lay between his thighs, my head on his chest, and we watched movie after movie.

  My life was typically very fast-paced, busy from wake-up to pass-out. Especially when Titus was gone—I filled my days even more full when he was gone just to keep myself from thinking about missing him.