Chapter Seven
Gabriel
* * *
There are only so many times you can ask yourself what the fuck are you doing before the question becomes pointless. Being a tenacious bastard, I give up only after the hundredth time. Fuck it. I want Sophie here. Denying it is stupid. The moment she agreed to come over, the hard compression that’s a near constant on my breastbone eased. It got lighter still when I saw her standing on that foggy street, her white blond hair frizzing in the damp, the lilting sound of her voice and that unflinching honesty of hers working like a balm.
It damn near lifted entirely when I rolled on top of her and pressed my cock between her legs. Her lips had parted in shock, those soft brown eyes widening. I meant what I said when I told her I wasn’t after sex. It would be the height of stupidity to get involved with that woman. But there’s a perverse sort of pleasure to be had in shocking Sophie Darling.
I find myself wanting to do it all the time.
For fuck’s sake, I’m making tea. For the insane chatty girl I met on a plane. If I haven’t fallen off the cliff already, I’m certainly teetering on the edge of it.
I finish up the tea tray and carry it to my bedroom. I should call Sophie down here, have tea in the relative formality of my living room. But I won’t lie to myself; I want to keep her in my bedroom, where her scent will linger long after she’s gone, and maybe I’ll be able to breathe a little easier for a while longer.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, at thirty-five thousand feet, she wrapped herself around me, and my brain decided to equate her scent, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, with comfort.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to dissuade myself of this notion, and I am not yet ready to try. So we’ll have tea in the sitting area of my room. And then I’ll take her back to the hotel, whether I want to or not.
The tea cups rattle slightly as I angle myself to slip into the bedroom. It’s too quiet. I expected her chatter as soon as I entered. The reason for the quiet is soon obvious: she’s asleep on my bed, her pale hair haloed on my pillow. A proverbial Goldilocks making herself comfortable in an unknown lair.
I set the tray down and move to her side. She sleeps the way a child might, sprawled pell-mell and thoroughly invested in the act. She’s clutching one of my pillows to her chest, half on her stomach, her plump arse in the air, legs spread.
“Sophie,” I murmur, halfheartedly. I don’t really want to wake her. It seems cruel given the smudges under her eyes.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.
Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed. In sleep, her expression is somewhat perplexed, and I wonder if she’s dreaming. What would this woman’s dreams be like? I imagine something Seussian with pink trees, whohoopers and trumtookas, and I fight a grin.
Outside, the rain keeps tapping on the windows. The soft sounds of Sophie sleeping fill the void. She’s a mouth breather, and each breath she exhales stirs a lock of hair hanging over her lip.
With the tip of my finger, I brush the hair away and give waking her one more weak try. “Chatty girl?”
A muffled snort answers me, and her knee draws up as if she’s cold. With a resigned sigh, I tug the duvet out from under her feet and cover her. She immediately snuggles down, her features smoothing.
Reaching for my cup, I stay by her side and drink my tea. She’s close enough that the heat of her body warms my skin, and scent of my soap on her tickles my nose. She doesn’t smell like me, however. Somehow she’s managed to make the scent entirely her own.
She stirs again, and her thigh presses against my back. Through the covers, the contact is warm and solid.
Lethargy steals over me, settling on my shoulders like a heavy hand. I’m so bloody tired at this point, everything hurts. But sitting here with Sophie, the old resistance to sleep starts to crumble. I can barely lift my teacup to my lips.
Setting the cup down, I hunch over and rest my head in my hands. For the first time in days, I want to sleep. I should get up, go to the guest room.
Sophie makes another small snuffle, and the covers rustle as she turns in dramatic fashion. I glance over my shoulder to find she’s rolled to the middle of the bed, almost as if she’s giving me space to lie down.
A snort escapes me. I’m making excuses. And I don’t bloody care. Sweet relief washes over me as I ease into the bed, slipping under the down cover. I don’t even try to talk myself out of turning off the bedside light.
At my side, Sophie stirs yet again, turning my way. My body stiffens, my breath going sharp. I have no idea what I’ll say. Sorry, love, didn’t see you there in my bed? You’re imagining the whole thing; go back to sleep?
But she doesn’t wake. No. She snuggles up to me as if we sleep this way every night. And damn if my body doesn’t immediately yield to hers—my arm lifting, so she can rest her head on my shoulder, before settling around her and bringing her closer.
Everything within me relaxes. This. This is what I needed. She is soft and fragrant, warm and welcoming. I know if she woke, she’d just laugh in that light way of hers and tell me to go with it, enjoy the moment. So I do.
I close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
The walk of shame is ever so much more fun when you’re leaving the boss man’s house. My hair, because I fell asleep with it half dry, is a rat’s nest, and that’s being kind. I’ve no makeup, and my eyes look puffy and wan without camouflage. At least I’m wearing my own clothes. Gabriel left them neatly laundered and folded at the foot of the bed.
Gah, the bed. I woke up in his bed, well rested, comfortably warm, and alone. And yet I know he slept with me. At some point during the night, I turned and found myself wrapped in gloriously strong arms, my cheek pressed against a firm chest. And it felt like heaven. So good that I didn’t even question it in my sleepy haze but snuggled in, sighing in contentment when he held me more securely, as if he too reveled in the contact.
But that had been in the dark cover of night, when my brain takes a vacation and the wants of my body hold sway. Now? Now, I’m awake and squinting in the rare London sunlight as I try to sneak into the lobby of my hotel without being seen. It’s too early for me to say I’ve been out and about already, and there’s my hair, my stupid hair. No one is going to overlook this cotton candy crown I’ve got going.
Luckily, the lobby is deserted. Only the concierge is on duty, and she’s not paying me any mind. I breathe a sigh of relief as I ride the elevator up. I want to be annoyed at Gabriel for not being there when I woke, but at least he left me breakfast—a boiled egg, a ginger scone, and a pot of tea on a tray, all covered with a warming cloth. The note pinned on it had instructions to eat it all, as breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Gabriel Scott, mother hen hiding in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
I’m snorting my amusement when the elevator doors open, and I come face to face with Rye. Shit.
His brow quirks as he looks me up and down. “Sophie Darling,” he drawls. “Doth my eyes deceive me or are you doing the long walk ‘o shame?”
I push past him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always look this way.”
“Ridden hard and put to bed wet?”
My steps halt, and I glare at his smugly grinning face. “That is not something you want to say to a woman who can nut you in two seconds flat.”
He winces but doesn’t look very contrite. “Brenna’s always saying I need to learn better manners.”
“You should listen to her.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He follows me down the hall as I march to my room. “Anyway, I’m all for you getting some. Touring is exhausting. Have your fun when you can, you know?”
The big lug looks so earnest, I give his meaty arm a pat. “Thanks for the advice.”
“So…” He waggles his brows. “Who’s the lucky guy? Or was it a girl? Please say girl. That fantasy will keep
me satisfied for weeks.”
“What fantasy?” Whip’s voice comes from behind us, and we both jump.
Jesus, are they all chipper morning people?
“Where the hell did you come from?” Rye asks, clutching his chest.
“My room.” Whip nods to the door we’re standing closest to. The duh is heavily implied. “And you two are making enough noise out here to raise the dead.”
Another door opens, and Brenna’s head pokes out. “What the fuck is this? A hall convention?”
“Whip is right,” Rye says. “The dead are rising.”
Brenna hisses at him, baring her teeth like a vampire.
I take the moment to edge away from them all. My door is so close.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Whip’s cool blue eyes pin me. “You haven’t answered the question.”
“What question?” Brenna pipes up.
“What kind of fantasy Rye is having of Sophie,” Whip says with an evil smile. The fucker. I now know who the instigator of the group is.
Rye scowls at him as Brenna’s happy face falls flat.
Rye gives Whip a not-so-gentle punch on the shoulder. “We were talking about Sophie hooking up with a girl. I doubt I’m the only one who’d find that fantasy hot.” His gaze lands on Brenna.
A flush hits her cheeks but she shrugs. “Sophie is definitely fantasy worthy.”
Well, okay then.
They all turn to me, and Brenna gives me a kind smile. “But her sex life is none of our business.”
“Like that’s going to stop us,” Whip says with a laugh. He nudges me. “I’m kidding, Soph. Run while you can.”
“No way,” Rye says. “Dish the dirt. Or we’ll make assumptions.”
Another door opens down the hall, and Jax glares at them before giving me a level look. “Sophie was out getting me a muffin. But she forgot the cash.” He holds up a wad of pounds. “Sorry about that.”
I sigh. “Oh, for crying out loud. I don’t need you to cover for me, Jax. I have insomnia, okay?” I back up to my room. “I was out walking all night.”
“In the rain?” Rye squints at me as if to better see through my lies.
“Yeah.” I finally reach my door. “In the rain. All night.”
Whip looks at Jax. “You were the last person I thought would make a move, man.”
Jax frowns. “Why? Sophie’s hot.” He smiles at me. “And I totally respect you this fine morning, Sophie. Don’t ever doubt that.” He winks.
I groan, thumping my head against my door. “I’m in a nightmare. A bad nightmare.”
“Don’t worry about it, Sophie,” Rye says. “Everyone makes regrettable sex mistakes.”
“Yeah,” Jax drawls. “Just ask Rye. He leaves tons of women lamenting theirs.”
Rye gives him the finger.
Whip grins my way. “See? No harm admitting it.”
“Fine,” I snap. “I was with Jax. And the experience was so moving, I just had to run around the block to get it all out of my system!” I let myself into my room and slam the door before they can say anything else.
Jax’s voice drifts through the wood. “Anytime you want a repeat, sweetheart, let me know. Me and my moving dick make house calls.”
Chapter Eight
Gabriel
* * *
Getting the band ready to start a tour is like herding wild cats. There is noise, there are squabbles, and no one is where they’re supposed to be. I gave up overseeing the details a long time ago. I’ve underlings to perform that thankless task now. And I pay them well. But it still falls to me to make final checks.
I watch stagehands moving to and fro, carrying crates and laughing along the way. For them, this is the experience of a lifetime—a chance to rub elbows with the band they idolize. I envy their joy. My joy ended around six this morning when I woke up and realized I was yet again, as though my life depended on it, wrapped around the woman I had intended to hate. And it had been a bloody uncomfortable realization.
It was bloody uncomfortable to ease my swollen, aching cock away from the swell of her arse and roll myself out of that warm, fragrant bed when all I really wanted to do was wallow there, ease between soft thighs and push…
“Where are we putting Sophie?” I ask Brenna, who stands next to me as the buses are loaded up.
“Why do you care?” She takes a long sip of her coffee.
I don’t know. I’ve gone over the ledge into madness. I give Brenna a look. “She’s a new employee. It shifts the balance. Accommodations will have to be rearranged.”
“We have five new employees,” Brenna retorts. “You know any of the others’ names?” One red brow lifts behind purple cat glasses. “Or job functions?”
Hell. Evasive maneuvers are needed.
“What has your knickers in a twist?” I ask. Before she can answer, Rye strides past. They ignore each other as usual, and Brenna’s pert nose rises a touch higher. I repress an eye roll. “You two really ought to fuck and get it over with.”
I can almost hear her teeth grinding. Her voice is breezy, though, when she finally speaks. “There is entirely too much fucking going around this nosy little bunch, thank you very much.”
“Who?” I can’t help asking.
Brenna’s gaze slides to mine. “Sophie and Jax, for one.”
It’s as if she’s kicked my legs out from under me. The sensation of falling is so strong, the sudden pain in my chest so sharp, I can clearly picture myself on the ground, two stiletto heels implanted in my chest—one of Brenna’s and one of Sophie’s.
“What?” The question lashes out like a whip. And Brenna visibly flinches.
Slowly she lowers her cup from her face and takes a step back. “Ah, yeah, you know what? That’s just speculation.”
“Based on what, exactly?” I grind out.
Brenna looks around as if trying to find an avenue of escape. Not bloody likely.
I take a step into her space. “Talk, you.”
“This morning Jax said he’d hooked up with Sophie, and she confirmed it,” Brenna blurts out. “Though really, she sounded extremely sarcastic when she called the sex ‘moving,’ so it might have been a joke…”
Her words drift off, as the ringing in my ears grows stronger. My heart knocks against my ribs so hard, I feel the reverberations in my throat. Jax? She’s with Jax? She fucking slept in my bed while she fucking fucked fucking Jax?
I turn on my heel, not knowing where the bloody hell I’m going, when my gaze lands on the man in question, who is about to get on his bus.
“John,” I bark out loud enough for my voice to echo over the lot.
Hearing me use his real name makes him pause and look over his shoulder. “What?”
Whatever he sees on my face gets him strolling over to me. I grit my teeth.
“What’s this about you and Sophie?”
The git gives me a stupid grin. “Oh, yeah, just a bit of fun.” He glances at Brenna, who is slowly shaking her head. “Right, Bren?”
I don’t let her respond. “Did you not give Killian a lecture about sleeping with employees when Libby came on board?”
He rubs his chin, and I have the urge to punch it.
Jax snaps his fingers. “Right. He clearly listened well.”
Fuckwit.
“Good advice which would apply to you as well, would it not?”
Jax nods, still grinning that smug little shitter grin. “It would.”
I take a calming breath, which bursts out of my lungs when Jax smiles wide and says, “But don’t worry, there wasn’t much sleeping involved.”
My breathing goes haywire.
“Careful,” Brenna whispers in my ear. “Your knickers are getting all twisted.”
I wrench my head in her direction, and she pales.
“Ack, joke gone bad, joke gone bad,” Brenna wails, flapping her hands. “Run away. Run away.”
Jax watches her go, a smile on his lips. “What’s with her?... Hey, man.” H
e holds his hands up. “Easy with the crazy eyes. It’s just Sophie.”
Wrong thing to say.
“What’s just me?” Sophie asks, appearing at my side.
I round on her. “You.”
“Me.” She points to her chest then to Jax. “Jax. We all speak good now.”
Jax chuckles, but when I glare at him, he suddenly becomes invested in scurrying off toward Killian and Libby.
Sophie frowns. “What’s that all about?”
“Are you fucking Jax?”
Her eyes go wide and shocked. Guilty? I can’t tell. It annoys me further.
A flush rushes over her cheeks. “Are you serious with this?”
Yes. No. I don’t fucking know.
“Answer the question, Sophie.”
She glances around before grabbing me by the arm. I let her lead me away because I want an answer. She stops in the narrow gap between my coach and the band’s.
“Look, you,” she hisses, poking my shoulder. “I don’t have to tell you a fucking thing about my personal life.”
“You cease to have one if you start fucking the band members.”
“Members?” she squeaks. “So, what? I’m fucking my way through them now? Is that it?”
The thought is so repellant, bile fills my stomach. My fists clench. “Jax. Let’s concentrate on Jax now. Did you sleep with him?”
“I cannot believe you’re asking me this,” she snaps. “That you’re actually snorting like some sort of enraged bull and expecting me to answer.”
“I did not snort. I merely asked a question. Which I want an answer to. Now.”
The flush rushes down to the tops of her breasts. “Fuck you, Scottie. I don’t know who you think you are, but let me tell you, I’m not some empty-headed bimbo you can bark at. I am done with this conversation.”
She turns to go, her expression utterly closed off for the first time since I’ve met her. But I saw the hurt I caused, and the humiliation, before she shut down. The bottom drops out of my gut.
“Sophie.” I grab hold of her and spin her around.
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