by Cherrie Lynn
“Now,” he went on, “I absolutely get that this presents somewhat of a moral dilemma for you, but please know that I’m fully respectful of your circumstances, Rowan.” He regarded her with an earnestness than immediately negated any misgivings she might have.
“I know,” she blurted, and suddenly the fact that there had been any dilemma at all seemed absolutely ridiculous. Of course. Fully respectful of her circumstances . . . an exceedingly nice way of saying a pity date, right? He was, after all, him. She was . . . her. Pregnant. Widowed. Lonely. Charity. She couldn’t keep forgetting that this wasn’t a date, for God’s sake.
“I would love to,” she told him, “but I really shouldn’t.”
He gave a single nod. “Understood.”
“But I don’t think I can even express to you right now how badly I want to hear it.”
“Hey, no problem.” He plucked his phone from the cup holder between them and passed it to her. “Put your email in there. I’ll send you some files.”
“Oh my God. Really?”
“Absolutely.”
It felt deliciously forbidden. She’d been a fan for so long, patiently waiting for each new album to drop, adamantly refusing to listen to any leaked clips until she could absorb the entire flow of the album on release day. It was an entirely different moral dilemma. But getting an advance listen so early was something most fans could only dream of. Sending him a conspirator’s smile, she took his phone from his hand and went directly to his contacts to find her name . . . marveling, of course, at the sheer number of names he had stored . . . and at the hundreds of text messages indicated by the badge on his messaging app.
“Good God,” she said as she tapped in her email address. “I’m so weird about keeping everything cleaned out, I don’t know how you handle having that many unread messages.”
“If I checked them as they came in, I would never do anything else. So I do it every few days.”
Crazy. She cocked her head at him as she handed back his phone. “But you always answer me pretty quickly.”
“Well, of course. You’re a priority.”
“I am?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am, a little.”
“Don’t be, Rowan. I like you. I like you a lot.”
She fiddled with her purse strap, feeling a flutter in her stomach as she stared through the windshield at the blank gray wall of the parking garage. “I figured Mike put you up to this.”
“Look at me.”
Inhaling, she did, that breath hitching in her chest as she met his eyes, lit by a shaft of light coming through her window. His hand closed around hers, fingers long and graceful, warm and firm.
“He didn’t put me up to anything, except meeting you for the first time, which I’m glad about. I’m here now only because I want to be. I flew here to you because I wanted to.”
“But . . . why?”
“Did you hear what I just said? I like you.”
“I’m . . . not exactly available.” Rowan’s gaze dropped from his face to the swell of her belly.
Zane digested that in silence for a moment, and though she wasn’t looking at him, she felt the weight of his steady assessment. “I know,” he said at last. “I’m always around, though, if you need a shoulder.”
That was all she could ask for right now. From anyone. “Thank you.”
Chapter Three
As he’d looked at her across the dinner table, lyrics had begun swirling through his head. When Zane was lucky enough for that to happen, he usually grabbed the nearest pen or, in a pinch, his phone, and made a note. He couldn’t very well do that in front of her, though.
She made him want to create art. In his experience, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His art came from someplace deep and dark inside him, but she herself was in a dark place right now. Maybe that was triggering him, maybe not, but he sensed a long night of writing ahead.
He wasn’t a love song kind of guy, never had been. Anything he wrote for her would be nothing like that. But it would be real.
Two words had played on repeat through his head, though, as he watched her, listened to her, absorbed her. Perfect tragedy. A story that was sad to all the players but couldn’t have ended any other way.
He only hoped she knew her story hadn’t ended yet. She was wilted in the winter now. She would find her springtime; she would bloom again.
Jesus Christ. Maybe I am turning into a sappy pop artist. What will the guys think? Zane almost grumbled as he shook the thought away. Rowan had just flat-out told him she wasn’t available and he had flowers dancing in his fucking head.
“I know we had dessert at the restaurant,” she said suddenly, “and we’re stuffed, but everyone comes to New Orleans for the beignets. I can’t let you leave without getting your fix, right?”
“I’m all yours,” he said, eagerly grasping for anything that would allow him to have a little more time with her. Even if he couldn’t find room to indulge in the pastries, some coffee would be out-fucking-standing right now. “And I came here for you.”
He practically heard her blush. She gave him directions to a lesser-known café, so he could avoid the touristy crowds of the more popular locales. There, they sat at a tall round table over café au lait and a shared order of powdered sugar–coated awesomeness that he somehow did find room for. Even sweeter than the confections, though, was watching Rowan take delicate bites of her own pastry. Small white teeth sinking in, full pink lips closing and coming away coated in white, only for her tongue to sneak out and swipe the sugar away. He couldn’t stop staring at that little ritual.
When he began to imagine licking the sugar off her lips himself, tasting her own sweetness mingled with it, he realized this hadn’t been the greatest idea. Who would’ve thought watching her eat beignets could be so damn sexy? When she kept missing a little sugar spot at the corner of her mouth, he could no longer resist. Reaching across the tiny table, he gently wiped the dot away with his thumb, delighting that her skin was as soft as it looked. And she froze as he touched her, breath catching, eyes meeting his.
Zane didn’t want to pull away. But he did. Unavailable, you dumb asshole. He didn’t care what she’d said earlier, there was no mistaking that beautiful rush of color that flooded her cheeks in the awkward silence that followed. It was all he could do not to lick his own thumb, hoping for a taste of her.
Why in the hell was he so drawn to her? Why? He was the last fucking guy who should be thinking about kissing her senseless right here in the middle of beignets. His brother was the reason her child would grow up not knowing his or her father. Mike hadn’t meant it, hell, knowing Mike, he’d trade places with the guy in a heartbeat if it would set things right. But that wasn’t the way life worked.
“I want you to know something,” he said, and she looked at him with what he interpreted as equal parts dread and expectation. In this lighting, her ultralong lashes practically cast shadows on her cheeks. Christ, she was breathtaking, and he honestly didn’t think she knew it. “My brothers are all the family I have, but we’re tight. We take care of our own. What’s mine is theirs and what’s theirs is mine. And I promise I’m going somewhere with this, even if I don’t exactly know where.” He gave a grim chuckle and searched for the words in the depths of his coffee cup. “All I’m saying is, you have me, and you have Mike, and hell, Damien doesn’t even know you but you have him too. Sometimes he only shows up when there’s trouble, but he always shows up when there is.”
“So you’re saying I’m in the circle?” she asked with innocent delight, and he had to laugh.
“Oh, yeah. You’re in the circle. I hate the way you came into it, Rowan. I hate it. But I’m glad you’re here. Anything you need, or even want, let us know. That goes beyond a shoulder to cry on.”
“I’m okay, Zane. I appreciate it, but what happened—” She broke off and shook her head, twirling and untwirling one blond lock around her finger for a moment before continuing
. “You guys definitely don’t need to feel a sense of obligation or responsibility about it or anything.”
“It isn’t about that,” he said quickly, cursing inwardly. He hadn’t wanted it to come off like that at all. “It just . . . is. You have us if you need us.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes looking a little lighter than they had all night. “It really does mean a lot.” She lifted her cup back to her lips.
Not enough, he thought, watching ceramic meet softness. Nothing he could ever do for her would be enough.
* * *
A strong breeze blew across the Mississippi River, demolishing Rowan’s hair, though she was beyond caring at this point. Riding the Algiers ferry wasn’t necessary to get back to her house, but it was a lovely way to step back a bit and see the beauty of the Crescent City. Of course, Zane had seen almost every metropolis in the world with his touring schedule; she doubted much impressed him anymore. It occurred to her, as she stared at the familiar sparkling skyline set below a low-hanging moon, how his lifestyle must be a blessing and a curse.
He got to see every wonder of the world. But at what point would the world lose its wonder?
“It hasn’t yet,” he replied when she put the question to him. “I’m still fascinated. Still grateful.”
“That’s good. Maybe it will always be that way for you.”
“I hope so.” He was much taller than she was, but Tommy had been too. She’d grown accustomed to straining her neck to look at her six-four husband. Zane’s height next to her, though, somehow felt even more imposing. How was that possible? Tommy had been a mountain of muscle, while Zane was all broad, sinewy strength. She’d seen him shirtless on stage enough to know that. But his very presence was overwhelming, and as she looked at his handsome profile, she marveled again that she was standing here next to him. That his hand rested lightly, protectively on her back as they gazed out over the water.
In years past she’d watched those hands caress a mic stand as if it were a lover and fantasized being beneath them.
Don’t go there, girl. Shutting her eyes tight against the image didn’t make it go away. When he’d touched her in the café . . .
“It’ll probably be easy,” he said, and she had to search her brain for a moment to remember what they’d been talking about. Suddenly her knees felt a little wobbly. “It’s not as if I can forget where I came from.”
Oh yeah, fascination. “Me either,” she said. “I mean, I’ll never achieve a level of success that you have, but—”
“Rowan, don’t say that.”
“I only mean I’ll never be a rock star or a movie star or anything like that. You know, the fantasies everyone has when they’re a kid.”
“Not everyone. I always wanted to be a fireman.”
She looked up at him incredulously. “Really?”
“Well, hell, yeah. Bursting into burning buildings, saving people’s lives . . . real-life hero stuff. Those were the guys I looked up to.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “I fucked around too much and became a musician.”
“Now you save people in a different way. A different kind of hero.”
The smile he gave her made her heart stutter. “I like to think so. I doubt the parents who hear our noise blaring from their kids’ bedrooms agree.”
“They would, if they really knew their kids,” she said solemnly, her hand going instinctively to her belly. “If they really knew what their kids were going through, they would be glad they have the outlet. This kid? He or she will be raised on you guys, I promise.”
“I have some hope for the future after all,” he teased, and as hyperaware of him as she was, she felt the ever so slight tightening of his fingers on her back. The minute stroke of his thumb, its whisper across perhaps a half inch of her skin, left its electric impression even through the fabric of her dress. He stood so close; the heat of him radiating from beside and just slightly behind her raised the fine hairs at her nape, as if every cell in her body yearned to be closer to him. When she stole a glance up at him, she could see the city lights of New Orleans reflected in his dark eyes. Oh, what sights had those eyes seen? Feverish crowds, cityscapes, exotic locales she could only dream of . . . She wanted to explore them all. She wished she had all night to hear his stories. Hell, she wished she had a lifetime.
Maybe she did. The way he’d talked earlier tonight, about her always having him and his brothers, sounded so sincere that she didn’t doubt it for a moment. Rowan wasn’t sure how she knew that particular promise didn’t contain the empty words so many others did, but she knew all the same. If she called, he would be there in whatever capacity she needed. Even if she never put it to the test, even if she didn’t necessarily like being someone’s responsibility, any security she could find in her new upended world was priceless.
There he goes being too perfect again. But it made her so happy to know she would have time to get to know him, really know him.
And when he’d touched her in the café, dark eyes focused on the place where his thumb brushed her . . .
For the second time, she shoved that memory back, locked it away for another place and time far, far from here and now. Maybe someday.
One thought broke out no matter how hard she beat it back, though: If she felt exploding fireworks from the simple brush of his fingers, what would his lips do to her?
She couldn’t imagine, and that was good, because she didn’t need to.
The ferry ride ended all too soon and they were tucked back in the SUV long before Rowan would have liked. But her energy was flagging, especially after the big meal earlier, and while she felt like the most boring girl in this city—and certainly the most boring girl he’d ever met—she told him she supposed it was time to call it a night.
At least he was nice enough to look disappointed.
“Sorry,” she said after she’d given him directions back to her house, hoping all along he wouldn’t figure out she was sending him the long way to finagle a little more time with him. “You’re probably used to more excitement.”
“I’ve had a great time with you.”
“Me too. I mean, I’ve had a great time with you,” she amended with a chuckle.
But at last, she had no more obscure routes to send him on, and he pulled to the curb in front of her house. “It’s not as glamorous as you probably think,” he said, putting the vehicle in park and leaning his head back to look over at her. “It’s a lot of hotel rooms. A lot of riding, a lot of flying. A lot of performing, yeah, the same songs, night after night for faceless crowds. Total monotony.”
“But you make it new every night. At least, you seem to.”
“I try to. It might be my hundredth time performing a song live, but it might be someone in the audience’s first time hearing it. I have to always remember that.”
“You are amazing, I hope you know that. I mean . . . I hope you know how much your fans appreciate you. How much I do.” To her horror, a sudden wash of tears clouded her vision. Oh God, not now, not now. Her emotions had been so all over the place, whether from hormones or the grief still enshrouding her or both, and she could never really predict when the next eruption would occur. Baking cookies in her kitchen, talking to a friend on the phone, standing in the checkout line at the grocery store . . . nowhere was safe anymore.
“Hey,” Zane said gently, his scrutiny of her face intensifying as he leaned closer. “It’s gonna be all right.”
He hadn’t asked her if she was okay. He couldn’t have realized what that meant to her. Because she wasn’t okay; it should be apparent to any idiot with eyeballs that she wasn’t fucking okay, and she was tired of not truly answering that question. “Know what I don’t understand?” she said, swiping up under her eyes and feeling a ramble coming on that was probably going to send him running for the hills. “The stages of grief. I keep hearing about these stages. And they’re not stages. It’s a cycle. It never ends. You think you’ve gotten to
acceptance, and then the next morning you wake up in denial all over again.”
“I know,” he said gravely. “I know exactly what you mean. And you’re right, it never ends. You’ll still wake up some morning, years from now, and feel like that truck has hit you all over again. I wish I had better news, Rowan.” His calm words, even telling her what she didn’t want to hear, were somehow more reassuring than any of the condolences she’d received since Tommy’s passing.
“We’ll pray for you!”
Great, because that’s worked out well so far.
“You’re in our thoughts!”
Funny, then why haven’t I heard from you in four months?
“It’ll get easier with time, honey.”
No the fuck it wouldn’t.
“Thank you,” she told him. “I think I’ve been waiting on someone to actually say that. To confirm that I’m not going crazy.”
“You’re not. I think you’re doing fucking awesome, and I mean that.” He gave a shrug. “Sometimes we don’t want to feel better. Sometimes we need to wallow in it for a while.” His eyes flicked past her, assessing her house over her right shoulder. Probably pitying her for having to go in there alone after her brief meltdown.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” She wiped furiously at her cheeks, confident the tears had abated for now.
“Can I walk you to your door?”
“Sure,” she said, glad for the offer. Even shaky from emotion, she had to wring every last minute she could get out of this. There probably wouldn’t ever be another chance.
Zane took her hand and helped her from the car after opening her door. He’d done that all night, and while she hadn’t needed it, she found she loved it. He didn’t let her go even as they strolled up the walkway to her front door, pausing on her front porch. She missed the warmth of his hand immediately when she had to dig her keys from her purse.
Except for hugs from family and friends, it had been a while since anyone touched her. Until tonight.
It had been much longer since anyone had awoken the kind of feelings she was experiencing right now, the zinging along her nerve endings, the weakness in the fronts of her thighs that she suspected had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with him.