She nods to one of the shops. It's a chain I've seen at other malls. The place sells upscale casual and business casual women's clothing. Mom used to drag us to the mall and make us wait during her shopping expeditions.
Pete and I were such miserable little fucks. I don't know why she took us anywhere.
He was quiet, but I complained every other step. She never bent to it. Not once.
She's not gonna tell me shit, no matter how much I beg.
I pull Willow closer. "You want to go in?"
"Not really my style." She moves closer, looking up at me, those hazel eyes of her filled with uncertainty. "Unless you think I need a shift dress."
"I think you need no dress." I slide my hands to her ass. "No panties. No bra. Could keep going."
"To what?"
"No coat. No socks. No tights."
"Just shoes?"
I smile. "Yeah. Just shoes."
"You want me naked except for my Keds?"
I nod.
"Not heels or something?"
"You wear your Keds. I'll wear my Converse. It will be kinky canvas shoe shit."
"That's a thing?"
"We'll make it a thing."
She smiles back, but it can't hide the frustration in her eyes.
"Fuck. Whatever Mom said, I'm sorry." I run my fingers through her hair until a sigh escapes her lips. Damn, I love the way she sighs with pleasure. I need more of it. Need it louder. Need to feel how much she's mine.
Her voice is low, a whisper. "I'm not thinking about that anymore."
"What are you thinking about?"
She looks down, pressing her lips together.
There's a hand on my shoulder. It's not hers—those are around my waist—so what the fuck is it doing there?
I turn to face whoever it is that's touching me. It's an occupational hazard. Didn't always mind so much, but who the fuck is dense enough to touch a guy when he's embracing his wife?
It's a teenage girl. She's young, but she's old enough to know better.
"I... I... I'm sorry." She steps closer. "I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of Sinful Serenade, and I..." She looks back to her friends—another half-dozen teenage girls—standing in the corner. "Could you take a picture with us?"
Willow steps backward. She motions, go for it. She never gets jealous. She growls when fans, female fans at least, touch me without asking, but she doesn't get jealous.
I look at the girl. "Yeah, sure. If you do me a favor."
Her eyes light up. It's not that kind of favor, honey. This girl must be fifteen or sixteen. She knows what a wedding band is.
She knows what a couple looks like.
If she's a fan, she knows I'm married.
I turn back to Willow. She's wearing that same frustrated expression. Her eyes are on her cellphone. Again. A lot of people pull their cell out every time they get a spare second—I certainly look at mine more than I should—but not Willow.
It was the same thing last night.
And this morning.
She's not texting anybody. She's not doing anything but staring at the screen, frustration filling her eyes.
Someone tugs at my hoodie. Sure enough, it's the girl. Usually, I like talking to fans. I wouldn't have any of the stuff I have if it weren't for people who like our music. Or people who like Tom Steele, famous drummer.
I exploit my celebrity. So fucking what? You gotta do something if you want to stay in people's minds. And I'm happy to be the fun, hot bad boy who's good for a night but certainly not good for bringing home to Mom.
Everyone has an image, whether they're aware of it or not. Everybody projects something to the world. At least I'm in charge of mine.
But why the fuck does everybody think they can touch me without asking?
Don't have the patience for this shit right now. Don't have the patience to ask her for a favor—to stop touching people without asking first.
But I know my role. I gotta do this shit if I want the band to keep going, and we can't afford to drop anything else with Miles and Drew wanting us to slow down our tour schedule.
My shoulders relax. Slowing down sounds nice. I won't admit that to them, but it sounds like fucking heaven. More time with Willow, just the two of us—what the fuck else could I want?
I grit my teeth and oblige. After I'm done posing with the teenagers, I nod goodbye and send them on their way.
Willow is leaning against the railing, her hands folded over her chest, her eyes on the fake sky.
She brings her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curl into a half-smile. "You look pissed."
I shrug.
"Usually you hide it better." She slides her hands under my hoodie and presses her palm flat against my stomach, over my t-shirt. "I hate it too."
"What?"
"When girls touch you." She pushes off the railing and rests her head against my chest. "Why don't you ever ask them to stop?"
I shrug.
"Doesn't fit the Tom Steele brand?"
"Why don't you and Mom shop without me? I'm not in the mood for the celebrity shit right now."
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes filled with affection. "Is something wrong?"
I nod.
"What?"
"My wife's upset but she won't talk to me."
"Oh. I'm just thinking about something."
It's that fucking asshole who hurt her. Can't believe I agree with Drew about something, but that fucking asshole doesn't deserve oxygen.
I hate that he's still breathing.
I hate that she has to wonder if he'll show up on her doorstep one day.
Part of me wants to arrange to have him killed or arrested, something to make sure he's gone forever. But Willow would never forgive me if she found out. She's a good person. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, not even the man who nearly destroyed her.
I slide my arm around her waist and pull us to a secluded corner. Once I have my back to anyone who will walk by, I lean closer.
Her expression is vulnerable, needy. "It's not about Bradley."
"What's it about?"
"A decision I have to make. It's really not anything you need to worry about." She rests her forehead against my chin. "Let's have some fun first."
"Which kind of fun?" I slide my hands under her coat and pull her close. I need the reminder that she's okay.
She lets out a slow exhale, takes in a long inhale. But I can't feel her heartbeat. Not yet.
I pull her closer. I press my lips to her forehead.
"Any kind of fun." Her fingertips find my forearms. "I just want to be with you right now."
"You're scaring me, kid."
She sighs, but it's with relief. "It's really not a big deal."
"What did Mom say?"
"It's not about that."
"But what?"
"Just something about how women who are in abusive relationships should know to leave." She turns away from me. Her voice wavers. "She didn't mean offense. I'm not bothered. Really."
Yeah, but I am. Not by what Mom said—though she does know better-but that it ever happened.
It still hurts her.
It's not fair that I can't wipe that pain away. Dwelling on it, or on how badly I want the guy who hit her to stop breathing, doesn't help either of us.
Fuck, she's got enough of that from Drew. Not that I blame him. I would have killed that asshole. I don't know how Drew stopped himself.
I pull her closer. Close enough she squeaks. Her hands go under my shirt. The touch is soft, a yes, a please even.
We should have the better kind of fun.
I need my hands on her body, starting with those sexy shoulders and ending with... well, fuck, not ending with anything until I've had every inch of her soft skin, until she's come so many times she asks me to stop.
I need her body against mine so both of us know that nothing is ever hurting her again.
I press my cheek against hers and whisper in her ear. "Let's go back to our hotel."
"Are you sure? I don't want to be rude." She rises to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my ear.
Fuck. I pull her closer.
She moans as she sucks on my earlobe. It feels fucking amazing. I can't do anything but dig my fingers into the fabric of her jeans.
I groan. "You keep doing that, and I'm gonna fuck you in the nearest empty room."
"We'll get arrested."
"You say that like you think it matters to me."
She takes a step backward. Her lips curl into a smile. "We can't all be rock stars. Some of us have reputations to maintain."
I nod. She's a photographer—a fucking amazing photographer—and she has a business to run.
"Then how about we talk?" I ask.
Her lips press together. Her gaze goes to my crotch. "Maybe we should go back to the hotel room."
Hard to blame her for staring at my erection. The tight jeans make it painful, but it's well worth it for the excitement lighting her face.
She still looks at me like I'm a present she's desperate to unwrap. It's different than the way other women look at me. Yeah, she's appreciating my body, but she sees more than that.
She sees me. She sees every part of me and she's still here.
I'm warm everywhere. I've never cared about anything the way I care about Willow. Not even the band.
I nod to the fake canal behind us. "Let's talk first. On the gondola."
"Won't people gawk at the celebrity doing a cheesy tourist attraction?"
"Dunno. Where's this cheesy tourist attraction? I only see a fucking amazing replica of the actual canals in Venice."
She laughs. "Okay. Let's talk on the gondola." She bites her lip nervously but her eyes stay bright.
I send my Mom a text updating her on our plans—she texts back a suggestion we skip the ride and go back to our hotel room-and lead Willow to the ticket booth. Turns out, charm and celebrity don't do much to help us skip the line. But money does. I pay for the VIP passes then we're up.
A man in a striped shirt and straw hat introduces himself with an obviously made up Italian name. Okay, sure. We'll buy into that.
Willow is smiling. I can't complain about anything with her smiling like that.
He helps her onto the gondola. Then me. He looks at me with recognition, but the guy plays his role and stays zipped about all matters of celebrity.
"Honeymooners?" he asks.
Willow squeezes my hand. She traces the outline of my wedding band with her thumb. "Close enough."
I melt. I still can't believe it means as much to her as it does to me, that she's my wife and I'm her husband.
That we're together forever.
I can feel her affection everywhere.
I press my forehead to hers.
Her breath is steady, but she's not close enough. I slide my arms around her waist and pull her closer.
Need to know what it is that's weighing on her.
Can't take any more shit weighing on her. Between Meg and Miles throwing an impromptu wedding and Kara being knocked up, we've had enough of other people's problems.
Don't get me wrong. I love my friends. Just wish they'd deal with their shit for once.
Or at least not fight my help.
The gondola guy starts singing in Italian. Willow looks up, her hazel eyes going wide. Her smile goes wider.
I lean close enough to whisper. "You like this cheesy shit?"
She nods.
"Want to tell me what it is that's on your mind?"
"No."
I cock a brow.
"Your mom does the same thing. And your brother." She brushes my hair from my eyes. "It's cute how the three of you share so many mannerisms."
"Cute?"
She nods.
"Gonna make me prove I'm not cute?"
Again, she nods.
"I'll do it here."
"The boat will tip over!"
"So?"
She laughs. "Okay, do it here. I dare you."
Shit. I hate backing down from a dare, but I have to admit she called my bluff. I'm plenty in the mood for her body under mine, her strong legs wrapped around my hips, her nails digging into my back as she screams my name.
What the fuck am I trying to do here?
Thoughts of baseball do nothing to help the situation. Don't know shit about baseball.
I shake my head. Clear my throat. Takes a minute, but I get my senses back.
She laughs. "You're backing down from a dare."
"No. Just want to wait till we're alone."
"Uh-huh." She smiles ear to ear. "You don't have anything to prove to me. You're still the most outrageous person I know."
"Thank God."
She nods. Her expression softens, more serious. "Do you want to be here for Christmas?"
"Don't care where I am as long as I'm with you."
"Really?"
I nod. The last few years, I've spent half my time with my surroundings blurring together. Another hotel, another venue, another Thai restaurant, another woman at another club—it's all felt the same until Willow showed up in my hotel room.
I knew she was different that first night. It still took me a while to realize she was exactly what I needed.
"We won't have much family here," she says.
"We have the band and Ophelia. Who else do we need?"
"Do you ever think about your biological parents?"
My stomach clenches. Which of them would I think about—the father who walked out when my mother got pregnant or the mother who couldn't be bothered to stay sober long enough to fucking do anything? "No."
"Never?"
"You ever think about how your dad moved to Europe and married some French chick three years older than you?"
"Yeah, I do."
She does? Her eyes are wide, this mix of frustration and something else. I don't get it. Usually, body language is easy to read. Usually, I know exactly what she wants.
But now, I don't.
She's getting at something, but what?
Hard to focus when she brings up my birth parents.
Why the fuck would she bring them up?
"What are you getting at, kid?" I ask.
"I still think about my dad and my mom all the time." She frowns. "Sometimes, I think about getting back in touch."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because they're my family, Tom. I grew up with them. The only person I've known my whole life is Drew. I don't have any old friends from high school. I only have one friend from college." Her gaze goes to the bottom of the gondola. "I decide that it isn't worth the hurt, but I do think about it."
"Nobody who hurt you deserves your thought."
"Sometimes people who love you hurt you." She looks up at me. "You've hurt me."
Fuck, I have. The thought guts me. I can't stand that I've hurt her.
She presses her fingertips into my cheek. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean to. I'm sure I've hurt you before."
"No."
"Really?"
"Never." I lean into her touch. I can feel that everywhere too. She's soft. She's warm. She's fucking alive now. Not like before. Not like when she was running from everything.
And I am too. A whole different part of me is awake.
Willow bites her lip. "I'll probably hurt you one day. Without meaning to. That's what happens when you give someone your heart. Sometimes they stumble a little."
I trace the lines of the tattoo on her chest—a shattered glass heart. She's a strong person to survive everything she's been through, but I'll always worry about her breaking like that tattoo.
I'll always need to make sure she's pasted back together.
"Do you ever think about talking to your birth mom?" she asks.
What the fuck? "To do what?"
"It weighs on you. The way she let you go so easily. Maybe she had her reasons. Maybe she still loves you."
I shake my head. The gondola is turning. Feels like the whole fucking world
is turning.
Why would I want to talk to my birth mom? Why'd you let your boyfriend beat me when he came down off his meth high? isn't exactly productive conversation.
There's nothing to say. I meant nothing to her. Nobody thought anything of me until Ophelia.
There aren't many people who care about me, about the real guy and not the celebrity, but there are enough.
Willow is enough.
But what the hell is she getting at? "Why are you bringing this up?"
Her brow knits. "Thinking about family and Christmas. Things are changing. Drew and Kara are having a baby. And I... I've never liked Christmas. Lots of bad memories. My parents always fought like cats and dogs."
"Yeah?"
She nods. "This is our first Christmas together."
"We're gonna celebrate with our friends."
"Is that enough?"
"You're all I need, Willow." Even if I've got no fucking idea what she's after.
She nods, but I'm not sure I buy it.
Still, I pull her closer. It makes my whole body warm. It's not just heat, not just how much I want her athletic body under mine, her hazel eyes filled with pleasure.
Don't just want to fuck her.
I want to make love to her.
Want to savor every single second of it.
I don't even care that make love is the cheesiest phrase in the history of the universe.
"We're really grown-ups, huh?" she asks.
"Speak for yourself, kid. I'm a rock star."
"You do your new manager's job."
"Only till he learns."
"What a load!" She laughs. "You're going to do it forever."
"You run your own photography studio."
"True."
"You're grown up."
She turns to me. "You are too."
"We should celebrate with some grown up fun." Need whatever it is she's getting at gone. Need everything between us gone. Need every inch of her pressed against me.
She smiles sheepishly. Her gaze passes over me, stopping at my chest, then making its way back to my eyes. "Are you sure Ophelia won't mind?"
"She already texted, telling me to go fuck my wife."
"She did not."
I show Willow the evidence.
She laughs. "Well, ignoring her advice would be rude."
"Don't have to convince me."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sinful Ever After (Sinful Serenade #5) Page 17