by Pippa Grant
“Where is it?” I ask.
Now it’s her turn for the no way are you coming to my gig panic. “Jersey.”
And now it’s my turn to stroke a hand up her leg. “You know what happens to sexy guitarists who lie to their fake fiancés?”
“You pull that librarian shit and figure it out on your own anyway?” she whispers as my fingers reach the apex of her thighs.
“Exactly.” I brush that sweet spot at her very center, wish she was in a skirt instead of these jeans, and lower my lips to her ear. “What are you wearing tonight?”
She’s panting in my ear and gripping my thigh. “Clothes.”
“You can do better than that.”
“Short shorts,” she amends. “Cropped tank top.”
“What color bra?”
“Pink.” Her hand’s working its way up my thigh again, and now she’s casually rubbing my hard-on.
“I like pink,” I tell her. “Matching panties?”
“Yes.”
“Damn. I was hoping you’d go without.”
Her breath’s coming in shorter and shorter bursts, which I can appreciate, because her hands are doing some pretty wicked things to my tent pole. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and still as a busboy glances at us.
Fucking best behavior. “You need to go change?” I murmur.
She nods.
“How about I give you a hand?”
“Or I could give you a hand,” she whispers.
And this is suddenly the best Saturday in the history of Saturdays.
22
Knox
This Saturday can bite me.
We spent the subway ride to Parker’s apartment with me reading her some of my favorite scenes, which is beneficial for her motion sickness and for both of us getting turned on, only to arrive to find two of her bandmates waiting on her to discuss tonight’s set, since they’re apparently having guest performers. Top secret guest performers.
Which meant no canoodling, no nooky, and no relief for my poor neglected flagpole, because Parker shoved me out the door and told me she’d be free after eleven.
But the good news is, Willow and Eloise were more than happy to tell me they were playing at the Pit & Pear before I got the boot.
The upscale juice bar and café is enclosed on a Chelsea rooftop with slate walls along three sides, a glossy black bar, and family-style seating at long, stone-topped cafeteria tables. The place is a jumbled mix of classy and hipster, topped off with the sounds of an all-girl boy band.
And it works.
Especially the part where Parker is rocking her hips, her fingers plucking magic on her guitar strings, a smile glowing from within.
Tonight, hoops dangle from her ears, her black tank top is molded to her perky breasts, her shorts are almost short enough to be illegal, and she’s wearing brown cowboy boots.
I don’t notice the other women, because why would I?
Onstage, she’s showing off her natural fun. The part of her that lets her hair down and cuts loose. Yes, her hair’s in two braids that she keeps flipping over her shoulders, but that’s not the point. Point is, this is the woman she should be everywhere.
Carefree, confident, and joyful. Not so freaked out about losing her job if she doesn’t work ungodly hours and get her ex-husband to agree to work with her boss.
I stop in the doorway, just watching her, my pants getting uncomfortably tight. My ribs are feeling a little tight too.
It’s possible I’m mildly overprotective of her. But who could know her and not be?
Parker does a double-take when she spots me, and a you goofball, you came smile spreads over those delicious lips.
I blow her a kiss and head to a table where Chase Jett—her boss—is hanging with another guy. I met Chase at Mom’s retirement party, before I knew the full story behind Parker and her reunion.
He lifts a dark brow when I take a seat next to him. “Sure you want to do that?”
“Full house, good music,” I reply. I drop into one of the few empty chairs and point to the box behind him. What I’d really like to do is tell him to fucking handle his business during business hours, but Parker’s right. If she were a man, the reunion wouldn’t be a question. “Plus, I’m looking for a T-shirt.”
“Good taste. You meet Parker’s brother yet?” He nods to the guy across from him. “Gavin Elliott, meet Tarzan.”
Good to know what I’m most remembered for.
“Knox Moretti.” I offer a hand, not surprised when he grips it with more force than necessary. I don’t know what she’s told him—if he knows we’re “engaged”—but it probably doesn’t matter.
Parker’s rocking out to something catchy about a backstreet that has half the bar singing along with Willow, the lead singer. If she notices the manly display of testosterone being fought over her in a handshake—again—she doesn’t give anything away.
“You play guitar too?” I ask her brother, because you a SEAL too? isn’t a normal question anywhere.
He doesn’t blink. He also doesn’t let go. “No.”
“Parker offered to give me lessons.”
He squeezes tighter. Not as tight as Rhett squeezed, so I’m venturing that’s a no on the SEAL thing, but I’m not ruling out military in general just yet.
“You think he’s bad,” Chase says casually, “wait till you meet her other brother.”
“Already had the pleasure.”
“Brooks?” Chase asks.
Brooks Elliott—power hitter for the Mets. “Rhett.”
“Explains why you’re still standing. Brooks could take your head off with a baseball bat and nail your nuts with a throw from third.”
I’m well aware. Parker has two badass brothers, a third I haven’t been able to dig anything up on, and this dude who’s trying to suffocate my reading hand.
And I’m getting the impression Chase—her boss, who’s dating the band’s keyboardist—is just as protective of her as her brothers.
Ironic, considering he’s the reason I’m here. If he hadn’t asked Parker to go to her reunion, she wouldn’t need me.
“Ah. Brooks is a sportser, I gather,” I say.
Chase cracks a grin. “Moretti’s an academic,” he tells Gavin.
Parker’s brother gives me a slow appraisal. “You a professor?”
“Librarian.”
It shouldn’t be fucking hilarious how quickly his grip eases after that, but it is. “A librarian.” He lets go and leans back in his chair, still glowering at me.
“Pays the bills.” Mostly.
“I hear the ladies love him,” Chase says. “Has a blog. Mr. Romance.”
Being Mr. Romance typically goes two ways—it either makes me harmless, or it makes me a playboy threat to his sister. Based on how Gavin’s eyes are narrowing, I’m betting on the latter.
I’m also betting we’re not telling him anything he doesn’t know, but he’s having fun with the game.
“You trying to get her to read that shit?” he asks.
“Ever read a romance?”
Gavin smirks, a typical pussy accusation. “No.”
“What do you read?”
“Newspaper. Business nonfiction. Back of my cereal box.”
I pull a bill out of my wallet and slap it on the table. “Twenty bucks says I can find a romance you’ll love.”
“Pocket change,” Gavin says. “You want to bet me, fucking bet me.”
Chase reaches into his wallet and produces a stack of hundreds. “My money’s on Tarzan.”
Holy shit. That’s more money than I make in a week.
Though I’d rather be enjoying watching Parker play and not having my favorite books insulted, I keep my gaze level on Gavin, who looks just as surprised as I am by the size of the ante.
“Chicken?” I ask.
“Happy to take your money, boys.”
“Not that easy,” Chase says. “Have to actually read it. And then tell us what happened. And why you don’t
like it. One week, take it or leave it.”
There’s just enough offense in Gavin’s scowl to suggest he’s insulted at the suggestion he’d cheat his way to the money.
Honestly? I don’t care if the fucker lies about whether or not he liked it, so long as he reads it.
Because I know when I’m done with him, he’ll be one more member of the romance-loving public.
And that’s all the satisfaction I need.
Okay, not all the satisfaction I need, but I’ll take it for the moment. “I’m in.”
“Easiest money I’ll ever make,” Gavin says.
The three of us shake on the bet.
“Hobbies?” I ask him.
“You’re Mr. Romance. Take a good long look at this pretty face and romance me.”
I’m debating if I want to torture him or not. I could go the romantic suspense route—Katie Reus has a few I’ve recommended to men before—or maybe paranormal, with Karen Marie Moning’s Darkfever. He’s here listening to his sister’s band play, so Selena Laurence’s LUSH rockers might not be out of the question. Or Lila Monroe’s Mr. Right Now. Lili Valente’s Bad Motherpuckers series is fun, but having a brother who plays baseball rules out sports romances—odds are good he’d be too picky about any unrealistic aspects to the game, and I make a mental note to not suggest sports romance to Parker yet either.
Fifty Shades is too easy. He’ll think I’m mocking him just for suggesting it, and he’ll never take it seriously. Same for billionaire romances, considering who we’re sitting with, even though I loved Poppy Dunne’s Dating the Billionaire.
“Can’t think of anything?” He smirks again, and when he props his arm on the table, I get a glimpse of some red, white, and blue ink on his bicep.
Huh.
Guy’s decently built. Hair cut short. Might’ve been right about him still being military.
Either way, it’s worth the recommendation for the armadillo and pie scene. “Southern Fried Blues,” I say. “Jamie Farrell. What’s your email address? I’ll gift you a copy.”
“I’m not signing up for girlfriend gifty shit.”
“Too late,” Chase says.
Gavin glowers at both of us. He’s pretty easy to bait.
I gift a copy of the book to Gavin, pay Chase for a band T-shirt, order some kind of fruit-and-vegetable juice the server recommended, and finally get to sit back and watch the show.
Parker in those short shorts, with platform sandals that have laces wrapped around her ankles. Her hips are hidden behind her guitar, but her breasts are on full display under her tight black boy band tank top. I don’t recognize the dudes plastered to her rack—I got enough shit for loving romance novels to fall into the trap of becoming a boy band fanboy too—but I’m happy to pull her mug over my chest.
Also happy to watch her swing her hips as she plays and sings and dances on the stage. It’s interesting to contemplate why she wouldn’t think she’s sexy, and how she’s found so many losers to date in the last twenty years. I’m sitting in a juice bar, listening to boy band music, and over half the audience is male.
And drooling.
Sure, Willow’s pretty, but she’s not the curvy fun that Parker is. Sia, Chase’s girl, is half-hidden behind a keyboard, and I can barely see the petite drummer behind her kit, though the stud in her nose keeps sparkling in the light.
Parker’s the sex appeal in the band.
“You staring at my sister’s rack?” Gavin asks.
“She’s had a lot of asshole boyfriends, hasn’t she?”
He studies me carefully. “You want to talk about her exes?”
No, I don’t want to fucking talk about the men who’ve made her think there’s something wrong with her. But I want to know why she always picked the losers.
“Didn’t date much in high school,” he finally says. “Late bloomer. Braces, glasses, pimples, and played the trumpet in the marching band. Kids are assholes. Football players used to ask her if she could blow them too.”
He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Except maybe the trumpet part. “You didn’t kick their asses?”
“I was still in fucking middle school.”
Fair enough. “College boyfriends?” I ask.
We’re skipping over the Randy Pickle thing, and he’s studying me like he wants to know if I know about it or not. If he brings it up and outs her to Chase, no skin off my back. Even though Parker would probably kill us both. “Nothing serious until her senior year. Dude was pretty, but he was as much in love with himself as he was with her. Reminds me of you.”
I ignore the bait, smiling as Parker bumps hips with Willow onstage.
Gavin leans across the table. “Dated three or four losers right out of college. Rhett and I took care of the last one. That’s when she started her first master’s degree. Got too busy to date after that.”
I should probably feel some guilt about going behind her back to find out her dating history, but a new perspective is good.
And it’s the sort of thing her fiancé should know.
“Don’t fuck around with her,” Gavin adds. His words are quietly menacing in that way only brothers can pull off, and I get the message. It’s identical to the message from Rhett.
Hurt her and die.
I’m thinking he doesn’t have to worry—I’ll kick my own ass before I hurt her—when a commotion on stage brings me to my feet.
Two gigantic brutes have just leapt up with the ladies in the middle of “The Right Stuff.” They’re sandwiching Parker and thrusting their hips and—
Chase grabs my arm with a laugh. “Slow down, Tarzan. All part of the show.”
I look closer, and— “Holy shit. The Berger twins?” I don’t follow much hockey—baseball’s my favorite sport—but everyone knows the Berger twins. The Brute and The Force. The Twin Tanks when they’re together. They’re overgrown apes with hockey sticks.
“They’re family,” Chase tells me.
They move to gyrating their hips at Willow, the crowd’s whistling and cheering, and Parker’s laughing merrily without missing a beat.
He’s right.
She works harder than she should, and she has more hang-ups than she deserves, but she’s got family. Blood family and band family and work family.
I settle back into my seat under the pretense of enjoying watching two professional hockey players take over my fake fiancée’s show.
But I still only have eyes for Parker.
23
Parker
When we finish out set, I stash my guitar with Sia’s keyboard behind the stage. “Lookin’ good,” the manager calls to me with a sly grin and a thumbs-up.
Like he’s—like he’s hitting on me.
Seriously? No way. “The crowd was great,” I call back.
We’ve been playing here most Saturdays for the last two years, and it’s usually crowded, but never this packed. Not that I would’ve cared tonight if it was a one-person crowd or a fire hazard.
Knox is here.
And I’m taking him home with me tonight. And my brothers can suck it.
My besties and I head out to the dining room to join our fan club. More specifically, our favorite fan club members, because we’re damn popular tonight. We weave around the tables, taking high-fives. Sia stops to sign one guy’s forehead. Her brothers are falling behind, because they’re the size of small houses and can’t fit between the tables and keep getting stopped for fist bumps and signatures and challenges to see who can slam a kale quinoa mango berry smoothie fastest.
We reach the table, and Sia slides into Chase’s lap with a wide smile. “Hey, you ugly jerk.”
While I try to avoid watching them go all kissy-face, Knox pulls me into his lap. “Loved the show.” He presses a kiss to my cheek while he slides a hand down my spine, and I suddenly don’t care about getting my complimentary sprout bowl and juice.
As if I cared in the first place. I give my little brother a finger wave. “Quit scowling, Gavin. Th
at’s no way to make a good first impression.”
“He’s looking at your boobs.”
If that’s the biggest objection my brother has to my fake fiancé—whom he doesn’t know is my fake fiancé yet, I hope, and I’m planning to keep it that way—I’m doing something right.
Except…
Knox is peering very intently at my boobs, with a frown drawing his brows together.
Heat flushes out from my nipples to my belly.
And not only is he peering, he’s brushing the swell of my left breast. Holy hot chachas. As if I haven’t figured it out already, I’m starting to see why Sia gets off on doing it in public.
“Is that an ape?” Knox asks.
“What? No, that’s—huh.” I tilt my head and pull my Backstreet Boys tank top out for a better view, then push my boob toward Sia while Knox keeps me firmly planted on his lap. I smack her arm to get her attention. “Hey. Quit sucking face and look at this. Who is he? The one who looks like an ape?”
Willow and Eloise are leaning in for a closer look at my chest. So is Gavin, who’s apparently forgiven Knox for being aware of the fact that I have boobs. Sia’s brothers are still near the stage, signing autographs and knocking over chairs as they try to demonstrate their dance moves again.
“Kevin Richardson,” Sia declares after a quick glance. “You washed off part of his outline and ruined his forehead line. Isn’t that the third shirt this month you’ve desecrated? At this rate, we’re going to have to start going to more recent boy band concerts to get new stage wardrobes.”
Knox rubs a hand down my bare thigh, and more sparks explode across my skin. He grins like he knows what his touch is doing to me, and—whoa. Either he has a third leg sprouting under my ass, or he’s getting turned on by touching me too. I wiggle in his lap, and—yep, definitely enjoying this.
“How often do you go to boy band concerts?” he asks as though he’s not pulling my hips tighter against that hard bulge in his pants.
“As often as humanly possible,” I declare. “You want to come next time?”
“Not if you’re not playing.”
“Aww, you two are adorable,” Eloise says. “Get a room.”