by Katie McCoy
“It’s the hardest one to make,” said Austin, looking sympathetic. “Going from the known to the unknown?” He let out a low whistle. “It’s a big risk.”
“Luke took that risk,” I reminded him. “And you did too. What made you do it?” I wanted to know. “How did you know that going all-in on your band was the right thing to do?” “I didn’t,” Austin said, with a curious smile. “But you did.”
“Me?!”
Austin laughed. “Yeah, you. Don’t you remember that night in college? Where I walked you home from the frat party?”
Of course I remembered that night. Second hottest kiss of my life. First hottest now being the kiss from the parking lot.
But I just nodded and took a sip of my beer. “Oh, right, I guess I can recall.”
“I told you that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep pursuing music,” Austin continued, watching me with that smile. “I was ready to give up and try to get a real job, but you convinced me to keep trying.”
I blinked. Was I really responsible for Austin’s life as a rock star?
“Maybe that’s why I’ve been so hard on you,” he said. “Because you were so confident that I was going to make it. That we were both going to make it. I believed you. So, I took that risk. Scariest thing I’d ever done in my life, but it worked out. And I guess I was hoping you had done the same. Because I’m pretty sure you’re a whole hell of a lot braver than I am.”
I didn’t know what to say. Neither did Austin apparently, after his uncharacteristically long monologue. We just sat there for a moment in silence, finishing our beers, but inside, my heart was racing.
He’d thought about me. His work, his whole career, he traced it all back to that night with me?
Austin stood abruptly. “It’s getting late,” he said. “You ready to call it a night?”
I nodded, and got my coat while he said his goodbyes, and then we headed back to the cabin in silence. I could tell that Austin was uncomfortable—that he had maybe revealed more than he intended. But I was glad that he had. Because now I felt like I was getting an idea of who the real Austin was.
And damn, if it wasn’t someone special.
When we got back to the cabin, he let out a big, fake-sounding yawn. “I guess I’ll hit the hay,” he told me. “Prep for my interrogation in the morning.”
“I’ll go easy, I promise,” I said, keeping my tone light to match his. “See you in the morning.”
I went to my own room, staring out at the beautiful landscape, the sky now dotted with stars. It was so beautiful and peaceful here, but I was feeling anything but calm. Instead, I was practically vibrating with pent up tension.
I wanted him. Damn, did I want him.
I still couldn’t explain it, the collision of chemicals and pheromones that put me under his spell, but there was no avoiding the attraction between us. And just how good it would feel to wind up back in his arms again.
Down, girl.
I tried to relax. I went and took a long, luxurious bath in the enormous bathtub, complete with the fanciest of bath bombs and other treats. I put on my pajamas before wrapping myself up in the fluffy white robe that had been left on the back of the bathroom door, then, even though I still wasn’t sleepy, I crawled into the huge bed, burrowing myself under the overstuffed comforter and trying to get to sleep. But I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling.
Imagining Austin, lying in bed.
Imagining us tangled up there together . . .
Then I heard music.
At first, I though I was just the radio, but as I strained to listen, I realized that it was coming from downstairs. Unable to resist, I padded down the hallway, following the music.
It was a guitar playing, and it kept stopping and starting. I traced it to the room I had found before—Austin’s music room—but this time, the door was slightly ajar. Peering inside, I found Austin sitting at his piano, facing away from it, his guitar in his hands.
He played a few chords, his eyes closed, his forehead scrunched in concentration as his fingers picked lightly over the chords. Slowly, a melody took shape under his expert hands, something slow and melancholy and painfully sweet.
I watched, completely riveted. Was this how he created his songs? I listened as he played some more, experimenting with the chords, humming softly under his breath.
It was, without a doubt, the sexiest thing I had ever seen, and my entire body tightened in response.
I wanted to be beneath those fingertips, feeling the sway of his body, lost in the music.
I leaned too far, and suddenly, the door swung inwards, and I stumbled into the room.
Austin froze.
“Sorry!” I yelped. “I was just, um, getting some water, and I heard you . . .” I gulped. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”
Before he could scold me, I turned on my heels and ran all the way back up to my room. I closed the door behind me, my breath coming fast.
Something told me I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.
11
Austin
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Mia. Back in college, so innocent that first time I kissed her. The other night, eyes flashing in the parking lot. But the worst fantasy—or the best—was the one the flooded my brain last night, when I caught her listening in on my songwriting session.
She had been wearing a pair of cute little shorts and a tank top, short enough to show a strip of skin and her belly button. I had always found Mia incredibly beautiful—her lean, athletic body, strong, shapely legs, and silky straight hair. But something about seeing her in those pajamas ratcheted my desire up to eleven. Maybe it was how sweet she looked, a tempting contrast to how badass and tough I knew she was. Or maybe it was because she was still completely off limits. Either way, I just wanted to eat her up.
Slowly.
In my fantasies, I imagined pulling her into the room and dragging her down to the floor. I fantasized about stripping off her tank top and those tiny shorts and feasting on her glorious body, starting at her pert, perfect breasts and making my way to her smooth, flat stomach, before going lower, between those creamy thighs.
Damn, even a cold shower couldn’t help my raging hard-on. I spent half the night trying to relieve the pressure, but nothing was good enough compared to her. When my phone finally rang at six a.m., it was a welcome relief.
“Talk to me,” I said, seeing it was Zoey on the other end of the line.
“You’re up?” She sounded surprised. “I was just going to leave you annoying voicemails.”
“I’m up.” I glanced down at my morning glory. “I’m definitely up.”
“Then we should discuss the release schedule. People are excited,” Zoey told me. “Everyone is desperate to hear the new material. I even posted round-the-clock security at the studio, in case anyone tried to break in.”
“Are you sure this is the best strategy?” I asked, even though we had discussed it dozens of times. “What if it doesn’t live up to the hype? What if people are disappointed?”
“They won’t be,” Zoey said, with more confidence than I felt. “The music is good. And you saw the reaction in Boston—people are excited for you to come back.”
“I just played covers of old songs,” I reminded her.
“But you played them in the style of the new music you’re releasing,” she countered. “And people ate it up. They’re going to go crazy for the new album.”
We talked about it a little more, with Zoey—as she always did—managing to calm me down. Every time I spoke to her, the more reassured I was that I had made the right decision in hiring her as my manager. Sometimes I worried that I had done it in an effort to atone for what happened with Method of Madness—the way the women in our orbit were treated—but the longer she worked for me, the more I realized that even if it had originally been to make myself feel better, Zoey was absolutely the best person for the job, and I couldn’t imagine embarking on this new musical journey without her
.
Now if only I could say that for everyone else who had been hurt in the wake of the band’s demise.
My body still humming with thoughts of Mia and her tempting short shorts, I threw myself into another ice-cold shower, hoping that it would calm me down. When that didn’t work, I subjected myself to a punishing three-mile run, forcing my body to focus on something else besides Mia’s body.
Because she—and her body—were completely off limits.
Luke was trusting me to protect his sister. He didn’t know that I was the person who she most needed to be protected from.
But out of all of the tactics I had used to tame my lust, thinking of how hurt and disappointed Luke would be was the most effective of them all. He was like a brother to me, and I wasn’t about to betray that trust.
I would have to keep my hands to myself.
I reminded myself of that when I returned from my run, thinking that it would be enough to keep my dirty thoughts at bay. I was pretty sure that I had it all under control, until I walked into the kitchen and saw Mia.
Making pancakes. In those goddamn short shorts.
This was a fantasy I hadn’t even thought to imagine. And it was my current reality.
She had her back towards me, humming some song under her breath and moving her hips to the beat of the song. Her body was incredible, lean but with the kind of curves that fit a man’s hand—her hips and ass displayed to perfection in those PJs. She had made a complete mess of the kitchen, and I could see flour smeared on her legs and the side of her shirt. There were a pile of burned pancakes on a plate on the counter, next to a pile of pancakes that seemed actually edible. Mia mixed the batter, her hips swaying.
It was without a doubt the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
I cleared my throat and she spun around. She still had the spoon in her hand, so the batter spun with her, splattering across the fridge and the front of my shirt.
“Shit!” she cried, grabbing a towel and moving towards me.
Before she could make contact, however, I snagged the towel from her hand and used it on myself. There was no way I could let her touch me. If she did, it would all go downhill. Fast.
“Breakfast is ready,” Mia said brightly “Do you want to eat now or take a shower first?” She wrinkled her nose. “You should probably pick the shower.”
“I can eat now,” I told her. “Don’t want it to get cold.” If being a stinking, sweaty mess would keep her away from me, then bring it on.
“Suit yourself.” Mia piled both our plates high with pancakes, and took them over to the table.
“I didn’t know I had any pancake mix,” I commented, watching as she slathered butter on her pile and then covered it with a thick layer of syrup.
“You didn’t,” she told me. “It’s my secret recipe.”
“Since when do you cook?”
“Since I preferred to spend my food budget on vintage clothes,” Mia grinned. “I’m nothing compared to Grace, my roommate, but I can make a mean taco spread when I need.”
“These are great,” I said, digging in. And they were. I’d been living off delivery and room service for a while, and I was surprised she’d even found ingredients in the kitchen. “Did you sleep OK?”
“Great!” she responded brightly. “Like a baby. I wonder why they say that?” she added, frowning. “Most babies I know scream all night long. But anyway, that bed is so comfortable, I never wanted to get up. Be careful, I might never leave.”
She smiled at me, sunny and light, and damn, if that thought didn’t sound pretty great. Mia, in my bed, for the rest of the weekend. Or month.
Or forever.
I grabbed another fork of pancakes and stuffed it in my mouth. What was I thinking? Mia was off limits, and had no business in my bed. I just needed to get through this interview and record launch, and we could go our separate ways again.
With any luck, I wouldn’t see her for another eight years.
So why did that idea feel so wrong?
12
Mia
I figured pancakes were a safe bet. Innocent. Wholesome. But Austin was looking at me across the breakfast table like he wanted to pour maple syrup all over my body and lick it off.
Or maybe I was just projecting.
“So what do you want to do today?” he asked. I thought about spending all day cooped up in the cabin with him, just feet away from those comfy beds, and gulped.
“Maybe we should go for a hike,” I suggested brightly.
I knew that if we stayed in the cabin, something was going to happen. Better that we get away from the beds, and any other comfortable surface. But Austin looked skeptical.
“A hike?”
“Unless you’d rather just stay here and have me pepper you with questions all morning.” I offered him a grin.
“A hike sounds good,” he told me quickly.
“Great,” I said, getting up from the table. “Why don’t I get ready—and you can do the dishes.”
He looked around at the mess I had created—no one could ever accuse me of being organized (or skilled) in the kitchen—and gave a slow nod. I headed to my room and quickly changed into as many layers of clothing as possible. Fifteen minutes later we were outside, walking down the long driveway.
“There’s a good trail about a ten-minute walk from here,” Austin told me.
“Sounds great,” I responded, already feeling more in control of my raging hormones.
It was a beautiful spring day, and I was happy to be outside. I loved hiking and being outdoors, but I never got a chance to do much of either in New York. There were, of course, the occasional trips to Central Park when I could manage it, but for the most part, I felt like I spent most of my time at my desk or behind my computer in my apartment or in a coffee shop. There just wasn’t a lot of time to do something like this. A day outside felt like a luxury.
“So . . .” I followed him down the path. “Are you excited about the new release?”
He glanced back at me. “Is this on the record?” he asked.
I held up my hands. “I’m not recording it, if that’s what you’re asking,” I told him. “But I would like to be able to use this in the article.” I gave him a pointed look. “You did promise.”
He let out a sigh. “I know.”
“Why are you so reluctant to talk about your music?” I wanted to know. “Wasn’t this whole ChatBuzz thing your idea in the first place?”
“I only wanted to use ChatBuzz because you work for them,” he corrected me. “I wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot pole if you didn’t.”
I didn’t know if I should be complimented.
“Zoey—my manager—convinced me I need to do some sort of press for this album,” he continued. “And I know that even when I disagree with her, she’s usually right.”
“Well, she’s definitely right about this,” I told him. “What good is releasing new music if no one knows about it? And people are excited to hear your new work.”
“That’s what Zoey says too,” Austin confessed.
“Zoey is very smart,” I said, thinking more highly of his manager by the minute.
“She is,” Austin agreed readily. “Way smarter than me.”
“What, like that’s hard?” I asked, channeling Elle Woods a little.
Austin chuckled. “I guess not.”
We had reached the start of the hike, a muddy trail that led up into the hills. It was green and beautiful out, the sun shining and the temperature perfect for this kind of activity. Some clouds—thick and gray—hung around the horizon, but they seemed to be keeping their distance.
We walked in silence for a bit. I was enjoying the scenery—not just the natural beauty that surrounded us, but the occasional glance I dared in Austin’s direction. He was so hot that it almost hurt to look at him—his handsome profile lit perfectly by the sun, his tight T-shirt just beginning to stick to his skin as the hike got more intense and we both started breathing a little he
avier. I also didn’t mind the way his jeans showed off his legs—I had never thought much about a guy’s legs, but Austin’s were pretty sexy. Or maybe it was just him.
I tried not to think about it, but after last night, after seeing him in his element, with his instruments, completely in his own zone, I was having a hard time keeping my hormones under control.
“Getting tired?” Austin asked.
“Not a chance,” I told him, even though I was.
It was a tough hike, and no doubt Austin had chosen it because it wasn’t easy to follow the steep trail and talk at the same time. But I wasn’t one to take a challenge sitting down.
“Tell me about the new album,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, though my lungs were straining for air and it took everything I had to keep from huffing and puffing as we climbed.
“It’s twelve brand new songs.” He didn’t sound out of breath at all.
“Same kind of stuff you were doing with Method of Madness?” I wanted to know.
“Sort of,” he said with a shrug. “Not really. I really tried to start over with this album.”
“Bad breakup?” I asked.
“We just decided to try new things,” he responded, giving me the same pat answer that I’d seen him give over the past year.
No one knew why Method of Madness had broken up. All the stories about an amicable split seemed very suspicious, and I knew that if I could find out the real reason it had happened, my article would become a must-read. But I also felt a little bad about forcing Austin to talk about something he clearly did not want to talk about.
Not like he really wanted to talk about anything.
“Can I ask you something?” I stopped and turned to face him.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this whole time?” he wanted to know.