Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3)

by Sylvia Pierce

  And so she’d allowed herself to fall, to open up, to feel so impossibly good in the hands of this man. Her rock star.

  This morning, in the pale hours before the sun rose, both of them naked and spent in their bed, she’d pressed her back against his chest, and he’d trailed his fingers over her hip, singing in her ear the song he’d finally finished, and she thought about their whirlwind week together.

  That first night when she’d tossed him out of her bedroom, desperate to send him off to a hotel.

  The day she’d taped up the entire cottage and written a list of rules in an effort to scare him off.

  The first time she’d heard him singing in the shower after his run, and every time after.

  The night he’d shared his Shake Shack fries and helped her talk through her plot issues, and then he’d kissed her.

  When she couldn’t sleep after that, and instead had crept into the living room and into his arms.

  The beach.

  Trick singing in her ear.

  And every delicious moment that followed.

  And some time between that first night, screaming when she’d found him in her bed, and this morning, when they’d peeled up all the blue masking tape and buffed out the scratches she’d left in the bedroom floor, Layla had fallen a little bit in love with Trick Harper.

  Maybe more than a little.

  Their time at the beach house was at its end, but Layla couldn’t say goodbye. She wanted to spend more time with him, to hear his music, to feel him, to lose herself in the heat of his kiss.

  To know him—really know him.

  But in the end, practicality won out. She wasn’t some dreamy-eyed lovesick kid. She had a life in Seattle, a home, a career. And, on the opposite coast of the country, so did he.

  California had been their bubble, their perfect moment suspended in time. And now it would be no more than a memory, a time capsule preserved in her heart, but nowhere else.

  Layla closed her eyes, memorizing the contours of his chest, the echo of his heartbeat, the spicy leather-and-soap smell of his skin.

  The ache in her thighs would remind her of the rest. She hoped it wouldn’t fade too quickly. Like the sand still caked between her toes and in her hair, she wanted that part to last a little longer.

  “What are you thinking about?” Trick asked, whispering into her hair. His breath was warm, his arms strong and firm as they held her close.

  “Just remembering that first night you showed up in my bedroom.”

  Trick laughed, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Listen, I know you’re a writer, but no changing the story on me. You showed up. I was already here. Fast asleep, I might add.”

  “All I could think about was getting rid of you.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first woman to say that.”

  Layla sighed. “I probably shouldn’t have kicked you out of bed that first night. Big mistake.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first woman to say that, either.”

  She laughed, but tears glazed her eyes. She pulled out of his embrace, meeting his eyes. When she spoke, her words were barely a whisper. “Now all I can think about is keeping you.”

  “Hmm.” Trick smirked. “You’re definitely the first one to say that.”

  Layla let him pull her into a kiss, the soft, delicious slide of his tongue temporarily distracting her. She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against him, squeezing out all the space between them as if that could make up for the nearly 3,000 miles they’d have between them come nightfall. She could feel every ridge, every muscle. The thick, perfect length of him growing hard against her abdomen.

  God, she would’ve loved to take him inside her one last time, feel her whole body tremble at his touch until she was utterly depleted.

  But they’d spent the entire morning doing just that, even forgoing breakfast and coffee, packing their bags in a last-minute rush, and now their driver was outside. They’d share the car to the airport, and then she’d board a plane for Seattle, and he’d head back to New York, and that would be goodbye, whether they said the word or not.

  “No one’s saying you can’t keep me,” he said, breaking their kiss but keeping her close. “I mean, I’m no Marco Sorenson, but I think I’ve more than proven my keepability.” He kissed her jaw. “My keep-worthiness.” Her earlobe. “My keep… keep-cred?”

  “Oh, now that was just horrid.”

  “To keep, or not to keep? That is the question.”

  “Please stop before you hurt yourself.”

  “Not until you give me the answer I want.” He pulled her against him, grinding into her, as if she needed any more convincing.

  But again, the practical voice inside her head was—unfortunately—louder than the romantic one.

  “You’re on tour for the next three months, Trick. And now that I’ve turned in the book, I’ll have major revisions and edits, plus starting on the next one. And you’ll be on the road.”

  “You could come with me, you know.”

  “No thanks.” Layla didn’t even need to think about it. That was a bad idea. “I’ve seen the documentaries. I refuse to be the reason ‘things go bad for the band.’”

  “I don’t have a band.”

  “You know what I mean.” Layla sighed, running her hand down his muscled back. It’s not that it didn’t sound fun—traveling around on a tour bus, waiting for Trick after every show, making love in luxurious hotel beds until the sun rose… but she had to take care of herself, too. And right now, her place was in Seattle, focusing on getting her career back on track.

  After that night in the ocean, she’d been reinvigorated and re-inspired, powering through her last few chapters to the very end. Yes, Marco and Lizbeth got their happy ending, with just enough left unresolved for the next book in the series. And yes, Layla had sent off the draft to her editor late last night, hitting her deadline a day early. But she knew it was a mess—definitely not up to her usual standards. Turning it in on time had been her main goal, but she’d sacrificed quality to make it happen. It was going to be an uphill battle getting it into publishable shape.

  It wasn’t just the book itself that needed work, either. There were fences to mend, new plans to make. Her publisher had gone out on a limb for her this time, and she’d let them down more than once. She wanted to earn their trust back. She wanted to keep writing. To keep doing what she loved.

  If she walked away from that now, she might not ever get it back.

  But no matter how loud and logical her practical voice was, when it came down to it, she didn’t want to walk away from Trick either. A connection like the one they’d shared? Explosive, off-the-charts chemistry? Okay, there were some obstacles. Namely, distance. But maybe they owed it to themselves to try.

  For once, Layla was ready to take a risk.

  Layla smiled. Their time together may have started out with an expiration date—one she initially couldn’t wait to usher along. But now she saw it for what it really was: a brand new beginning.

  “How about this,” she finally said. “If you’re still thinking about me by the end of your tour, send me a ticket to the last show, and I’ll be there. Deal?”

  Trick grinned. “I can live with those terms.”

  Layla arched a brow in surprise. “You sure? No backtalk, no negotiating? Doesn’t sound like the Trick Harper I know.”

  “Don’t need to negotiate. I already know I’ll still be thinking of you, Layla Hart. Tonight. Tomorrow. Three months from now. After the tour. For the rest of my damn life.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her in a fiercely possessive kiss. He marked her, sealed the deal with a kiss so intense, it left her breathless and weak. When he finally pulled away and turned to grab their bags, Layla was dizzy.

  “To be continued in three months,” he said, smiling at her over his shoulder. “Count on it.”

  Layla touched her fingers to her lips, memorizing the taste of him, tiny bubbles of hope and happi
ness fizzing inside her belly.

  She was absolutely counting on it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Three Months Later…

  Trick was a damn liar.

  His official tour had ended two weeks ago at a sold-out stadium in Philadelphia. That night, it’d seemed like the whole world had turned out to hear him sing.

  The whole world except for Layla Hart.

  He hadn’t stopped thinking about her—not for a red-hot minute. But no, he hadn’t sent her a ticket to that show.

  Now, he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

  “Five minutes.” Natasha Howard, the manager of Perk coffee shop, poked her head into the office where Trick was hanging out before the show. “Good crowd out there tonight,” she said. “You about ready?”

  Trick nodded, ignoring the nerves in his stomach. He’d never had an issue with stage fright before—he could perform in front of tens of thousands of people without a second thought. But tonight was different. It felt bigger and more important than anything he’d ever done.

  It felt like a second chance. The chance.

  One he did not want to fuck up.

  Last month, Tasha had heard him playing around with some acoustic stuff in Central Park one afternoon when he was home for a short break between tour gigs, and they got to talking. She’d recently been promoted, and was looking for ways to bring local entertainment to the coffee shop, bring in new crowds. She’d acted like meeting Trick was this big honor, but for Trick, the chance meeting couldn’t have been more fortuitous. His label had released his album to great success, and at the end of the month, he’d be done with his contract after the tour closed out, ready to try something new.

  Rather, something old.

  Back to basics. Coffee houses, colleges, small venues where he could really get a read on the crowd, connect with them, experiment. He’d always be grateful for his record deals, for the opportunities he’d had, for everything his career had given him so far. But ultimately, it wasn’t what he wanted. Wasn’t the real dream he’d always talked about with Gabe.

  Playing small venues had always been his real dream, but somewhere between getting his first big-time deal, and moving to New York, and losing Gabe, and throwing himself into his work, and all the partying, he’d lost sight of it.

  Until Layla Hart.

  She’d shown up in his life, a complete fluke, and helped him remember.

  So the moment Tasha had offered him the gig, he knew he wouldn’t be sending Layla that Philly concert ticket after all.

  Instead, he’d sent her a plane ticket—Seattle to New York—a Perk menu, and a note that said only, Coffee? He’d arranged for a limo to pick her up at JFK and bring her right here.

  Tonight.

  Trick took a deep breath, trying to chase away the damn jitters.

  He had no idea if she was out there in the crowd or not.

  Other than a few random emails and phone calls early on, he and Layla hadn’t really kept in touch while he was on tour—both of them had too much work to do, and she didn’t want to add any pressure for either of them. He’d done the next best thing and read all of her books, stalked her online profiles. But it wasn’t the same. It only made him miss her more.

  I hope like hell you’re out there, Sunshine.

  He’d never planned on meeting Layla. But that night in the beach cottage, when she’d heard him singing, and he’d opened his eyes and saw her standing there, watching him… damn, she’d seen right down to the core of him. The real him.

  And hell if he’d ever let her see anything less. The entertainer, the showman, the image? No way. That shit was gone, far as he was concerned. Washed clean. He wanted her to see the real side. The one she’d caught a glimpse of in California.

  The one she’d reminded him still existed, somewhere beneath all the bullshit.

  In two minutes, he’d walk out onto that coffee house stage and do the thing he’d been wanting to do since he picked up his very first guitar in Gabe’s living room, all those years ago.

  He just hoped his woman would be there to see it.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Trick kept his head down, following Tasha out to the small stage at the back of the café. The crowd cheered when they saw him, clapping and whistling over the whir of the cappuccino machines.

  As Tasha thanked the patrons for coming out for Perk’s first ever live music event, Trick strapped on his guitar, taking a final, calming breath.

  Either way, the show must go on.

  Tasha introduced him, stepping away from the stage to give him the spotlight.

  Trick stepped up to the mic.

  Opened his eyes.

  And there, seated at a small table in the front row, her hair in a sexy, messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose, her smile lighting up the whole place, was his woman.

  “Layla,” he breathed into the mic, plucking the opening chords for the classic rock song that everyone knew. The crowd cheered.

  Trick smirked. “Yeah, not that one. Sorry.”

  As they laughed, he seamlessly moved into a different chord set, slower, softer.

  “This one’s an original,” he said, readjusting the capo, tightening one of the strings to get the sound right. “Unreleased. Haven’t played it for anyone yet, so I hope you guys like it.”

  Someone in the back whistled. From behind the coffee bar, Tasha gave him the thumbs up.

  Now or never.

  He met Layla’s eyes again. She was watching him intently, her eyes shining and wide behind her big-ass glasses. She was so fucking beautiful, so perfect. His memory had been a bad substitute.

  “Now you have one of your own, Sunshine,” he said.

  He winked at her, and then closed his eyes, losing himself in the opening chords, his heart hammering wildly, his body flooding with adrenaline and excitement and pure fucking happiness. Happiness at being on stage, at singing something he’d written from the bottom of his heart, at knowing that his woman was out there, cheering him on, supporting him.

  And most of all, happiness that she’d trusted him enough to take the leap.

  Trick sang his fucking heart out, put that shit right out on his sleeve for all to see. It was standing room only, but for Trick, there was no one else there. No crowds overflowing onto the patio. No manager, no baristas. No sound check guy. Only Layla, sitting at that table in the front row in her bright green dress, her mouth parted in—hell, he didn’t know, exactly. Shock? Appreciation? Awe? Love? Fear?

  Didn’t matter. He’d see it through. Like she’d once said about her books, his music was the gateway to his soul, and he wanted her to see it all. To know him like no one else ever had.

  Singing for her—to her… damn, this time it was so much more than a song. It was a confession. He was falling in goddamn love with her, and in the long months since their week in California, his feelings had only intensified.

  Layla had cracked him open, brought him back from somewhere he hadn’t even realized he’d drifted, and now that she was here in his life for a second time, he wasn’t going to let her go again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That’s my rock star up there…

  Layla’s eyes glazed with tears. Trick’s sultry, gravelly voice ran over her in waves like the warmest ocean, the current of him pulling her close, sucking her in.

  Of all the women packed into Perk tonight, all the women fantasizing about taking him home, she was the woman he sang to.

  She was so proud of him. So happy to see him up there, doing what he loved most, the way that he’d always wanted to do it.

  Layla sighed. She still couldn’t believe she was there, front row, Trick’s first new show, New York City. Though she’d kept their communications light and playful these past few months, she’d never stopped thinking about him. He was with her when she wrote, when she listened to his albums on repeat, when she ate French fries, when she crawled between the sheets at night.

  So when she’d opened t
he mail a few weeks ago and found that ticket, that note, she didn’t even have to think about her decision. It was already made. It’d been made the first time he kissed her, that night with the fries in the dining room at Starfish Cove.

  Now, her heart expanded in her chest, damn near bursting. She’d never felt so much, so all-at-once, so everything.

  She loved her song. She loved every one of his songs, all of them such a part of him. It felt like he was giving her a glimpse into his soul, and she cherished it more than she could even say.

  Layla could’ve listened to Trick sing forever, but when he’d finally stopped to take a set break, she almost cried with relief.

  She needed to touch him. To feel him. Three months was way too long, and her imagination could only go so far.

  After setting his guitar into the stand on stage and promising the crowd he’d be back shortly, Trick hopped down, walked right over to her table, and grabbed her hand, pulling her through the throng of people and into an empty office at the back of the cafe, shutting the door behind them.

  He had her pinned against the door in a heartbeat, his hands in her hair, his mouth covering hers, devouring every bit of her. Her lips, her jaw, the shell of her ear. As he kissed the pale skin of her neck, her soft sigh turned into a laugh.

  “I missed you, too,” she said, looping her arms around his neck. His spicy scent enveloped her, bringing her right back to their time together on the beach, flooding her with desire. “Why do you seem so surprised to see me?”

  “Surprised? No way. I knew you’d come.”

  “Cocky boy,” she said. God, it felt so good to be in his arms again, teasing him, making him smile that mischievous, bad boy grin. “Always assuming you can make me come on command.”

  “That sounds like a dare, Sunshine.” He kissed her again, sliding his hand up the inside of her thigh, stroking her soft skin, his fingers seeking out her warmth. “You’re so wet.”

  “Told you I missed you,” she whispered into his mouth, arching her body against his hand. “So much.”

  Trick slid two fingers inside her, groaning as she tightened around him. With his thumb, he traced agonizingly slow circles over her clit, his touch so soft, she thought she’d die from the epic tease.