by K. Bromberg
“Because they have a shit-ton of money riding on me delivering and the person they’re depending on helping deliver it wasn’t there?” He chuckles. “That would be my best bet.”
Asshole.
“Were you pulling your usual I’m Jett Kroger bullshit and being difficult for everyone to work with?”
“You mean was I risking our album?”
We stare at each other as I ask without words and the slight curl up of his lips tells me all I need to know. Of course he was. A tiger can’t change his stripes, and yet I’m still not convinced if Jett’s telling me the truth or not.
I don’t bite.
“I was on my best behavior, Dylan. If I’m trying to win you back, why would I purposely screw things up for you?” he asks, voice and smile softening.
“Why was Callum there?” I ask again, doing my best to ignore his attempt at charming me.
“Not sure, but he was asking a lot of questions about your whereabouts since no one had told him you wouldn’t be there. When you were expected back in town. How our working together was going. Fishing for info.”
“And you told them what?”
“That you were off visiting some friends for a bit but promised you’d be back in the studio with me for the next scheduled session.” I grip the edge of the counter and hate that I’ve been worked into this proverbial corner. “Then he pulled Kai aside for a whisperfest that didn’t look good from my end.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if I’m being played or not. “Ava didn’t call me.” It’s the easiest response I can give as my mind whirls over this information.
“Exactly. She called me. And now I’m here.”
Son of a bitch.
“I’ll get you a room at the hotel in town.” I reach for my phone but Jett’s hand is on my wrist stopping me before I can dial.
“No.” The heat of his body is behind me. The scent of his cologne surrounds me. I buck my arms back to get him off me, hating the familiarity and missing it simultaneously. He steps back and when I turn to face him he’s well within my personal space. “If we’re staying in two different places, people will question if we’re together. And if they question it, rumors will start and Callum will find out and—”
“You are not staying here.”
“Yes, I am. C’mon. We can make a little music. Maybe a little love when we kiss and make up.”
I laugh, but it holds no amusement. “It isn’t happening, Jett. It’s just like you to assume you rule the roost. Sorry, but it isn’t my house, so I can’t—”
The dispatch on the radio cuts me off. I thought I had turned it down when I walked in but I guess I accidentally turned it up.
Jett looks at the radio and then back to me. “It’s true, huh?” His expression falls as he realizes I’m really in a house with another man. What did he think the pictures on the bookshelf were? Fake? “And he’s a firefighter?”
“Yes.”
“Really? After everything with your dad, you’d take the chance of being abandoned again by a glory-hound prick who needs the rush to boost his ego?”
Does he realize he could very well be talking about himself?
“It’s none of your business.”
He stares at me, and the hurt in his eyes is real. “Why him?” The way he asks it scrapes open the wounds he caused, but it only serves to remind me how deep they are.
“Why him? Because he’s everything you weren’t.” The words are hurtful, but it could very well be the truth. I just hope that it’s enough to get him out of here before Grady comes home because there’s no way I’m going to be able to carry on this charade then.
“Are you happy, Dylan?” His eyes narrow as he studies me for any nuance to say otherwise.
“Deliriously.”
He takes a few steps toward me. “You don’t miss me?”
Yes.
No.
You hurt me.
“No.” I hope my expression doesn’t betray the conviction I use in the word.
“Yes, you do.” He flashes another shy smile that says he isn’t convinced. The one that used to win my heart over in an instant.
“Let me check with the hotel for vacancies. We can work a few days,” I say when every part of me rails against the thought for the same reasons I left Los Angeles in the first place. “Then you can go back with more progress and let everyone know I’ll make the next studio date.”
He nods and his smile lights up his face. “There’s my girl.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Uh-huh,” he says and chuckles as if he’s not convinced. When he picks up his bag, my shoulders all but sag with relief that I’ve gotten him to leave. But just as I expect him to head to the screen door he walked in through, instead he heads toward my room. “So I can take this room, right?”
“What?” Whiplash. But I guess I shouldn’t expect anything different when it comes to him. “No, Jett. The answer is no.”
“It’s no Ritz, but it’ll do.”
Frustrated with how he keeps ignoring me, I slip in my lie. “That’s my room. You can’t—”
“Deliriously happy?” He throws my own words in my face and lifts one eyebrow as a smile toys with the corners of his lips.
“That’s what I said.”
“Then shouldn’t you be in that room?” Jett points his finger to the master suite.
“You are not staying here.” I grit my teeth and avoid his question.
“Do you have something to hide?”
He thinks this is funny. He knows he’s calling my bluff and is going to see how far I’m going to carry this.
“Honey, I’m home,” Grady calls as he walks in the front door. He’s totally joking, but he doesn’t know how perfect his timing or his words are right now.
“I’m in here,” I say.
You’re lying, Jett mouths.
And the minute Grady turns the corner to the kitchen, I grab his face with both of my hands and press my lips to his.
I can feel the shock register through his body in the tensing of his muscles, but then, as I push my tongue gently between his lips, he reacts.
His hands slide around my waist and pull me against every firm inch of him. His tongue meets mine in a fervid dance of desire, and a groan that’s so sexy I almost forget this isn’t real slips from his throat.
His body startles as shock registers again.
And I know that he knows.
Jett’s here.
Christ.
I can still taste her kiss on my lips.
Feel her tongue move against mine.
Hear the hitch in her breath when I stopped questioning why she was kissing me and went all in and kissed her back.
That’s all I can think about as she stands in the kitchen and talks to me in hushed tones, her hands gesticulating wildly for emphasis.
Can’t we just go back to her lips on mine before I noticed that fuck face was standing in my living room attempting to give me the death glare? It was almost as if he was accusing me of stealing his girl. Idiot.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get him to leave,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time as she looks out the window to where Jett paces in the backyard with his cellphone at his ear. I bet he’s trying to look important to intimidate me, and there’s no one on the other end.
Like that’s going to fucking work.
“Are you really making me lasagna?” That’s one way to get my mind off her kiss. And the feel of her tits against my chest. And the surrender of her body as she relaxed against—
“How can you think of food at a time like this?”
I laugh loudly, and I love that it puts a hitch in that fucker’s stride outside. “You’re the one who started it,” I say. “So, we can either focus on food or focus on how we get to pretend to be madly in love.” I shrug and grin. “Your call.”
“I was cooking to be nice to you. That was my original plan. I haven’t seen you eat anything but boiled chicken breasts a
nd broccoli since I’ve been here. Boring.”
“You saw me eat pancakes,” I tease and lift my brows as she sighs in exasperation.
“Why are you taking this so lightly?” she asks.
Because it got you to kiss me.
“Taking what so lightly?”
She’s definitely sexy when she’s flustered.
“This. Jett. Being here. In your house.”
I chuckle because I’m not really quite sure what I think of it yet. But, if him being here is netting me homemade Italian food and a kiss like that? I’m all for it.
“He’s here. We’ll figure it out. But let’s get back to what matters. Food. Weren’t we talking about chicken and broccoli?” I reach behind her and take a pinch of shredded mozzarella cheese from the bowl. “And why you were cooking for me?”
She twists her lips as she puts her hands on her hips and eyes me. I know she thinks I should be pissed at Jett and his ego taking up space in my place—and fuck yes, I am—but I’m still trying to figure out how I want to handle this.
“I was trying to be nice and give you a good meal. But now”—she looks out the window and sighs—“now, it’s a peace offering.”
My stomach rumbles just as Jett raises his voice, making sure we hear his fake laugh as it floats in through the open window. I stare at him. His dark hair and studded wrist cuff. His black jeans and tattooed sleeve. And every part of me bucks the idea of him and Dylan together. I just can’t see it.
Maybe that’s because I don’t want to see it.
“He’s a smarmy fucker, isn’t he?”
She stops twisting her hands and nods her head. “That’s one way to put it.”
“What the hell did you ever see in him?” I can’t stop the comment and don’t want to. Just being in his vicinity makes me forget he’s rock-god Jett Kroger and makes me want to bruise that pretty face of his.
“I don’t know.” Dylan sighs and the sound of it has me regretting asking the question. “I’m sorry. I never intended for him to know where I was. I’ll figure out a way to get him to leave.”
“Is he always this pushy?”
“More like inconsiderate. He’s used to people doing whatever he wants. He says jump and they ask how high.”
I can’t ever imagine her bending to his whim. In fact, I can’t see them together at all, now that I think about it. I glance outside again and watch him. Medium build, cocky-as-fuck attitude, and douche-bag swagger as he walks around like he owns the place.
“How long?” I ask, and she angles her head as if she doesn’t understand. “How long is he in town for?”
“I can go stay at the hotel—” My quirked brow stops her. “In a different room than him,” she says as if she’s exasperated I’d even suggest she’d be in the same room with him, “so he doesn’t have to come around here.”
A part of me likes the idea of not having to see him again. The other part of me hates thinking of the opportunity I’ll give him with her in a hotel room nearby. With a bed.
Fucking Christ.
But if they stay here? If he stays here then I can torment the fucker by thinking Dylan and I really are together as she’s told him . . . wouldn’t that serve the fucker right for doing this to her? Nothing like wanting what you can’t have once someone else has realized its worth.
Both are bad ideas.
One is just less so.
“How many days, Dyl?” I ask the question and reject my own mental warning.
“Three, four days tops.” She glances at him again. “I can stay at the hotel. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let him stay.” I spit the words out.
I’m going to regret this. I know it immediately.
And by the shocked look on Dylan’s face, she is too, but for completely different reasons from mine. Hers? Ex-boyfriend in her face when she’s still trying to get over him. Mine? It’s twofold. First off, her in a hotel room near his. Not the scenario I want to picture. Second, who would say no to playing house for a few days with a hot female? Add to that knowing it would drive tantrum boy crazy with the charade is icing on the cake.
“What do you mean let him stay?” Her eyes widen and confused disbelief blankets her face.
He laughs again. The spikes on his cuff reflect off the sun and make me roll my eyes. “I mean just that. Let him stay.”
“But why?” she stutters as confused to my reaction as I am.
“Because he deserves the torture of sitting here for a few days and seeing how deliriously happy you are. So let him stay while we play it up and make it so sugary sweet he leaves with a cavity.”
“I don’t think—”
“He needs to regret what he did to you.”
She chuckles nervously and her hands mixing the ricotta fall idle. “Don’t say this just to get more meals out of me because you haven’t tasted my cooking yet.”
She’s goddamn adorable. “I’m certain that anything of yours will taste like heaven.”
She stares at me—her eyes widen and head jostles. I love that I can fluster her so easily. She should be used to forward guys after living in Jett’s world, so every time I can make her blush, I’ll take it. It’s the perfect mix of sexy and sweet, and fuck if I won’t mind enjoying a bit more of both while we play house.
“How do you intend to make him see what he’s missing?” she asks, ignoring my comment and the riot of uncertainty it brings her as she averts her eyes and starts mixing vigorously almost as if she knows the answer but is afraid to acknowledge it.
“We continue what you started.” The stirring slows again, and it takes her a minute to lift those gray eyes of hers and meet mine. “We’re a couple. Isn’t that what you told him? Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Kissing. Touching. The whole nine yards.”
Fucking.
Her eyes narrow as she realizes she’s just been screwed by her own game. “I know what I told him.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“That you’re a firefighter.”
“And you’re going to be leaving in a few months. So?” I shrug as if she’s making more of this than she is, but I won’t deny I hate saying the words. I’ve gotten used to having her around. “This is make-believe, remember? Me being a firefighter has nothing to do with it, and even if it did, whoever you’ve pegged me to be because of my profession, I assure you, I’m not him.”
I glare at her and see something pass through her expression that I don’t understand. It almost looks like guilt, but she clears it away as soon as it’s there.
“I’m not sure if we can pull it off.” She shakes her head.
“You’re a songwriter who writes about make-believe happiness. And a woman who I’m sure would love to see her ex be put in his place, so why won’t this work?”
Why am I talking her into this?
“True.” She’s caving.
Because the woman can kiss. And that might just be a side benefit of this situation.
“What do you say, Dylan?” Please. Use me. “We can always make Petunia sleep with him too.”
“Oh my God,” she says through a laugh.
“Right?”
“He’s going to die when he meets her.”
“Well then, I guess we need to move her bed into his room.” Her grin widens at my suggestion, and I know I’ve won her over.
I’ve also bought myself some time with the I-hate-firefighters Dylan.
It’s when I hear the squeal—loud and scared and not from Petunia—that I look outside and see her staring up at Jett. Dylan doubles over in laughter at the sight of Jett freaking out, and I know I’ve won.
Damn. This is going to be fun.
“Mmm that tastes like heaven,” I say as I finish sucking the cannoli cream from Dylan’s finger. I lick my tongue around it and then slide her finger out of my mouth with a pop.
I love watching her struggle with this. Acting as if she isn’t affected by it and averting her eyes because she knows it’s hitting her right between the
thighs. “You want some, Jett? I know you have firsthand knowledge of how delicious her dessert tastes.”
He looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch with his iPad in hand, pretending to look at something when I’ve noticed his eyes darting our way every few seconds. With each laugh. With every kiss I press to her bare shoulder. When I leave my hand on her ass between helping her prepare the lasagna.
“No, thanks.” His words are short. Agitated.
How does it feel, Mr. Rock Star, to want something you can’t have?
“Your loss.” I shrug and lift the bottle of beer to my lips as Dylan glances my way. The grin she’s fighting is worth all of this.
I shouldn’t notice her nipples. How they’re hard against her shirt. I shouldn’t look at her legs, the ones she calls mermaid thighs but are really perfect curves, and imagine what they’d look like spread for me.
No doubt my balls are going to be bluer than blue by the time this act is over.
My cell rings and I have no intention of answering it until I see Bowman’s name flash across the screen.
“What’s up, Bowie?”
“When you come in for next shift, can you head in a bit early?”
“Sure, but I’m not in till Thursday. What’s up?” I ask the question, but the annoyed feeling is already hitting me deep. They’re going to badger me about the damn calendar again. Might as well head this off at the pass. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Don’t think about . . . oh. I’m not talking about the calendar, but that subject isn’t dead yet, either.”
Dread replaces my annoyance. “Then what’s it about?”
His pause in response tells me it’s shit I don’t want to deal with. “We’re just having a house meeting.”
“Will Chief be there?” It’s my way of asking if it’s a procedural meeting or if it’s about something that hits close to home, like my lack of performance.
“Nah. Like I said, it’s a house meeting. No big deal.” His nervous chuckle is all I need to know the answer. When you live with a man, even if only in twenty-four-hour shift increments, you learn his tells. And that was his.
No big deal, my ass.
“Sure. I’ll be there early.”
“Great. How’s Brody’s playroom coming?”