I won’t laugh at her, but she’s so frigging cute it makes me want to die. “Yeah, of course.”
Nodding toward the gate, I start walking over. “I’m going to pull on my mittens while we walk. Are these authentic Team USA gear?”
Rowan nods. “Sure are.”
“Are they yours?”
“Yeah. I hope they fit. I could probably rustle up a bigger pair if they don’t, but I thought—”
“Nah, they’re great.” Truthfully, they’re snug, but even if I could only fit a pinky finger in each of them, I’d say the same thing. I like the idea of my hands in the same mittens Rowan’s worn, and it’s cool she didn’t stop at one of the zillions of pop-up shops and get me a pair any tourist could buy. These are special, and I’ll guard them with my life.
Once I’ve tugged them on, I reach out and pull Rowan under my arm, and she wraps an arm around my waist. That’s how we walk into the ski-jumping venue, and I don’t even notice whether there’s press to document this PDA or not. Which is maybe not the best idea given that this is supposed to be a stunt to get attention for the band and for Rowan, but at the moment, I don’t care.
Chapter Eleven
Zane
The next time I see Rowan, it’s at a trendy restaurant where Stanley got us reservations. It’s where a bunch of the celebrities and star athletes and TV personalities have been hanging out. The perfect place for us to have—or pretend to have—a romantic dinner. Because right now, Rowan doesn’t look starry-eyed. Nor does she look like she’s having a good time, which is even more concerning to me. Not because of what might be splashed across the headlines tomorrow, either, although I can see it now: LtG Lead Singer and SIG Luger’s Romance on the Rocks? Ugh.
I’d like to take her hand, ask her if she’s all right. Get her to open up to me if she’s not. I can only imagine the pressure she’s under, what with two of the biggest minutes of her life coming tomorrow, and then two more two days after that. But I can’t, because we’re sitting across the table from each other, and her hands are in her lap, probably with her fingers wringing over the napkin.
So I nudge her foot under the table. “Rowan?”
She looks up, startled, and then a brief, nervous smile flashes over her face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Do you want to go? We don’t have to be here.”
I know that’s the whole point; is to put ourselves on display to be photographed and pointed at, to build up some buzz for the both of us, but the times I’ve most enjoyed with Rowan haven’t been in the spotlight, and not only because a bunch of those non-spotlight times have been naked. No—I like her. Which is a bad idea, but I can have this for myself for another week, right? Then back to life as usual.
“Really?” Her green eyes are brimming with hope, and some of the tension winding inside me relaxes. This is a problem I can solve.
“Yeah, really. I mean, everyone’s already seen us here. That was the point, right?”
She nods, and looks around, flinching when the flashbulbs behind the plate glass window of the restaurant go off again—the place is mobbed with paparazzi and regular people alike. All of whom want to see us drinking beers and eating breadsticks.
“We need to play it right. If we don’t look super into each other when we leave, they’re going to frame it as our fling being over. However, if we look like we’re, you know, all googly-eyed—” I do my best impression of someone stupidly in love, and Rowan laughs like I hoped she would. “Then the headlines will say we’re so into each other, we couldn’t wait to get through dinner before heading back to my hotel. Think you can do that? Look like you’re into me?”
She bites the corner of her lip and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. You’re one of the most famous musicians in the world and really hot, so it might be difficult. But I’m a professional. I think I can handle it.”
In that moment, I can picture sitting around with the guys and Rowan, all drinking beers and ragging on each other. Well, Rowan would be drinking water as always, but she’d be in there with the best of them talking smack. As soon as she got over her star-struckness, which, given how things have progressed between us, shouldn’t take all that long.
The image is comfortable. Which shouldn’t sound thrilling, but one of the less great things about being a household name is that being yourself, unguarded, gets to be a luxury—one that being with Rowan affords me.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
I flag down our waiter for the check and shove a far-too-large bill in it before handing it back and telling him to keep the change. Then I go to Rowan’s side of the table to offer her my hand, and head us toward the coat check. Once we’re all bundled up, we venture out into the cold night air, doing our best to look like a crazy-in-love couple for the cameras as the flashes go off.
Rowan
My stomach’s been in knots all day, and the prospect of eating was . . . well let’s just say it wasn’t going to happen. Not in some fancy-ass restaurant anyway, with food I’ve never tasted before, surrounded by people I don’t know but who all seem to know me.
It’s one of the worst things about competition: when I most want to be home, surrounded by everything familiar, I have to be away and out in the world, besieged by strangeness. “Besieged” is the right word for how it felt to walk out of that restaurant with Zane. I hope my panicked clinging to him reads as us not being able to get enough of each other instead of what it actually was: a doubling down on my already-loaded nerves.
But here we are, back in his hotel suite. I’m supposed to be in bed early tonight because the first day of runs is tomorrow. Two of the four minutes that could change my life. The SIGs are a weird format, double the runs we usually do, and it messes with some people. Consistency, handling the pressure, and stamina—that’s the name of the game here. Sometimes at one of the other competitions, you can get away with one stellar run and one not-so-stellar and still place, but with four runs, it’s more important—and harder—to maintain focus.
“Rowan?”
Zane’s looking at me like maybe this isn’t the first time he’s said my name.
“Sorry.”
“No worries. I know you have a lot on your mind. Something I can do to help?”
If only. The truth is, despite how much I’m enjoying this whirlwind fake courtship, it mostly adds to the pressure bearing down on me. Also, it’s never been an issue before; it’s not something I’ve learned to fit into my normal competition routine, which generally consists of spending time with my team and my dad.
On the other hand, being with Zane is a good distraction—because hey, hi, hello, gorgeous and fairly charming pop star—so maybe I should take advantage of that. I could ask for sex, but right now I’m wound too tight to enjoy it. But I’d like to. So maybe some unconventional foreplay first. There is one fantasy I’ve had about Zane Rivera over and over, and this seems like a good opportunity to make that fantasy come true.
“Will you teach me how to play the guitar?”
He blinks, and tilts his head, his perfectly mussed hair flopping even more perfectly. “You want me to teach you to play guitar?”
I shrug, feeling juvenile for asking. I’m with one of the most attractive men on earth and instead of getting naked, I’m asking him to teach me to play an instrument I’ve never touched, an encounter that will no doubt make me look very, very stupid?
Stick to sliding, Andrews.
“Uh, yeah. I’ve always thought it would be cool, but I’ve never had time to take lessons. I wouldn’t even know where to start. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. It’s not a big deal. I guess it’s like asking a chef to cook for you after-hours in a restaurant kitchen or seeking medical advice from a doctor when you’re not their patient. Which is—”
“Row. Stop talking. I would be happy to teach you a little something.”
“Oh.” Yes, oh. Or more like oh my god, Zane Rivera’s going to teach me how to play guitar. Even cooler, unless
he’s got a spare lying around for when fangirls beg him for this kind of favor, I get to touch the one he’s using to compose his solo songs. Holy shitballs. Be cool. Be cool.
Apparently, my cool face needs some work because Zane is smirking at me, that mouth pulling up on one side and his dimples showing through his scruff. “Do you need to go in the other room to fangirl freak or something? You can have a minute if you need it.”
My face becomes so hot, I’m glad I’m not on my sled because I would no doubt soften the ice and slow my run. Not since the first time I hardcore wiped out on the luge track in front of one of my heroes have I been so embarrassed. “Nooo, I was going to text Kate so I could squee privately. In silence. Can I do that?”
He laughs, and some of my mortification dissolves. “Sure. I’ll grab my guitar, be right back. Squee away.”
It would be nice if I could hate Zane, or not like him so goddamn much, because this is just a game we’re playing and he’s a nice enough guy to humor me, but I do. Really like him. I text Kate to tell her I’ll be back later because Zane’s giving me a guitar lesson, to which of course she replies, Is that some kind of euphemism? With about a dozen winky faces. If Kate never meets Zane, it will be too soon.
Then he’s there, holding his guitar like it’s an extension of his body. They go together, and it makes me relax. If this beat-up and unpretentious thing is the guitar Zane loves, then maybe there’s hope he actually could like me as more than a fake girlfriend and fuck buddy yet.
“Ready for your lesson?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Zane
An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch and it’s abundantly clear Rowan shouldn’t quit her day job.
“No. Your middle finger needs to go here.”
Rowan scowls while I adjust her hand. “I have a different idea of what I could do with my middle finger.”
I drop my mouth wide open in a face of overblown disbelief. “Rowan Andrews, I would’ve never thought America’s favorite SIG athlete would be so crass.”
“Bite me.”
After I finish laughing, I have an idea. Not at all motivated by my sudden flood of desire to get my hands and my mouth on her. Nope, not one bit.
“Okay. Clearly this isn’t working. Let’s try something else.”
I pull the pillows out from behind her on the couch, and wedge myself between her body and the hard back. It’s not the most comfortable, but having Rowan’s spine pressed against my chest, with the smell of her hair drifting into my nose—and yeah, her phenomenal ass backed up into my crotch—is worth it.
I slip my arms under hers, and hold the guitar. It’s awkward, but I think this will work. If it doesn’t, it’ll be fun to try. “Put your hands over mine.”
She does as I’ve directed, and I like the feel of her callused hands resting on the backs of mine. Even wearing those spiky gloves, she’s still got the evidence of all her hard work rising from her skin, much as I do mine.
I find C, and strum a few times, Rowan’s fingers moving like a second skin or maybe a strange puppet. “I’m sure it’s probably the same for athletes, but when you’re learning to play an instrument, muscle memory is helpful.”
Switching to a different chord, I keep strumming and hook my chin over her shoulder to talk in her ear. Low and quiet, because I want to give her a thrill. Girl deserves that. Even if her runs don’t go well and she doesn’t place, I want her to remember these two weeks at the SIGs forever.
“If you practice enough, your body will remember how the note feels. Not how it sounds, and not the painful placing of every finger on the correct string, and the right fret. You’ll just feel it.”
With her back against me, I can feel Rowan’s breathing, and it gives me a kick that it’s sped up, gotten shallower. Yes, I think she’s enjoying herself.
“Does it work that way for you sometimes? On your sled?”
I switch chords again, her fingers following, and she takes a deeper breath. “Yeah. On tracks I know really well—like the one at home—I could probably do runs there with my eyes closed. That would be stupid, but I bet I could do it. After going down so many times, I know all the turns, know the angles of the banks, exactly how long I’m in the straightaways, how I have to shift my body to take advantage.”
“Exactly.” On the next switch of the chord, I tilt my head and kiss her under her ear. There’s the possibility I’ll get an elbow to my ribs for distracting her—because if there’s one thing Rowan is, it’s focused—but that’s not what happens. Oh no. She rests her head on my shoulder, giving me more access to that graceful column of smooth skin.
If I were smart, I’d take a selfie of us to post on social media, because this is the kind of thing that would set the world on fire. Somehow that feels wrong to me, though. I want this to be a moment Rowan can have to herself. Not for the cameras, not for the press, and not for her sponsors.
I switch from basic chords to playing one of LtG’s hits, and I feel her laugh before I can hear her. It vibrates through my whole body, and it’s transmitted through the fine muscles of her neck and into my mouth, my tongue. Being like this with her . . . I’m getting hard.
She probably wouldn’t argue if I asked to have her right now. But I want to make her Jell-O, have this crazy strong woman turned into a boneless puddle by my voice in her ear, her fingers on mine. Yes, it’s fun she’s a fan, but it’s more than that. How much more and in what way, I haven’t quite nailed down.
So I sing to her, and play, and at some point, her hands fall away from mine. I could scold her for not finishing her lesson, but I don’t care. Not with her resting against me like this, and especially not when she strokes the outsides of my thighs. If I was half-hard before, I’m rock hard now.
Despite being ready to go, I take my time. When I’ve finished going through a half dozen of our biggest crowd-pleasers, she squeezes, hands so high up on my thighs I can imagine her gripping me in another way, urging me on, and—
“Will you play the other song?”
There is no title yet, so of course she doesn’t know it, but she doesn’t need to. I know exactly what she’s talking about. I won’t deny her that either, because it’s as much her song as it is mine. So I play the first few notes and then she’s singing along with me. Not in a way any professional musician would, but it’s all the sweeter for that. She’s memorized all the words and only falters a couple of times on the simple harmonies she’s made up, correcting herself quickly. Even though I’ve had the pleasure to jam and perform with some of the greatest musicians in the world, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever felt in my life.
When I’ve strummed the last chord, I lean us forward to set my guitar on the coffee table, and then kiss behind her ear before murmuring, “Can I take you to bed?”
Rowan
I should say no. I should say no, go back to the village, go back to my room, and get some rest. Be surrounded by other people facing the same thing I am tomorrow. But the truth is, there’s no place I’d rather be than between Zane’s lean thighs. Well, okay, maybe having him in between my thighs. And what, honestly, would be the harm in an hour of stress relief?
An hour will still get me back to my hotel by ten, which is a perfectly respectable time for a grown woman to go to bed. If this time is anything like the last time, I’ll leave well and truly fucked, which is as good for inducing sleep as any other legal substance.
“I’d like that, but I’ve only got an hour. I’m telling you now so you don’t think I’m all fucking and running.”
Zane laughs, and I wish I could see his face. His hands come to rest at the inside of my knees and slide up, up, and oh, for the love of all things holy, up.
“Got it,” he says between kisses on my neck as he teases me through my pants. “I promise I will not take you splitting as a commentary on my performance. Nor will I mope for the rest of the night and feel abandoned.”
“Okay . . .” Zane has probably snuck out of his fair
share of beds after nights or hours of passion, and I’ve been up front with him, so I shouldn’t worry I’m going to, I don’t even know, hurt his feelings? Especially when there is precisely zero evidence he has feelings for me. Beyond sexy feelings, which are obvious in the form of his erection against my back. “Or if you do, promise you’ll write a song about it.”
He laughs again before sinking his teeth into the tendon that runs between my neck and my shoulder. “You got it.”
There. I have fulfilled my obligation as a responsible, sexually active adult. Therefore, I will not feel bad about riding Zane Rivera like I’m at a rodeo.
I break his grasp on me and stand, but only long enough to turn around and straddle him, settling over him and rubbing up against him, his thick hardness making an incredible friction at the apex of my thighs. Gripping the back of the couch, I rock against him. Zane grabs my hips but doesn’t try to change my rhythm or the pressure. It’s more like he’s trying to hold on for dear life.
When he looks up at me, his dark eyes are glossy and his mouth is parted. Sinful, really, for someone to be that good looking. I release the back of the couch with one hand and grab a fistful of his hair that I use to drag him to me to kiss. His mouth is delicious, and I don’t bother warming up to it. We don’t have time for that.
Zane makes this choked, needy sound, and when I grip my handful of his hair harder, it turns plaintive, but he ruts up against me all the same. I separate us, and we’re both breathing hard already. This bodes well. Very well.
“What do you want, Row? What do you need from me?”
“Wear me out. Exhaust me. Please.”
He blinks once, and then somehow I’m suspended in mid-air, heading toward the bedroom I remember quite fondly. Zane has picked me up with seemingly no effort at all, and is carrying me across the room. I’m not a small woman. It’s beneficial for lugers to be dense, and I’m fortunate I’ve got a build that allows me to put on muscle.
Love on the Tracks Page 10