by Jenna Sutton
She smiled at the memory. “I was so amazed someone actually liked me enough to approach me. I could barely sign my name I was so nervous.” She laughed softly. “I probably misspelled it.”
The ghost of a smile emerged on Beck’s mouth. “That’s a good memory,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Every time someone asks for my autograph, I’m still amazed.” She smiled wryly. “Although sometimes I’m more irritated than amazed.”
“You never seem irritated.”
“I was irritated today. The whole time I was signing autographs and posing for pictures, I was thinking you’d probably never go grocery shopping with me again and the milk was going to sour if it sat in the cart much longer.”
A laugh rustled in his throat. “The milk is fine, sugar.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and settled them on her hips. His fingers flexed lightly as he drew her to him.
“A lot of people want all the good things that come along with being famous but none of the bad,” she said. “I swore I’d never turn into one of those diva singers—the ones who snub their fans and cover their faces when paparazzi take pictures. I want my fans to know I appreciate them, and the only way I can show them is signing autographs and posing for pictures and showing interest in their lives.”
She looped her arms around his waist. “Amelia says I’m too accessible to my fans, and I think she may be right. When you and I are together, I’ll do my best to avoid signing autographs and posing for pictures. I’ll try to discourage conversation too. I’ll ask my fans to respect that I’m with you.”
“You will?” he asked, his handsome face etched with disbelief.
“Yes.” She laid her head on his chest. “I don’t want you to think they’re more important than you are. They’re not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The last notes of the ballad faded away, and Ava Grace pressed pause on her phone before the next demo came on. She tapped a pen against her bottom lip, debating whether she liked the song she’d just heard.
So far, she’d written seven songs for her next album. She needed at least fourteen, and she’d decided to consider songs written by someone other than herself. She knew it’d be almost impossible for her to compose seven more songs before she returned to Nashville in two weeks.
Next to her, Chicken shifted on the sofa. He propped his head on her thigh, and she absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.
She’d listened to more than sixty demos, dividing them into three categories: maybe, no, and hell no. She had twenty more demos to get through, and after that, she’d listen to all the no songs again to see if she was too harsh in her initial assessment.
She liked the ballad she’d just heard enough to put it in the maybe category. After cueing up the next demo, she leaned her head against the leather sofa cushion.
As the first notes filled her ears, she closed her eyes. Catching the melody, she began to hum. The chorus repeated, and she sang along, trying to get a feel for the words.
When the song ended, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. Then she squealed in surprise.
Beck sat on the cocktail table in front of the sofa, his knees just inches away from her crisscrossed legs. Chicken sat on the floor next to him, his tail wagging like a metronome. Beck pointed to her headphones, and she jerked them off.
“You scared me to death!” she burst out.
Holding his hands up like a criminal, he said, “I didn’t mean to. I was trying not to.”
She scowled. “You should’ve done something to get my attention.”
“Like what?” He tweaked her big toe. “Should I have done this?” He tugged on a piece of hair behind her ear. “Or this?”
Before she could answer, he leaned forward until his lips almost touched hers. “Or maybe I should have done this?” he asked before covering her mouth with his.
He kissed her as if it had been years rather than hours since he’d seen her. His mouth was rough … demanding … ravenous. When he finally released her lips and drew back, she was breathless.
“Did that get your attention?” he murmured.
Nodding slowly, she pressed her fingers to her lips. How could a single kiss from this man make her feel so much? How could he make her feel so much?
So much love I’m drowning in it.
There were times she just wanted to grab him and say: “I love you. I want to spend my life with you. I want to be your wife. I want to have your babies, and I’d even be willing to name the boys Jonah as long as I got to pick the girl names.”
Somehow she’d managed to push those words down deep inside. But she was worried she wouldn’t be able to do it much longer. Every time they made love, she was afraid the words would slip out. And she was even more afraid of what his response would be if they did.
Her gaze touched on his dark hair and handsome face. He hadn’t shaved this morning because they’d stayed in bed longer than they should have, and dark scruff shaded his jaw. In her opinion, it made him even sexier. Plus, she liked the way it felt on her skin.
She dropped her gaze to his broad shoulders and muscular torso. He had an endless supply of bourbon T-shirts, and today he wore a sage-green one with Let them drink bourbon in chocolate-brown lettering.
He shifted on the table, and his tan cargo pants tightened over his thighs. “I thought you were going to stop by Trinity for lunch today?”
“I said I might stop by,” she clarified. “I decided to have lunch with Amelia instead.”
He braced his hands on the edge of the cocktail table, the muscles in his forearms flexing. “Just let me know next time, okay?”
His tone wasn’t censuring, but she immediately felt guilty. “I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate of me.” She nudged his knee with her foot. “If you wondered why I didn’t show up, you could have texted or called.”
“I did.”
“You did? I didn’t see any messages.” She unhooked her headphones from her phone, checked the screen, and then showed it to him. “See? Nothing.”
He frowned. “You need to get a new phone. Half of my texts don’t come through. And my number never shows up in your call log. I swear your phone has some kind of grudge against mine.”
She laughed. “I’ll make sure to text you next time.” She nudged him again. “I just figured you wouldn’t miss me.”
Her teasing tone masked the truth of her statement. She’d decided to go to lunch with Amelia because she assumed Beck wouldn’t care either way, and her best friend wanted her company.
“I did,” he said.
“You did what?”
He rolled his lips inward before saying, “I missed you.”
“Really?” she asked, her heart tap-dancing in her chest.
“Yeah.”
“I missed you too,” she admitted softly. “I had a good time with Amelia, but I would’ve had a better time with you.”
She wondered if he understood the significance of that statement. Before him, Amelia was the most important person in her life—her favorite person. But Beck had usurped her best friend’s position.
Over the past five weeks, Ava Grace had casually and subtly insinuated herself into his life. She regularly dropped by the Trinity offices with lunch for the guys or just to hang out.
More than once, she and Beck escaped to the rickhouse for a quickie … but never again on top of a barrel. She didn’t want to risk bodily injury.
She’d told Beck about getting a splinter the first time they had sex, and he laughed so hard he almost passed out. Afterward, he made her show him where the “owie” had been, and he kissed it all better.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t kiss her biggest “owie” away. A few nights ago, as she and Beck had driven home from dinner at Quinn and Amelia’s, she mustered the courage to ask how he’d describe their relationship.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, and the silence in his Jeep was so absolute she was afraid he could hear the frantic beat of her hear
t. Finally, he answered her question with a single word: temporary.
If she hadn’t been sitting down, the pain of that softly spoken word probably would’ve sent her to her knees. It devastated her, and she was too hurt to ask why he felt that way.
For the first time since she’d been staying with him, they’d gone to sleep without making love. He’d pulled her close, his big hand warm against her midriff, and buried his face in her hair.
Neither Beck nor Ava Grace fell asleep for a long time. Instead they lay in the spacious bed, their bodies touching but their hearts far apart. Even Chicken knew something was wrong, choosing to sleep on the floor instead of next to her.
The following morning, she woke up alone. After consulting both her head and her heart, she decided to end things with Beck. She accepted his feelings would never be as deep or lasting as hers.
But then she’d found a stack of mini notepads on the kitchen island along with a box of new ballpoint pens. A Post-It was stuck to the top notepad with a message from Beck: “Thought you could use these to write your next hit.”
He signed the note with nothing more than his initial, but added a postscript: “Call me when you wake up. I need a little sugar with my coffee.”
That brief, hastily scribbled note convinced her not to give up. It convinced her there was still hope. It convinced her temporary could become forever.
“What were you singing when I got home?” Beck asked.
“A demo.”
“For your new album?”
“Yes.”
“It sounded good.”
“You think so?”
Nodding, he said, “Yes. You know what sounds even better?”
“What?”
He smiled, and the skin around his dark eyes crinkled. “The noises you make when you come.”
She knew she was blushing. “Shut up.”
“I love those sweet little moans and groans.” He laughed softly. “Your cheeks are pink, Miz Landy. Are you embarrassed?”
Doing her best to ignore him, she took her notepad and headphones from her lap and arranged them on the seat next to her. She glanced at her phone to check the time and then double-checked it when she saw it wasn’t even four o’clock. He usually didn’t arrive home until after six.
“Why are you home so early?”
“I was worried.”
He rose from his perch on the cocktail table and moved her notepad and headphones so he could sit down beside her. Shifting on the cushions, she rested her back against the arm of the sofa and pulled her knees toward her chest.
Her toes touched his thigh, and she wiggled them against the heavy fabric of his cargo pants. He dropped his warm hand to her feet and squeezed lightly.
“What were you worried about? Did something happen at work?”
He caught her eyes. “I was worried about you.”
She blinked, sure she had misunderstood. “What?”
“I was worried about you,” he repeated. “When you didn’t show up for lunch or reply to my texts or answer my phone calls, I got worried.”
His tone wasn’t accusing or angry. It was matter-of-fact. But there was nothing matter-of-fact about his words.
Beck had come home early because he’d been worried about her. Men didn’t waste time worrying about women they didn’t care about.
Beck cares about me.
She looked down at her knees. As she stared at the smooth black fabric of her yoga pants, tears prickled the backs of her eyes and clogged her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to get rid of them.
She didn’t want Beck to see how much his words meant to her. If she showed too much, he’d pull away. It’d happened before.
But if she didn’t show enough, he did the same thing. She felt like an acrobat walking on a tightrope.
“I didn’t know you were such a worrywart,” she said, trying to tease, but her voice cracked a little.
“Neither did I,” he muttered.
Lifting her head, she met his gaze. “I’m sorry I made you worry, Jonah.”
With a shrug, he looked away. She hesitated but then decided to just let the subject drop. She rose from the sofa and popped her phone into the sound station across the room.
As she grabbed the remote, she asked, “Would you listen to demos with me? I need your help picking out songs.”
She made her way back to the sofa, and he looked up at her. “You need my help?” he repeated doubtfully.
“I want your help.
She slid onto his lap with her legs draped over his thighs, and he looped his arms around her. She started to press play, but he stopped her with a hand over hers.
“Wait a second. There’s something I’ve wanted to know for a while…”
She tilted her head so she could see his face. “Ask me anything.”
“What did you sing when you auditioned for American Star?”
“‘You Really Got a Hold on Me’.” She hummed the melody. “Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.”
His arms tightened around her. “Sing it for me?”
Dropping her head to his shoulder, she began to sing. As she crooned the lyrics to the R&B classic, she realized they were uncomfortably close to how she felt about Beck. She loved him madly, and he really had a hold on her.
She finished the song, and he nuzzled his face in her hair before dropping a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks, sugar.”
“You’re welcome.”
He sighed softly. “I love to hear you sing.”
Snuggling closer, she said, “I’ll sing for you anytime you want.”
“I’d like…” He paused and sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
“Oh, no!” She vaulted from his lap. “My short ribs!”
She ran into the kitchen and jerked open the oven door. Thankfully, no smoke poured out, and the cast iron Dutch oven she’d bought in Union Square looked fine. She nabbed a potholder and lifted the lid. Fragrant steam wafted out, and she waved it away.
Beck came to a stop next to her. “What’s that?
“I came up with a new bourbon recipe.” She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the savory mixture. “Braised short ribs with espresso-bourbon sauce.”
He groaned. “If you keep testing your new recipes on me, I’m going to have to go for a run every night too.”
Beck ran every morning, fair or foggy weather. She’d gone with him a few times, and he’d kicked her butt, both with his punishing pace and the distance he covered.
He also played basketball a few times a month with the guys. And he got his hands dirty at work, hefting sacks of grain and rolling barrels. He had an amazing body to show for all that physical activity—tall, strong, and muscular.
“You don’t have to run morning, noon, and night to stay in shape, handsome.”
She returned the spoon to the dog-shaped holder on the counter. She’d found it in a little boutique on Fillmore Street, and she’d just had to have it. As she replaced the lid on the Dutch oven and closed the oven door, Beck grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and twisted off the cap.
“Did you know sex burns more calories than running?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t know that,” he replied before taking a big swallow of beer.
“Instead of hitting the pavement more often, you can hit this,” she suggested, lightly slapping her rear.
He choked, and beer spewed out his mouth. Clapping his hand over it, he fell into a coughing fit. She hastily tore a paper towel off the roll and handed it to him, laughing the whole time.
When he’d finally stopped gurgling and gasping and was able to catch his breath, he tipped his beer bottle toward her bottom half. “I’m already hitting that pretty often. Usually twice a day. Should I hit it more frequently?”
“If you feel the need”—she waited a beat before completing the sentence—“to burn some calories.”
He smiled slowly. “I had a big lunch. Probably thousands of calories.”
After depo
siting his beer bottle on the counter next to the oven, he turned toward her. Gripping her waist in both hands, he easily lifted her onto the island. She spread her legs, and he stepped between them.
“I feel the need to burn all those calories.”
“You do?” she asked as he reached for the hem of her T-shirt.
“Yeah. Right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Maybe, no, or hell no?” Ava Grace asked.
Beck grimaced. “Hell no. That demo was a piece of shit.”
“I was thinking maybe.” Her luscious lips turned down in a frown. “You need to be nicer. Someone worked really hard to write that song.”
He shook his head, beyond exasperated. He never would’ve guessed she’d be so softhearted when it came to her music. A few minutes ago, she’d accused him of being a “meanie” when he’d said one of the demos sounded like a preschooler had written it.
“That song is not worthy of your voice,” he countered, “and you know it.”
She sighed gustily. “Fine.” She picked up her notepad from her lap and looked around her legs. “Where’s my pen?” She ran her fingers along the space between the sofa and her upper thighs. “What happened to my pen?”
He pointed to her head. “It’s stuck to your headband, sugar.”
She patted her headband with both hands, her fingers searching the thin strip of fabric. The position pushed her breasts forward, and his gaze lingered on the firm mounds.
She wasn’t wearing a bra—she hadn’t bothered to put it back on after he’d removed it earlier—and he could see the hard points of her nipples under her baby-blue T-shirt. They were ultra-sensitive, and his mouth tingled when he thought about the sounds she made when he tongued them.
She found the pen and plucked it off her headband. After uncapping it, she scribbled her notes about the song, her lower lip caught between her front teeth.
They’d been listening to demos for about an hour and a half. They’d settled on the sofa after a delicious meal of short ribs, horseradish mashed potatoes, and sautéed green beans. She had been worried the main dish would be overcooked since they’d gotten a little distracted with sex, but the short ribs had been tender and juicy … just like her.
