by Tracy Wolff
“Hey, if you do it right, pizza has all four of the major food groups.”
“Yeah, but how often do you actually do it right?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she longed to take them back. All she’d meant was that Ryder and the others were much more likely to smother their pizzas in pepperoni and sausage than they were to put vegetables on them.
But that wasn’t how it had sounded, even to her. And judging from the wicked smile Ryder was currently wearing, the king of the double entendre had definitely caught the secondary meaning she so hadn’t intended.
Before he could reply, she slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it,” she warned.
He just shook his head, as he protested his innocence with raised hands and wide eyes until she began to doubt her instincts. But just as she went to move her hand away from his mouth, he ran his tongue straight down the center of her palm in a long, decadent lick that had any thought of his innocence—or anything else, for that matter—spinning right out of her mind.
Not that she had any intention of letting him know how he affected her. “Nice,” she told him, making a deliberate show of wiping her hand on her jeans in disgust. But when he just stood there, grinning at her, she risked a quick glance down at the front of her hoodie, wanting to make sure the fabric was thick enough to hide her suddenly peaked nipples.
It was, but deciding she couldn’t be too careful, she put a few extra feet of space between them. Then, tossing him a careless smile she was far from feeling, she picked up a large bag of potatoes and slung it into the basket. She also grabbed some garlic, onions, ginger, and a variety of herbs she liked to cook with, depositing them in the cart Ryder rolled alongside her.
“So, any special requests?” she asked as she added corn on the cob for Jared, fresh green beans for Wyatt, and a couple bunches of asparagus for Quinn before reaching for a few plump eggplants for Jared—eggplant parmesan was one of his favorite dishes—and a bunch of salad stuff for herself.
Vegetables done, she cruised over to the fruit section, where she loaded the cart with all kinds of different berries for Ryder, along with apples, oranges, and pears.
“Peaches,” he said after a minute. He reached for one of the plastic produce bags and began filling it with the sweet, plump fruit. “I’ve been craving peaches for the last day and a half.”
She had no idea why the thought of peaches left her breathless all of a sudden, but it did. Maybe it was watching the way Ryder handled the fruit, his long, calloused fingers gently squeezing each one as he searched for bruises and imperfections. Or maybe it was the way he looked at them, like they were something else entirely.
Whatever it was, it was hot. Dragging her eyes away from his way-too-talented hands, Jamison unzipped her hoodie and tied it around her waist. Was it just her or was it getting warm in here?
“Anything else?” she asked after clearing her throat for what felt like the millionth time.
“Quinn will want Twinkies.”
She gagged. “That’s so not going to happen.”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying. The man likes his snack cakes.”
“Well, he’ll have to learn to like my snack cakes instead.”
Ryder arched a brow and she blushed all over again. Seriously? Who knew food shopping could be so fraught with sexual connotation?
“That’s not going to happen,” he finally said after a minute.”
She nodded jerkily, refusing to go there with him. “We should probably hurry up. Portland’s still a long way off and Steve only gave me half an hour to shop.”
Ryder shrugged. “He’ll wait.”
She wondered what that felt like—that bone deep assurance that you were important enough to wait for. Not that Ryder was rude about it. He wasn’t, usually, and neither were Jared or the others. But still, they’d changed through the years—not a lot at any given time, but little bit by little bit. Their confidence, always something to be reckoned with, was huge now, as was their sense of entitlement. She wouldn’t call it ego, exactly, but the guys had all grown into their fame through the last couple of years. Had come to take it—and their place in the world—for granted in a way they hadn’t before. In a way it still surprised, and unsettled, her to see.
Then again, it took a special kind of person—and a special kind of talent—to stand up in front of thousands of screaming fans every night and deliver the experience of a lifetime. Over and over and over again. There was nothing wrong with the members of Shaken Dirty being proud that they could do that. And that people wanted them to. Just because it still felt strange to her didn’t mean it wasn’t as natural as breathing to them.
“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Ryder paused the shopping cart by the bakery section, studied her carefully.
She almost blew him off. But then thought, what the hell? He’d asked, after all. “How much everything has changed in the last few years.”
“Has it?”
Was he messing with her? “Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. Picked up a couple loaves of French bread and placed them in the basket. “It feels like we’ve been on tour forever. Now we just play bigger venues with more fans.”
“You’re the headliners now instead of just the opening band.”
“I get to sing. Get to play my music in front of people. Beyond that, the logistics don’t really matter.”
Oh, but they did. She gestured to the cart. “There used to be a time you couldn’t walk into a grocery store and afford whatever you wanted.”
“True.” He added an extra large pack of cinnamon rolls and a peach pie. “But I don’t think fresh fruit and vegetables are really that big of a splurge, are they?”
“What is it with you and peaches today?” She put the peach pie back, then headed for the juice and candy aisle. “If you want a pie, I’ll make one for you.”
He grinned. “I didn’t want to assume.”
“I’m the cook. It’s pretty much my job to make you whatever you want to eat.”
He scowled. “I wish you’d stop calling yourself that.”
“What?” she asked, mystified.
“You’re not the cook!”
He stepped closer, reached for her. And pulled her body into the shelter of his. “You’re Jamison! Just…Jamison.”
At first she forced herself to stay rigid, to stop her muscles from their natural inclination to curve themselves against him. But when he rested his chin on the top of her head and squeezed her tight, Jamison couldn’t keep up the distance. Despite her very best intentions, she found herself going soft against him.
“There you are,” he murmured, stroking an errant curl behind her ear. “I missed you.”
“I’ve been right here.”
“No. I was an ass and I chased you away. I promise, I won’t do that again.”
“You didn’t want me here. That’s your choice. I understand.” She started to pull back.
His arms tightened around her. “No, you don’t.” He reached over to the Jelly Belly display, snagged a bag of the root beer jellybeans that had gotten her her nickname so many years ago. Handed them to her with a grin that made her go all soft inside at the realization that he remembered that day. She’d been fourteen, and completely jealous that Ryder had planned a band trip out to the lake with a bunch of older girls and flat out refused to take her along.
To get him back, she’d filled the van with the only Jelly Belly flavor he truly hated—root beer. It had cost her close to fifty dollars but had been totally worth it to see his face as the brown beans poured out in all directions. Jared told her it had taken them months to get the smell out of the van—which had only made her victory sweeter.
“I always want you around, Jelly Bean.”
“Then why—” She cut herself off before she could ask the question that had haunted her since she’d stormed out of his hotel room the morning before.
“Because I didn’t want anything to change. You’r
e one of my best friends. I don’t want to lose that and I was afraid if you came on tour with us I’d fuck everything up like I always do.”
At his words, she felt the last of her anger melt away. Even though Ryder wasn’t offering her what she wanted—what she’d always wanted when it came to him—he was giving her the biggest part of himself he could. Rejecting it because it wasn’t enough would mean rejecting him.
And that she couldn’t do, not when she knew how much it took for him to open up even this much.
Not when she knew just how afraid he was of messing up the few things in his life that he couldn’t help caring about.
That she was one of those things… It might not be enough, but in a lot of ways, it was more than she ever could have hoped for.
Squeezing him just as tightly as he had squeezed her, she dropped a kiss on Ryder’s heavily stubbled jaw. And forced herself to let go—once and for all—of all the silly schoolgirl fantasies she’d harbored for him through the years.
“Come on,” she told him, pulling gently away when the pain of touching him became too much for her to handle. “First one to find the pancake mix wins.”
“Wins what?” he demanded, eyes narrowed in sudden interest.
“You’ll have to win to find out!” And then she took off running toward the center of the store, the sound of his laughter ringing out behind her.
Chapter Thirteen
Five days later, Jamison dished up yet another batch of blueberry pancakes while the band, along with Steve and their equipment manager, Vince, jockeyed for third, or in some cases, fourth servings. Even Wyatt was eating with enthusiasm, something she didn’t see very often if dessert wasn’t involved. Then again, he had enough syrup and whipped cream on his pancakes to send himself into serious sugar shock.
“Do you have more?” Quinn asked, a hopeful look on his face as he once again handed the platter back to her.
She looked at the empty bowl beside the stove and let out a little sigh. “I guess I can whip up some more batter if you’d like.”
“That’d be great.” He gave her his sweet smile, the one that had been getting him pretty much everything he wanted for as long as she’d known him. “With extra blueberries?”
“Of course with extra blueberries.”
She turned back to the stove, feeling more like a preschool teacher with an unruly class than the cook for a bunch of grown men. Then again, rock musicians weren’t exactly known for their emotional maturity. Even Jared, who was by far the best of the bunch, could revert to childhood without too much effort.
“I don’t mind making extra pancakes,” she said as she mixed up another batch of batter, “but don’t you guys have to be on stage soon?”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Ryder grunted as he shoveled in the last of his breakfast. “We go on at ten.”
Jamison shook her head as she flipped the first pancakes. She’d been on the road with Shaken Dirty for six days now and she still had a hard time dealing with the schedule they kept. The hardest part was that they had their days and nights all turned around—hence the reason they were eating pancakes at nine thirty at night.
Most days, they’d roll out of bed around six in the evening, hang out, eat, perform and then spend the night and morning doing whatever it is they did before falling into bed around eleven a.m. before doing the same thing all over again the following evening.
The only days that varied were ones where they played at strange times—like mid-afternoon at that music fest in Portland—or when they weren’t performing at all. But so far, they’d only had one day off since she’d hit the road with them. The organizers had jam-packed this tour with stops, and at each one they played to a capacity crowd.
Tonight, they were performing in Denver, Colorado. Last night, it had been Salt Lake City, Utah. Tomorrow would kick off a three-night run in Las Vegas and after that she didn’t know where they were going to be. Maybe New Orleans, followed by Orlando? But she thought there might be a few Texas dates mixed somewhere in there as well. Which was a good thing, as Jared was dying to see his girl. Though the whole band called Austin home, very rarely did they get to spend much time there.
Not that it really mattered to Jamison where they went. After all, her job was the same. Cook breakfast, then either hang out or watch the band perform. Cook lunch and try to ignore the groupies and over-the-top fans. And the guys wondered why she was okay with her bunk, why she didn’t want to take her turn in the back bedroom? God only knew what she’d catch if she actually spent a night in those sheets. Despite all the action they saw, she was fairly certain they hadn’t been changed once in the time she’d been traveling with the guys. She would do it, but again, she’d have to touch them and she’d left her gloves and industrial strength cleaner at home…
The only two who didn’t seem to be getting any action back there were Jared and Ryder. Jared because he had a fiancée in Houston and Ryder because…well, to be honest, she wasn’t sure why Ryder hadn’t hooked up with any groupies in the last few days. Based on what she’d overheard back in San Diego, and what she knew of him, she had trouble imagining he spent much time abstaining.
Which meant he was either taking care of things on the other bus—the one the roadies and equipment manager rode on—or she was cramping his style. And while she knew it was masochistic and wrong on so very many levels, especially when she’d sworn to herself that she’d stopped waiting around on Ryder to want her, still Jamison couldn’t help hoping it was the latter. That Ryder, for whatever reason, had given up on groupies for the duration. It was probably a vain hope, but it was one she clung to anyway.
Ten minutes later, the guys pushed back from the table as one. “Thanks, sis,” Jared said, dropping his plate in the sink and a kiss on her cheek.
“Break a leg, tonight!”
“We’ll try.” Wyatt gave her a hug, which she returned with interest. She tried not to dwell on how skinny he’d become, but it was hard. Especially when she was pretty sure he was using regularly again. Oh, he hadn’t gotten high in front of her or the guys since her first night on the bus—at least not that she could tell, and she was watching—but still, there was something off about him. Something that told her his past was riding him a lot harder than usual.
Ryder was the last to drop his plate in the sink. She went to move out of his space—the only way being on the bus with him worked for her was if she made sure not to touch him—but this time he was having none of her usual evasive maneuvers. Instead, he caged her against the counter, an arm on either side of her and his big, sexy body in front of her. He wasn’t breaking the unvoiced rules, wasn’t touching her, but the point was moot. She was surrounded by the wild ocean scent of him, by the crazy intense warmth he gave off without trying.
“You coming to watch us tonight?” he asked.
“I—uh—I don’t know. The dishes—”
“Forget the dishes.” He reached for her face, gently squeezed her chin between his thumb and forefinger until she moved her head in an effort to get away from his grip. It didn’t work, but it did help him get what he wanted. With her neck tilted the way it was, it was impossible to look anywhere but in his eyes. “You haven’t listened to us once since your first day on tour.”
That wasn’t true. She’d been to most of their concerts. She just didn’t stay very long—and made sure to keep out of sight when she was there. Because watching Ryder onstage turned her on like few things ever had. He was so raw, so primal, so sexual when he sang that all she could think about was going down on him. Or having him inside her. Or— She cut herself off before she could go any further down that path. Dwelling on what she couldn’t have only made things worse for her, not to mention ruined the whole just-friends vibe they were both striving for. “I’ve been busy. Trying out recipes, writing…”
“Writing, huh? How’s the cookbook going?”
“I think it’s going well. At least none of you have complained about the recipes I’ve come up with.�
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“What’s to complain about? Your food is amazing.” He smiled. “And since it’s going so well, you can take the night off and not feel guilty.”
Feeling vulnerable, exposed, she searched for another excuse. But there was none, not when he leaned down and whispered, “I need you there, Jamison. I like knowing you’re watching.”
“Hey, Ryder! You coming, man?” Before she could respond, Quinn’s voice drifted through the bus’s still open door.
“Go ahead,” he shouted back without ever taking his eyes from hers. “I’ll catch up with you.”
“You should go.” She tried to duck under his arm, but he refused to let her.
“Not ‘til you say you’ll come.”
“Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Because I miss you.” The words seemed yanked from him against his will.
“I’m right here,” she said, shoving harder at him.
“No. You’re not. That’s the problem.” But he finally got the hint and moved away from her. He smiled, but it was one of his stage smiles. The kind he gave the fans no matter how shitty he was feeling, but that never quite reached his eyes.
“Hey, Ryder.” This time she was the one trying to make eye contact and he was the one avoiding it. Only she wasn’t big or strong or tough enough to make him look at her—not physically and certainly not emotionally. Which was why when he stepped toward the door, she didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t do anything but watch him go.
“Don’t worry about it,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later.”
He gave her a casual little half wave as he took the stairs in one giant step and then headed into the night, the door slapping closed behind him.
If only she could slap her own emotions closed half as easily.
Part of her was angry, really angry, that he’d used all that brooding sex appeal against her. Especially since he was the one who’d backed away from that aspect of their relationship, the one who didn’t want her despite the crazy sparks they struck off each other.
