Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“It will be fine,” I argued, forcing a smile to my face as Nixon and Jonas finished up.
“You have to keep a clear path to the high ground. It’s the only way to survive him,” she warned quickly and quietly as the guys headed our way.
“This is where I leave you,” I said to Nixon, who appeared calm and collected to the average viewer, but I knew better. That little spark of panic in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the flicks of the pick across his knuckles…he was most definitely not fine.
And it was my fault. I should have told him I was leaving, should have broken that rule too. Had I ruined everything before we’d had a chance to try?
He nodded. “See you after the show.”
I caught his hand after Quinn and Jonas had already turned, then looked up into those dark eyes with as much conviction as I could possibly will into mine. “I have wanted you since the first day I met you. I listened to you play long before that. We’ve never been on equal footing. You blew me away through the radio of a pickup truck in the middle of Colorado when I was eighteen years old, Nixon. I wanted you long before you ever laid eyes on me.”
His eyes widened slightly, but I saw that spark in his eyes settle. His jaw loosened. Then he nodded and pressed a hard kiss to my forehead, despite our very public setting.
“Zoe,” he whispered against my skin, like it was the answer to a question I hadn’t asked.
Then he walked off with his bandmates to do whatever it was they did before the show.
They were knee-deep in the middle of the third set when I realized why that shrieking fan had bothered me so much—she had curly blond hair.
Just like Ashley’s.
13
ZOE
I scrolled through the latest contract offer with a little more force than necessary, skimming my fingers over the trackpad of my laptop as I sat at the dining room table.
I’d waited six days for Nixon.
Then seven.
Now eight.
He’d been quiet since we’d come back to Colorado, or maybe focused was a better word. He’d been kind, ridiculously courteous, and even conceded to my movie pick without complaint last night. He’d been…professional.
Not once had he brought up the deal I’d made with Ben, or the rather embarrassing confession I’d given him before he’d taken the stage in Tacoma. He didn’t mention the woman with the curly blond hair, or that we’d earned a curious stare by more than one roadie when he kissed my forehead.
Nixon was cool.
Nixon was calm.
Nixon was collected.
I was the one going out of my fucking mind. I was in love with him, and there was nothing I could do about it. My heart had abandoned all logic, all reason, and embraced the complete madness I’d brought myself into.
The grandfather clock in the family room chimed ten, and I scrolled on, mentally formulating the precise rejection for this particular offer. Ben might be proud of me and ready to set me free, but he wasn’t done handing me the grunt work, which was just fine with me, since it wasn’t like I had anything else to do.
Nixon appeared in the doorway and stretched, revealing the strip of his stomach that carried the tattoo, Apathy is Death. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be dying any time soon, because the heat that licked through my belly at the sight of his abs was anything but apathy.
“How much longer are you working for?” he asked, bracing his palms on the doorframe.
“Just about done,” I replied, forcing my eyes back to the screen.
“Is it important?”
“No. Just reading an offer so I can reject it tomorrow.” Something you’re familiar with.
“Okay. Well, I’m going to head up to bed,” he said.
“Good to know.” I could have sworn I saw him crack a smile from the corner of my eye, but it was gone before I looked up.
“Want to come with?” His voice went all gravelly.
“I’m sorry?” I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows.
“Do you want to come to bed with me?” There was nothing but pure intent in his eyes.
“Is that a trick question?”
He stalked forward, his gaze lazily traveling over my baseball tee and pajama pants. “It’s been forty-eight hours.”
I turned in my chair to stare up at him. “Okay, I’ll play your little game. Forty-eight hours since…” What? The concert? Ben’s little reveal? My single-sided confession?
“Since I walked off the stage.” He braced one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table. “Forty-eight hours and”—he glanced at the clock on my laptop—“three minutes.”
“Aww, look at you, telling time,” I teased, giving his cheek a little pat.
He turned his face and pressed a kiss to my palm, then raked his teeth over the pad of my thumb and swirled his thumb over the sting.