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)
“You knew you only had to keep me around through the February shows.” My mouth went dry at the sight of those familiar, cut lines, all brilliantly inked in various shapes and patterns. “Remember? You didn’t even want me here.”
“I didn’t like you then!” He marched toward me, but I held my ground. “When were you going to tell me?”
“As opposed to liking me now?” I fired back. “I was going to tell you when Ben—my boss—told me I could!” I raised my finger to point but ended up tapping him lightly on the chest.
“I like you just fine, Zoe. One day, you might start to believe that.”
I lifted my chin. “You want me. There’s a difference.”
He cocked his head to the side and dragged his heated gaze up my body in blatant appraisal. I ignored the way my breasts tightened and my blood grew hot. “Spoiler alert, Zoe. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve dreamed about stripping these dresses off you for years.”
My lips parted. He noticed.
“You’re not going to say the same?” He lowered his lips until they grazed mine.
“I’ve never seen you in a dress.”
He grinned. “Smartass.”
“Every woman I know wants you,” I whispered. “You make every eligible bachelor list. Every sexiest man. Every hottest musician. You’re well aware of your own appeal.”
“I don’t give a shit what every other woman wants. I’m asking you.” He sucked my lower lip between his, then scraped it along his teeth before releasing it.
“Yes, I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.” The admission came in a rushed whisper, but it was there.
He smiled, long and slow. “Good. It’s nice to know we’re on equal footing on that issue.” He turned abruptly and tugged a new shirt from the hanger. That one would end the night with whatever fan in the crowd caught it. He’d stopped wearing his own shirt out years ago.
“You walking me to the stage, Shannon?” he asked.
Shannon.
“Absolutely.”
He slung his favorite Les Paul over his back, then opened the dressing room door. “They’re all yours.”
The stagehands marched in to begin the evening routine of ferrying Nixon’s guitars to the stage. Once they’d all been taken, Nixon held the door for me.
“Thank you,” I said, walking through it.
He followed, putting his hand on my lower back. Right where it belongs.
“I’m still pissed at you,” he whispered in my ear as he waved to a wide-eyed fan with a backstage pass.
I turned my face, bringing us dangerously close for being in public. “But you still want me.”
His jaw ticked.
“Nixon!” a woman shouted behind us, her voice shrill and high.
It was nothing out of the ordinary, but Nixon’s hand tensed on my back.
“Nixon! Please!” the woman shrieked.
We both turned at the same time to see a middle-aged blonde trying to barrel her way past security.
“Look, a show before the show,” Quinn quipped as she stepped from her dressing room and joined us.
Nixon’s eyes hardened in a way I’d never seen before as he stared at the screaming fan.
“Nixon!” she wailed as Chris looped his arm around her stomach, keeping her from charging our direction. Something about her triggered my memories, but I wasn’t sure what. Security kept a list of rabid ones, the fans who crossed the line, so surely, she wasn’t one of them.
“Nix?” Chris questioned, avoiding her flailing fists.
“Not interested,” Nixon responded, his voice as cold as his eyes.
He turned us back around and walked, his muscles so tight I thought he might snap before we made it to the stage.
Jonas walked out of his dressing room, much to the delight of a group of fans corralled off the hallway. Nixon loosened up as the trio stopped to sign a few autographs and snap pictures. I bit my tongue when one woman offered up a part of her body to be signed. My own body rebelled at the thought, flaring uncharacteristically with a jealousy so hot I lifted my fingers to my face to feel if my skin registered the temperature change. It did. I didn’t want his hands on her, or any other woman, for that matter. I wanted him to be mine.
I exhaled a sigh of relief as Nixon chose her arm.
Quinn glanced between Nixon and me, lifting an eyebrow and mouthing tangled before turning to sign another autograph.
She was right, I was tangled. I wanted him for more than a few months. Somewhere between his penthouse in Seattle and the ranch in Colorado, between the private jets, the dressing rooms, and my mom’s kitchen, I’d fallen in love with him. No wonder I was willing to break all the rules.
“So, you won’t be running,” Quinn said softly as she came to my side.
“It’s too late for that,” I whispered.
Her eyes flared, and her shoulders tensed as she glanced again between Nixon and me, as if that charged, crackling space between us was a tangible thing. “God help us all.”