Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“I fucking hate interviews, Bren. Avoiding them as much as possible is about my issues, not to get at you.”
“You never take any of my work seriously.”
His chin jerks up. “Yes, I do. I know how important you are to this band.”
“Which is why you roll your eyes and make cracks about how annoying I am whenever I hand out the weekly schedule?”
“Shit, Bren, all of us do that.” His lips quirk with a self-deprecating smile. “We’re rock stars. Thumbing our noses at the establishment is kind of expected. For all intents and purposes, you’re our link to the establishment.”
Well, he had me there.
He edges closer. “The question is, why do you react with such vehemence when I do it, while the rest of the guys get a pass?”
Because they don’t get under my skin the way you do.
He reads the truth in my eyes far too well, and a gleam enters his eyes. “Face it, we react to each other the way we do because we’ve been trying our damnedest to one-up each other.”
He isn’t wrong.
His gaze lowers to my lips. “We could meet as equals here. We could…flip that switch.”
Was it hot in here? How high had I set the heat?
I push out a breath. “Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”
Oh, such the wrong thing to say. We both know it. His eyes narrow, the corner of his lip curling just enough to taunt. When he talks, his voice is an octave lower, almost a purr. “Is that so?”
He leans in, his head ducking down, closer than he’s ever been to me. When I tense, he pauses, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. “I’m not going to kiss you. I’m just…checking something.”
He tilts his head, his nose brushing along my jaw. My eyes flutter closed, the urge to lean into him nearly intolerable. The soft touch of his lips on my pulse point makes both our breaths hitch. He sighs heavily, and I shiver.
“Your pulse is racing,” he says.
I can’t speak. Can’t move.
Callused and warm, his big hand finds my smaller limp one. He gently presses my palm into the center of his wide chest. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm that matches my own.
“Feel that? That’s just from standing close to you.” His voice vibrates against my neck, tickles along my nerve endings. “From me thinking about all the ways I could figure you out, find all the little things that will make you come.”
My knees go weak, and I sway. Just once. A small movement. But he notices. His grip tightens a fraction, a rumble sounding in his throat. I take a breath, push back. I haven’t fully prepared myself for the heat I see in his eyes, the unapologetic want he’s showing me. I’ve never had it aimed my way. I rest my butt against the counter before I end up on the floor.
“Now you know,” he murmurs deep and firm. “I’m physically attracted to you. Always was.”
God. He isn’t supposed to say these things. We have a silent but very clear deal based on mutual loathing and avoidance.
“This isn’t attraction,” I manage to get out. “It’s agitation.”
He hasn’t stepped away. He’s still so close our chests nearly touch with each unsteady breath we take. I wonder if he can smell the lie I’ve just told.
Blue eyes the color of well-worn denim spear mine. “It’s a promise.” The words come down like a hammer. “A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.” With that, he steps back, his hands open and facing out as if showing he’s got nothing to hide. “Think about it, okay? Just…think about it.”
He leaves without a backward glance. And I curse his name for the rest of the night because I don’t get a wink of sleep.
Bastard.
Chapter Three
Brenna
“Rye isn’t here,” Sophie says with an exasperated sigh.
The tip of my Jimmy Choo Love pump beats a rapid tattoo on the polished concrete floor of the photo studio. I take a moment to admire them—bright yellow leather with a white pointed tip and an elegant black heel. The other pump is white with a black tip and a yellow heel.
Something in me calms, as it always does when I admire my shoes.
Vain, yes. But for a girl who grew up with nothing, while watching her rich cousin and his friends get everything, the luxury of being able to buy beautiful shoes for myself is something I’ll never take for granted. Silly as it may seem, just the knowledge that I can afford these shoes, that I made it to this place through my own hard work, puts everything back into focus. More than any other arsenal in my wardrobe, my shoes have become a talisman of sorts, able to bring me comfort, take away my fears, and soothe my nerves.