“Admit you had a good time.”
“Good,” I gasp, then laugh loudly. “Good time!”
His fingers dig into my sides more furiously. “The best time?”
“Best time ever!” I yell.
Sam finally stops tickling me, and I can breathe. He’s hovering above me, his knees on either side of my hips. Very little of his weight rests on me. He stares down at me with those pretty blue eyes. I try to catch my breath and contain the mixed emotions stirring inside of me. He leans the tiniest bit forward, his lips slightly parted, desire etched on his face. And lust hits me like a tsunami, crashing into me and fucking up everything.
The space between our locked gazes crackles with longing. He leans closer to me, brushing my waist with his thumbs, as if slowly asking . . . I don’t move. Want courses through me. I should move. Put a hand up for him to stop. Something. But I’m rendered immobile by the desire for his lips to meet mine. The promise of his muscled weight pressing against me causes those lush bottled-up memories to surface. The hot touch of fingers on my skin. A soft sigh above me. A harsh pant in my ear. The quick flashes of recollection nearly have me reaching for him.
We stare at each other, the desire between us obvious.
The swish of someone slipping a key card into the lock on the other side of the door breaks the silence, and our glued gazes jerk apart. At the turn of the handle, I frantically buck Sam off me. He moves away, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. Ignoring his expression, I roll off the bed and reach for my bag—which, luckily, is on the chair next to the bed—then disappear into the bathroom as Gabe strolls into the room.
The hot shower washes away my guilty tears—it feels like history is repeating itself. I take my time brushing my teeth, flossing, applying moisturizer, brushing my hair, and waiting for the redness to subside from my eyes. Fortunately, when I step out of the bathroom, the hotel room is empty. Sam and Gabe must have gone out.
I turn off the lights and crawl into the smallest damn rollaway on earth. It seems the more expensive the hotel, the tinier the roll-away. My fingers grip the edge of the sheet. I feel awful. I almost kissed Sam and cheated on Bryce. Maybe I would have stopped. I hope I would have stopped it. Or did I just get lucky that Gabe walked in when he did? I’m guessing the latter.
Ugh.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Too much booze? Away from my boyfriend too long? Sam is too appealing?
No. No. Sorta.
I’ve never once thought about cheating on Bryce. Drunk or not. Apart for a while or not.
Apparently, I need to stay away from Sam. Being with him brings up too many old memories and confusing feelings. Because that has to be what’s screwing with me. It’s like reliving memories that I should have never let loose.
I tug the sheet up and roll over toward the wall. I’ve always hated recalling the heartache of my memories with Seth. But recalling the scorching heat of Sam is starting to feel even more painful.
It feels like he can still burn me.
Chapter 12
The morning after my night out with Sam in New Orleans, my head is pounding like a package of lit firecrackers. As usual, I slipped from our room quietly, but it had more to do with not wanting to face Sam instead of waking him and Gabe up. Tired and hungover, I don’t have the energy to cope with my guilt. In desperate need of coffee, I head to a café down the block. I don’t even want to know how much coffee might cost in a hotel as fancy as this one.
At the counter, I order a beignet and an egg-croissant sandwich too. My head is dealing with an artillery attack, but my stomach is grumbling in need. I find a little table to the side of the café, in the shade of a small tree, and start sucking down coffee. I ordered the biggest one they offered.
I’m lifting the egg sandwich when someone plops down next to me.
“Hello. Peyton, right?” Allie asks, peeling back the tab of her coffee cup. Dressed in a blue tank top that matches her tattoo sleeve, she’s a bit too bright for my pounding head.
“Hi,” I murmur, my sandwich pausing between my lips.
“Mornin’,” Riley says, plopping her food, then herself, down on the other side of me. She is in all black, but sporting a grin, and with her ponytail swinging behind her, she’s also too bright and chipper.
I nod hello and then take a bite of fortifying, flaky croissant goodness.
Allie pours sugar into her coffee and grins at me. “So, who are you ready to murder? Justin? Romeo? Gabe? All of them?”
“Dang, Al,” Riley says with a laugh, “let the girl finish chewing before bombarding her with questions.”
Allie stirs her coffee and peers at Riley with a level look. “It was really just one question.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s Romeo.” Riley breaks open a cala, a doughnut or rice fritter–type breakfast thing that I almost ordered, and slathers half of it with raspberry jam. “He can be such a bossy jerk when it comes to the band. When I was in it, I wanted to drum on his head during every practice.”
I’m about to say he keeps everyone in line as Allie shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’d rather deal with him than Justin and Gabe at each other’s throats.” She laughs lightly and leans toward me in a conspiratorial manner. “They’re better now. A couple months ago they hated each other like two bratty boys on the playground.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of coffee.
They haven’t been too bad but before I can explain, Riley says, “True. Sam’s probably the only one who you don’t want to head-butt. Other than smartass comments, he’s the least annoying.”
I smile weakly and reach for my coffee.
Both women stare at me in bewilderment, then say together, “Sam?” They both draw his name out in a long questioning tone.
Since I told Sam I wouldn’t say anything, I shrug. “We kind of started off on the wrong foot. But he’s a, um, good guy, I guess.”
They both continue to stare at me in confusion.
Allie’s brows knit together. “Thought you two hung out yesterday . . .”
Knowing I suddenly look obvious as all fuck, I stuff a huge bite of sandwich in my mouth. I may look like an idiot, but I will keep my promise.
Their confused gazes turn skeptical before they both look away—Riley at her plate of calas as she spreads more jam; Allie across the street, as if Justin stands naked on the other side. The artillery in my head had subsided a bit after I’d eaten, but now the cannons are back and roaring full tilt. Forcing myself not to go into the long explanation of the past that wants to escape my lips, I take a big swig of coffee.
“So-o-o,” Allie says. “How has everything else been going?”
I pull off a fluffy piece of sugarcoated beignet and savor the rare indulgence. “Good.”
Riley taps a plastic knife on the edge of her plate. “How are they doing onstage?”
“Great. Awesome. I’m more impressed each time.”
Allie uses her stirrer to spear a chunk of cala swathed in jam from Riley’s plate. “Was the radio-sponsored meet and greet in Austin a madhouse?”
“Yeah, pretty much, and I think they gained quite a few fans,” I say, waiting for questions about groupies chasing after their boyfriends. Yet after several more inquiries that relate only to the tour, I realize these two aren’t going to ask. Maybe Riley and Allie, who are both beautiful and incredibly down-to-earth, trust their men. From what I’ve seen, they should. Neither Justin nor Romeo seems interested in any of the women constantly hanging around backstage.
After explaining the past ten days in detail while nibbling on my beignet, I absently ask, “Where are the guys?”