“Obviously,” he says sarcastically.
“Back to being a jerk?” I ask, sliding the lime around the edge of my glass.
“Back to screwing me and running to your boyfriend right after?”
I resist throwing Diet Coke in his pretty face. By sheer, momentous will. “That’s low, even for you.”
“It’s the truth,” he says.
“If I’m such a coldhearted bitch, why are you giving me time?” I grumble.
Shrugging, he turns to stare at the shelves of liquor again. “Well, you’re only a coldhearted bitch to me. And only sometimes. Like after we have sex. Otherwise, you’re usually sweet and caring and giving. Beyond that, you’re extremely brilliant at what you do—several of your photos and blog posts have blown me away—and you’re hotter than hell, especially in those cowboy boots and shorts. Fuck,” he says, running a hand down his face. “I’ve imagined peeling those shorts from you inch by inch a million times.”
He takes another long swig. I stare at his chiseled profile, my mouth frozen open. I would have never guessed he paid attention to the blog or the photos on it. And the image of him peeling off my shorts slowly? Yeah, unfortunately, just the thought is getting me hot.
He sets the beer down and turns to me. “Maybe I’m waiting to see the real you, because I truly like the person you are most of the time. I’ve always felt a connection to her. From the start.”
My mouth is seriously stuck open, like in a permanent O. He has put himself out there, maybe not as eloquently as the romantic in me would like, yet he has stated his feelings. Clearly.
He lifts my chin and his touch sends stupid tingles through my body. His gaze radiates a sadness that hits me harder than his words. “But, then, maybe you don’t like me.”
“I like you,” I say in a stunned whisper as he lowers his hand.
He raises an eyebrow.
Biting my lip, I try to collect my confused thoughts. “It’s just . . . There is so much that’s complicated about our past. And you’re kind of a jerk to me sometimes too, but—”
“You two coming to dinner?” Justin asks, popping his head in between us.
Justin’s appearance axes whatever confused crap was going to come out of my mouth next.
With his hands flat on the bar and his elbows up, Sam pushes his stool back. “As long as Romeo’s paying, I’m in.”
Romeo is actually not paying with his own money. He is using band funds for this dinner, but yeah, after five days on the bus, everyone needs some kind of bonus, even Romeo. Too bad Sam has me so confused all over again that the prospect of a nice dinner doesn’t hold the excitement it might have earlier, when I was watching my third hour of bad reality television.
Justin looks to me.
“Yeah, I’m coming too,” I say, scooting off my stool and refusing to meet Sam’s stare.
The hotel has several restaurants. No surprise that after being inside a bus for so long, instead of choosing the most expensive and fanciest, we all wanted to eat in the inner courtyard since it’s outdoors and more casual.
Justin leads the way past the elevator, then down a few steps to French doors that open onto a flagstone patio. Linen-covered tables are situated among small trees and overflowing flowerpots. Justin takes us to a partially hidden table on the far side from the entrance. Romeo and Gabe are already seated and looking at menus. Once Justin sits, I pick the spot in between him and Gabe. Unfortunately, Sam is across from me.
I order another Diet Coke. Romeo orders a bottle of champagne, I’m guessing to celebrate the near end of the tour—there’s only a little over a week left for the tour. While we order dinner, I fidget whenever Sam’s questioning gaze falls on me. The others don’t notice as they obsessively talk about winding up the tour.
Once the bubbly is poured, Romeo raises his fluted glass. The rest of us follow his lead.
Romeo taps the edge of his flute with a knife. “Though just a group of college kids, beyond landing this tour, we’ve kicked ass.”
“Fuck yeah,” Gabe says.
Justin grins.
Sam stares at me.
“And now,” Romeo says, lifting his flute higher and then looking at each of his bandmates individually. “We have two labels offering a contract.”
I almost drop my flute at the news.
“Holy shit,” Justin says, slowly lowering his flute. “Are you kidding?”
Romeo takes a gulp of champagne, then grins slyly. “Nope.”
Gabe whistles lowly. “That is fucking awesome.”
Sam is now staring at Romeo too. “When?” he asks. “When did they offer?”
“Today,” Romeo says. “We got the first offer around three. The second one followed shortly after.”
“That is fucking awesome,” Gabe repeats.
That they now have offers from two labels is beyond awesome. It’s mind-blowing. My eyes must be as wide as saucers as I slowly realize the possible implications: money, fame, travel, and an even longer string of available women.
Justin leans forward. “So what are the offers?”
Romeo shakes his head. “Both are vague right now. I’m not sure which is better. We’ll have a meeting in my room tomorrow morning and get into logistics.”
“Are we going to sign?” Gabe asks.
Romeo nods. “With two offers to choose from, I would hope so.”
Sam raises his flute again. “To Luminescent Juliet,” he says before downing the champagne.
We all lift our flutes and drink too.
Shocked conversation continues around the table, even after the waiter brings our dinners and another bottle of champagne. They joke about shooting a real video, maybe eventually having their own tour, and going to the Grammys. Though they’re laughing, all of it seems possible, suddenly. Lucky for me, the news and the subsequent conversations deflect Sam’s attention from me.
Listening to the guys’ excitement, I eat my risotto and sip champagne, truly hoping that all their jokes become reality.
After dinner, they want to continue the celebration a few blocks away at a local bar where Brookfield is playing a short acoustic set. Justin asks me to go, then Gabe. I decline. Twice. Sam gives me a level, knowing look each time, and while he is part of the reason I decline, I’m also very tired. My confusion over him adds to my exhaustion.
So when the guys go out, I head upstairs.
I call Jill and we talk awhile. She’s been supportive about my breakup with Bryce, which is not surprising. She doesn’t hate him or anything, just thinks he is too boring for me. I haven’t said anything to her about Sam. I don’t know how to explain the mess. I also don’t tell her about Luminescent Juliet possibly signing with a label. I’m more than aware Romeo will want to keep the news under wraps. And though I love Jill like a sister, the girl has one big mouth.
After we hang up, I go out on the balcony and watch the lights from the boats along the dark Ohio River. The conversation with Sam at the bar plays over and over in my head. Though it’s hard for me to believe—after everything we’ve been through—I accept that Sam has feelings for me too. His feelings aren’t a guarantee that things won’t turn to shit, but it’s nice to know that what we’ve got going is not just about couch sex for him either.
My fingers absently drum on the rail.
And maybe I drank too much champagne.
My fingers stop their drumming to grip the rail.
No, I’m finally thinking clearly. Staring at the slow-moving boat lights, I realize how silly and cowardly I’m being. The thought of Sam warms me up from my toes to the hair on my head. I don’t want to feel this way about him. I just do. And I can’t seem to stop. To ignore our connection because I’m afraid of getting hurt seems beyond cowardly. It seems stupid.