Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)

“That night you had two, remember? After we went to see Jumanji? You made me promise to never let you drink that many again.”

“That’s true,” Chloe chimes in. “I pinky-swore to hold you back.”

“Ladies,” he says with a sigh as he shakes his head, “I’m a lost cause. I had a half dozen with Campbell the other week. You can’t save me. Save yourselves.”

“Can I have another, then?” Chloe chimes in sweetly.

“Because Miller is a piggy?” I ask.

Chloe laughs. “Seems fair.”

“Yes,” I say, giving her permission.

Soon, he returns with the drinks, adding a dollop above his lips.

Grabbing her camera, Chloe snaps a picture of him. Then she takes one of me when Miller swipes some whipped cream under my nose. I laugh, then wipe it off as Chloe gives him the same tour of her pictures she gave me. He pays rapt attention, asks questions, and shares his thoughts.

And the whole time, I’m thinking about licking that dollop of whipped cream off his lips.



*

Later, after Chloe goes to bed, Miller and I spit-shine and polish our song at my kitchen counter while I start on a new hat with a pink skull-and-crossbones design for Sam.

“Are you ready to record tomorrow?”

“I am,” I say, and that’s the understatement of the year.

“Will you be wearing your wig?”

“I should, right?”

“If it’s part of your persona, yeah. Are you going to keep up the whole Honey Lavender style?”

As my needles click, I swallow and ask nervously, “Do you like it?”

He looks me over and licks his lips. “Hell, yeah.”

I want to ditch the yarn, yank on the wig, and model it for him, then ask in a sexy, sultry tone if I turn him on.

But I can’t give voice to those feelings, nor can I give in to them. I’m doing this with Miller for the chance to make a little extra to support Chloe and me. I’m not doing this to scratch an itch for thirty days.

Sex itches can be scratched with battery-operated friends.

I’ll do what any brave heroine faced with a challenging task would do—badass her way through it with a sword, never giving in, never surrendering.

Before he leaves, we play a quick game of Bananagrams, unleashing our inner twelve-year-olds when he plays titular and I build dongle off his L. We decide that those two words are so quintessentially dirty-but-not that we might as well make the game a tie.

“I wish you a titular goodnight,” he says with a wink as he heads to the door.

“May you have a wonderful dongle,” I say, but I can’t stop laughing, and I’m glad Bananagrams has rerouted my racing hormones.

Once he’s gone, though, the silliness stops, and so does my laughter.

Instead, all night long I fight off images of him. His hazel eyes flickering with desire. His strong body, moving over me. His lips brushing mine.

The next day, those images intensify, so I take out my imaginary sword of resolve and slash them to tattered bits.

I head to the recording studio, prepared to do battle with my newfound and most inconvenient lust.





Chapter 15





Miller



As I sing to Ally, I tell myself I could just as well be singing with Campbell or Miles. “Maybe, if you come back to me . . .”

But hell, I wouldn’t sing those words to my brothers. We’d sing them together to an audience of faceless thousands.

Only, Ally is my audience, and I’m hers, and I should not be thinking of what my audience would look like in my bed.

Stunning, and hovering on the edge of pleasure.

I part my lips to sing the next line. “Maybe if you come hard with me.”

I groan in frustration as I botch the line of a song I wrote a few months ago and tweaked on my piano the other day for the two of us. My hormones are having a fucking field day. Little evil imps.

Ally stops, gesturing take five to the engineer in the sound booth.

She closes the distance. “You’re stiff.”

Stiff. She doesn’t know the half of it. Iron spikes have nothing on me. Because Honey Lavender is in the house, singing, dancing, shimmying, and raising my flagpole.

“You need to let go,” she tells me, smoothing her hands over my shoulders, and even that’s arousing.

Everything is with her today.

She’s like a sultry torch singer. She might as well don a red satin dress and slink her way across a baby grand piano, singing Billie Holiday’s “These Foolish Things.”

And I’d be that guy in the smoky, dimly lit jazz club, wearing a dapper suit, unable to take my eyes off her as she seduces me with bedroom eyes and her bourbon voice.

Only, I can’t be that guy. I can’t let my best friend turn me into a full-blown horndog.

So instead, I’m a robot today.

Clunky and awkward and banging into everything.

I never ever had these problems when I sang with my brothers.

Obviously.

“I’m all good,” I say, like I’m one cool cat. I roll my shoulders as if all I need is to slough off the day’s worries.

“You’ve been tense all morning.”

Singing with her is the cruelest torture, and it’s killing me not to grab her and yank her against me during every verse.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night,” I lie. I slept like a baby. I had a jerk followed by eight full hours, just like the doctor ordered.

She tugs my hand, pulls me through the booth and out into the hall. Weirdly, it’s more private here.

“Miller, you know what made us click the other day?”

I shrug, shoving a hand through my hair in frustration.

“You said it yourself. It was chemistry.”

“Right. Sure. We sounded good together.”

“And we looked good together,” she says. “Don’t forget that. We had that je ne sais quoi.”

“Fine. We had some je ne sais quoi. Where did it go?” I pretend to look around. “Is it down there?” I point to the end of the hall. “Is it hiding under the carpet?”

She sets her hand on my heart, and my breath hitches. “It’s here. It’s us. It’s our friendship.”

“It is?”

She nods, certainty in her eyes. “Yes. It gives us a freedom to be physical with each other. A hand on an arm, a naughty look.”

That’s from friendship? I thought it was from this bizarre new desire to fuck her, which I NEED TO IGNORE TILL THE END OF TIME.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Because we know each other. Because we trust each other. We’re like . . .” She stares at the ceiling as if hunting for the right analogy. “Like dance partners. Don’t be afraid to dip me, or spin me, or bend me.”

I let out a tight breath, and the tension starts to fade. She’s telling me to be physical. She’s telling me to give in. For the sake of the music. “You’re saying we should be a little flirty?”

“Yes. I won’t bite.” She shimmies her hips like she’s loosening up for an exercise class. “Let’s have fun. Let’s play with the words, let’s get in character.”

“You want me to pretend I want to get it on with my singing partner?”

She lifts an eyebrow playfully. “Kind of? We had a sort of sexy energy the other day. Let’s try to recreate it.”

She jerks her chin toward the studio door, the twinkle in her blue eyes saying, C’mon, partner.

“Let’s do it,” I say confidently.

She pushes on the door and heads back inside, her tight ass looking edible in those painted-on jeans. And hey, she’s giving me permission to think of her this way. I return to the studio, letting my dirty thoughts come out to play.



*

She’s inches away and her voice is thrumming through me, her energy filling my motherfucking head with thoughts, with wishes. I pour them right back into the lyrics, letting my newfound desire fuel my performance.

“Maybe, if you come back to me . . . Maybe if there was a way,” I sing to her.

“Maybe if there was a way . . . you’d be mine,” she belts out in that throaty, sexy new voice of hers.

“Tell me again,” I croon.

“You’d be mine,” she sings right back to me, flashing the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. It turns me on wildly.

I let it turn me on.

She gives a little nibble on the corner of her lips, a shake of her hips.