Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)

We skedaddle from the diner, heading for the studio.

When we arrive, the receptionist smiles at me with her wide eyes. “Mr. Hart, there’s a delivery for you.”

She hands me two cups from Dr. Insomnia’s. One is marked C and one is marked M. I lift the plastic top on M and my mouth waters when I see hot chocolate, topped with extra whipped cream. There’s a note on the cup too.

From A . . . No dongles were harmed in the making of these titular beverages.

I laugh, my heart flipping around in my chest as I take a drink, then once more as I hand the coffee to my brother, loving that she sent a drink for him.

He takes a sip then lets out a low whistle as we walk down the hall. “You have it bad, Miller.”

I consider denying it, but what’s the point? I kind of do, and that’s both awesome and awful at the same time. I shrug, take another hearty gulp, and say hi to Jackson, who’s waiting in the studio.

Then we get to work on making music.

Music is where I don’t have to think, don’t have to figure out too-complicated-even-for-the-SAT problems. Music comes naturally to me, and it fulfills me in a way nothing else can or will.

I show my brother the music and the lyrics for “Coming Together,” and it takes him all of a minute to get a feel for the song. Campbell grabs a guitar that’s resting against the wall, slings it on, and strums the first few notes.

I sing, and something is just easy about playing with him. Even though I wrote the song to sing with Ally, even though it doesn’t suit two male voices, I still feel the rush I experienced when I was ten and we formed our first band in the treehouse in our backyard.

Campbell smiles too, nodding his head as we make melodies, and it’s better than instinct. It’s a beautiful summer breeze.

It’s only when I look up later in the session that I see we have an audience. Ally, Kristy, Jackson, and the receptionist are watching us from the other side of the glass, clapping and cheering.

“Oh, stop,” Campbell says into the mic, but his smile says keep it up.

“It’s not often we get to see the Heartbreakers jamming,” Ally says from the other side.

“It’s not often it happens.” I used to try valiantly to get him to start up again with me, but he’s always said no. I’ve accepted that Campbell doesn’t want to play again in the band. But a song or two now and then seems to suit him.

“Want to play it again?” he asks.

“Hell, yeah.”

When we jam through it one more time, Jackson’s camera on us, Ally’s eyes watching thoughtfully, I savor every second, content to enjoy each moment and make the most of it.

After Campbell says goodbye, Ally joins me in the studio. “You know it’ll never sound the same with me as it does with him,” she warns me.

“It’s not supposed to sound the same. It’s supposed to have our mark on it,” I whisper in her ear.

She trembles, and I take that as my cue to tell her something else. “This is going to be the hardest rehearsal of my life, because I can’t wait to get out of here.”

When she smiles at me, I know.

I fucking know.

I’ve fallen for my best friend.

Too bad I have no clue how to get off the desert island with our friendship intact.





Chapter 26





Miller



It’s not just the hot chocolate. Or the fact that she leaves Bananagrams out on the coffee table and gives me a cute, flirty look, like we’re really going to play it tonight.

It’s not even the new bottle of wine she left on the kitchen counter.

It’s the menu she made.

Once we step inside her home that evening, she hands it to me—a sheet of white paper, folded over. The front of the menu reads: Tonight’s specials.

I arch a brow as I open it then peruse the offerings.



Ally with ribbon Ally undressed Ally bent over the couch Ally naked and under you in bed Also, wine, Bananagrams, hot chocolate, Skittles, and more treats are available à la mode, as are crazy conversations; ab explorations; long, lingering kisses along your jawline; nibbles on your earlobe because that drives you crazy; and any combination of blow job, hand job, 69, or anything else upon request.

By the way, I recommend starting with an appetizer of hot, wet kisses.





I close the menu. “Get over here.”

She comes up to me, and I cup her cheeks, stare into her sapphire-blue eyes, and brush my thumb along her jawline.

“I’ll start with one order of hot, wet kisses.”

“Coming right up.”

I twist my fingers in her hair as our mouths collide, and she gives me the most delicious serving of my life. Our tongues skate together, and our lips seem to know precisely what the other wants. It’s a dizzying kiss, filling my brain with a static haze.

With my hands still in her hair, I walk backward with her to the bedroom. That’s where I want her, her breath coming fast, her skin flushed.

I disengage from her mouth when we reach the pristinely made bed. The red polka-dot ribbon I gave her snakes its way down the white comforter like an invitation. I grin wickedly as I flop down on the mattress, pulling her on top of me. Cupping her ass, I grind her against my hard-on. “Did you like being tied up yesterday?”

She nods, her eyes shining with desire. “So much.”

“Why?”

She wriggles against me as I kiss the curve of her neck. “I like the way you make me feel when you tie me up. I like giving you control.”

I groan and yank her closer, curling a hand around the back of her head because I can’t stop kissing her. First, the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, and at last I travel to her ear, nibbling on her earlobe.

She murmurs as I go, her voice as soft as a feather. “But why are you so intent on tying me up?”

That’s a damn good question. I lick the shell of her ear as I contemplate the answer. Why do I want that so badly?

Because I want her . . . I want her all to myself, and probably some caveman part of me wants to make her mine. Because I feel so fucking much for her that sometimes tying her up is the only way to contain those feelings.

I flip her over and proceed to strip her, unzipping her jeans. “Because you’re so fucking beautiful when you let me do what I want to you,” I say, telling her a half-truth.

“Do what you want to me,” she whispers, and I nearly die of lust. Combust from it.

Tension rattles through me, hot and urgent. I want Ally to know when I touch her, when I kiss her, that I’m not like anyone else who’s come before.

I’m the kind of guy who’ll stay.

For her.

For her kid.

Only she’s not ready to hear that, so I’ll let my hands and mouth and desire do the talking.

We undress in a flurry, sweaters, shirts, jeans flying off. But when she’s down to her bra and panties, I slow my pace, stopping to admire her. I drag the tips of my fingers from her breasts down her soft belly, savoring the sight of her pink panties and matching pink bra.

“My Honey Lavender likes pink.” I nip her hipbone.

“I do, but I also like wearing nothing with you.”

I groan as a bolt of lust slams into me. She sits up, reaches for my hips, and slides down my briefs.

Another carnal moan escapes my throat as she wraps a fist around my length. This woman. Her hand. Her eager touch. I could have her every day and be happy.

I close my eyes and rock into her hand as she strokes my cock. She has a firm, tight grip as she moves her palm from tip to base. Yes, I could definitely be happy for all my life. I let my imagination wander—nights like this, days with her.

When she whispers my name, my eyes float open slowly. “Yeah?”

“I’m clean and on the pill. Can we go without a condom?”

My dick twitches, throbbing impossibly harder in her hands. “Same. I’m clean.”

She loops her hands around my shoulders and falls back on the bed, bringing me with her. I roam my gaze along her lovely frame, then my hands catalog her beauty. Rose-tipped nipples, a freckle on her belly, a scar from her appendectomy when she was ten, and the softest skin I’ve ever felt. When I spread her thighs open, lust charges through me as I see how wet she is.