Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)

“He didn’t want to watch you and Cavanaugh, so he bolted.”

Despite my annoyance, I was grateful for his departure. I would tell Monica about the blackmail issue after the meeting on Monday; I didn’t need her all freaked out during our meeting with Tristan MacMillian and William Holder. I was more determined than before to make this collaboration between our organizations work; a thousand lifetimes upped the ante, after all.

We walked inside to catch the end of Bo’s set. He was singing something that must have been his, because I didn’t recognize it from anywhere. We only caught the last line that he husked in a sultry voice to the microphone, “…green eyes to blue

and an I love you . . .”



Josh threw his arm around me in a playful squeeze.

“That boy has it bad, Em.” Relaxed and fun Josh was back.

“What are you talking about, that’s not about me - is it?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. “When did he have time to write that?”

“Musicians, write all the time in their head. Everything you’ve ever said or done in front of him is catalogued for future use.” Josh was serious; he knew music and their musicians.

Bo thanked the crowd and left the stage with his guitar still slung over his shoulder. Seriously, could he get any hotter? As he got closer, his post-set grin turned to a passionate stare. The urgency in his unexpected kiss took the strength out my legs. As much as I wanted to leave for Concord with him tomorrow, I knew that would mean that the last week was coming to an end.

“Bo,” I gasped as I pulled his waist closer to mine, tilting my head back, “take me home.” Now was not the time for questioning.





Chapter Eighteen

Darkness enveloped me as hollow footsteps threatened from behind. I ran faster. Even though I knew I was dreaming, it felt so real. Sounds of muted pain echoed in my ears as I screamed for help. In the distance I heard him call, “Are you OK?”

“Ember? Hey, Ember, wake up!” Bo’s voice rang with panic.

I sat up in a flash, breathing heavily, looking around. It was just a dream. Embarrassed, my cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” I tried to regulate my breath, “bad dream.” Bo pulled me into his chest and kissed the top of my head as I struggled to pull myself back to reality.

“Hey, don’t be sorry. I had vivid night terrors the year after my parents died.” He squeezed me tighter, “What was it about?”

“Just . . . being chased.” I shrugged as the nightmare slipped away.

“Well, good thing you run.” He playfully rolled me over and swatted my butt, eliciting a horrifically girlish giggle from my throat.

“Can we go to Concord yet? Do you have to check out of your hotel?” I smirked as I stepped out of bed.

“We can leave whenever, I checked out last night.” He winked as he rose to meet me at my bedroom door.

“Overconfident much?” I playfully punched him in the stomach as he slid past me and headed for the bathroom I stared at the closed bathroom door, remembering last night. All the anxiety and stress from our morning dealing with Josh, to the revelation of Bo’s blackmailing, slipped away as soon as we left Finnegan’s.

When we returned to my apartment, I got in the shower. Having heard a small knock on the door, I poked my head out from behind the curtain; Bo stood before me in naked splendor. Wordlessly, I let him in. We spent several minutes soaping each other, washing the heavy off our shoulders and down our backs. He lifted me against the shower wall and kissed me without mercy or pause. He carried me to the bedroom before we collapsed breathlessly in each other’s arms. Passion toweled us dry against my sheets until dawn. Yes, last night was a home run.

“Yo, Dream Girl, you OK?” Bo was suddenly in front of me, snapping me out of my memory of last night.

“Are you picking on me for having a nightmare?” My brow furrowed.

“Jesus, no, sorry,” he chuckled, “you’re just…never mind.” He smiled as he lifted me and spun me around. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he breathed into my ear.

*

I called Monica before Bo and I left. I told her I talked to Josh last night, and encouraged her to spend the weekend really talking with him and working it out-they were so good together I couldn’t bear the disaster that would follow a full break up.

As we headed off the Cape, I thumbed through Bo’s CDs and his iPod.

“Indigo Girls, Alanis, The Wailin’ Jennys . . . are you sure there’s not a vagina hiding in this car somewhere?” I teased as I looked back and mockingly searched.

Bo chuckled, “I like good music, and that is good music; there are some balls in there - keep looking.” He grinned as he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips.

After a few minutes of Mumford and Sons, I took a breath and forged ahead with the question I rehearsed in my head all night and this morning.

“What’s the blackmail about?” I turned to face him.

Bo swallowed hard and released my hand, placing his back on the steering wheel.

“I’m not really supposed to-”

“Fuck Adrian Turner.” I cut him off.