Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters #2)

“It’s probably not a very professional question, but I find myself”—he blew out a puff of breath—“extremely curious to know if your relationship with the fisherman is serious. Are you two doing the long-distance thing or . . . will you be available to see other people when we’re back in LA and not so . . . distracted?”

Was her relationship with Fox serious?

That was a really good question. Hannah guessed neither of them would know which answer to give. Yes or no. And yet all signs pointed to yes. They’d kept up a ritual of texting each other every night for seven months. They knew each other’s deepest insecurities. They’d slept in each other’s arms, and hey, they talked freely about masturbation. So there was that.

When she thought about Sergei, her brain made muffled beep-boop sounds. She liked his drive and his creativity and vision. His turtlenecks flattered his slim physique. They would have mutual interests if they ever really engaged in a personal discussion. Fine. It would be just . . . fine.

But when she thought about Fox, her stomach turned into a bouncy ball. So many emotions rolling around at once—longing, protectiveness, confusion, lust—and on top of those humdingers, she was infinitely more excited to see him at home tonight than go on a date with Sergei upon returning to LA.

It was entirely possible her interest in the director had started fading around seven months ago, when a certain Fleetwood Mac album showed up on the doorstep, and now it was completely null and void.

Still, as far as an answer to the question, was her relationship with Fox serious? She didn’t know.

But she found herself taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes, it’s serious.”

And somehow, saying it out loud felt entirely right.

*

Later that afternoon, Hannah walked slowly to Fox’s apartment.

She’d rushed back to Disc N Dat after filming to impress upon Shauna the urgency of getting in touch with the Unreliables and stood there while her friend placed the call. She left copies of the shanties for Shauna to pass on, along with the exciting (and hopefully enticing) news that Storm Born would be able to pay the band.

It would be pretty crushing if they didn’t come through, since they had the perfect sound, but worst-case scenario, she’d start hunting down other options bright and early tomorrow morning.

Toward the end of filming, the clouds overhead had darkened, settling a gloomy mood over Westport. Rainstorms always made Hannah want to go crawl into bed with her headphones, but after turning down Sergei—by telling him she was serious about Fox—she needed a minute before coming face-to-face with the fisherman. Would he know just by looking at her that she’d voiced such an impossibility out loud?

But maybe it wasn’t completely impossible.

She couldn’t stop replaying what Shauna told her. She supposed it wasn’t crazy unusual that Fox would stop into Disc N Dat. It was a small town. He’d been the one to introduce Hannah to the shop in the first place.

The fact that he’d been buying records, though . . .

To the casual observer, Fox’s purchases wouldn’t be a big deal. Only he knew what they would mean to Hannah. It made no sense to keep it from her, unless there was some important reason. On set this afternoon, she’d scrolled back through their text messages and found the one that had tickled her memory, made her pulse click in her ears.

F (6:40 PM): Apart from being dark and dramatic . . . what makes a man your type? What is eventually going to make a man The One?

H (6:43 PM): I think . . . if they can find a reason to laugh with me on the worst day.

F (6:44 PM): That sounds like the opposite of your type.

H (6:45 PM): It does, doesn’t it? Must be the wine.

H (6:48 PM): He’ll need to have a cabinet full of records and something to play them on, of course.

F (6:51 PM): Well obviously.



Record collecting wasn’t an interest he’d enjoyed before they met last summer. Him buying albums now was pertinent information. Where was he keeping them? And if he was hiding them from her . . . what else was he hiding?

Either he didn’t want Hannah reading too much into his new collection or there was a lot to read into it and he needed more time before admitting that.

Unless, of course, she was completely nuts and he was just a dude who’d forgotten about buying a few albums. But for a man who never purchased anything for his apartment, wouldn’t they have stood out? Been remarked on by now?

Lube had been a main topic of interest, but not a stack of vinyls?

Let’s say, hypothetically, he’d started collecting records because he had a low-key interest in being Hannah’s type. Never mind that her knees trembled over that possibility. How far did his interest go? She didn’t know. But the same intuition that had led to calling their relationship “serious” was buzzing now. Telling her to wait, to be patient, to stay the course with Fox.

That if he was hiding records, he was hiding a desire to be . . . more.

Despite his assurances of the opposite.

Deep in thought, Hannah carefully wedged the new albums she hadn’t been able to resist under one arm and let herself into the apartment. When she walked inside, she was immediately greeted by the spicy scent of aftershave—and when Fox walked out of his bedroom in dark jeans and a slate-colored button-down, she knew.

He was going on a date.

Hannah’s stomach plummeted to the floor.





Chapter Fifteen



Fox was going to see his mother.

He always found out on short notice when she was working in the vicinity of Westport. If Fox wasn’t on the water, he always jumped, because he never knew when she’d be back again. He’d definitely been a little disappointed when Charlene called to say she’d be in Hoquiam for the night, because going to see his mother meant he wouldn’t be home with Hannah.

Hannah, who had slept in his bed last night, her tight little butt in his lap for a good two hours somewhere in the middle of it all. She’d barely walked out his front door this morning before he rolled onto his back, gripped his cock, and came after six strokes. Six. It usually took him a good five minutes, at least. He’d thought of Hannah during every one of those six strokes. Same way he had every time since last summer. Only now, she wasn’t just the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about. She was the girl who flat-out refused to fuck him.

And goddammit. Now she walked into the apartment, clothes damp and clingy from the rain, and there he went, thinking about being inside her again. Picturing her bowed back, her mouth open on a cry of his name, the slap of flesh on flesh. Stop it, you bastard.

Until recently, Fox had never fantasized about anyone specific while beating off.

A body was just a body.

But in his fantasies with Hannah, their minds were in sync as well as their physical selves. They laughed as often as they moaned. Even thinking of their fingers gripped together, the trust in her eyes, added to the insane pleasure. Imagining himself inside Hannah felt great. Better than great. His orgasms were more satisfying by leaps and bounds.

And that scared the holy shit out of him.

Fox was distracted from his troubling thoughts when Hannah stopped short just inside the door, framed in the lazy rainstorm, her face going from thoughtful to dismayed. Sad, even? “Oh,” she said, giving him a once-over. “Oh.”

He tried valiantly to ignore the pounding in his chest. Jesus, it got louder and harder to manage every time they were in the same room. For the longest time, he’d thought if they just slept together, it would go away. This twisting, hot, melting, spearing sensation she inspired in him with a blink of her eyes. He’d feel shitty afterward for jeopardizing their friendship, but at least it would be over and he could stop obsessing about her so much. Now he was beginning to seriously doubt anything would work.

“Hello to you, too,” he said, voice sounding strained.

“Sorry, I just didn’t expect— I . . .” She dropped the bag she was holding underneath her arm, jolted, then stooped down to pick it up. “You’re going on one.”

Fox frowned. “Going on one what?”

“Going out.” She stood slowly, holding the bag to her chest, eyes big and trained on him. “Going out on a date.”