Something flashes in her eyes. It’s so brief that I can’t read it, but it’s followed by a stiffening of her spine. God, her fire is a turn-on, even now. “Why did you leave your best friends behind—leave a good fucking thing—and go out on your own? Huh? What happened with Hawke and the guys? With Bent? Did your ego get too big that you thought you didn’t need them anymore?”
“Tou-fucking-ché.” Got to admire a woman who knows how to hit where it hurts. And that fucking hurt.
Seems like life has given Bristol Matthews a stronger backbone.
“And while we’re at it, stick to what you do best. Domino was decent,” she says, referring to my last single that flopped, “but it wasn’t you. There was no edge to it. No trademark Vincent Jennings sound. It was soft. Generic. More like white noise that blended into the background.”
“For someone who hasn’t thought about me at all, you sure have a lot to say.” She’s on point about the song. I hate it, but she’s right. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.
“Call it professional research.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t know I signed with McMann until tonight and yet you claim knowing my songs is research. Pretend all you want, but you still think of me. You still follow me.”
“And your ego is still as big as Texas.”
Among other things.
“So you don’t want to talk about our past. You don’t want to talk about what you’re up to now.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. “It’s going to be a pretty boring conversation standing here, staring at each other, and not speaking at all.”
“Then we should get back to work.”
My chuckle is laced with confusion as the thought strikes me. “Is it because of last time?”
“Is what because of last time?” Arms still crossed. Finger still hidden. Head angled to the side.
“Why you’re angry at me? Do you have regrets?” And why would it kill me if she says yes? “That’s a long time to harbor something if so.”
“It is a long time. That’s why I had to accept what happened and move on with my life.”
“That’s a pretty clinical description for something we both went into willingly.” It wasn’t a business transaction for Christ’s sake.
“You know . . .” She swallows forcibly and shakes her head ever so subtly. She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it just as quickly. I swear there are tears in her eyes, but she looks down so I can’t be sure. The problem is that when she looks back up, the emotion is gone. All emotion is. Bristol has put her guard up in a way I’ve never seen before. “Nothing. Never mind. As much as you think we need to talk about the past, we really don’t. We’ve both moved on, and that’s okay. We both have a job to do here, so let’s just get back to that and let bygones be bygones. Okay? You have people waiting for you, and I have a job to do so I don’t get fired.”
“Go out for a drink with me. After we’re done. We can talk about whatever it is you want to talk about. How much my music sucks. If you still love watching baseball. The fucking weather, for all I care.”
She waves me back toward the door. No fucking ring. At least there’s that.
But was there one? Is that why she’s so guarded? Was she married? Divorced? Was she hurt?
Did he hurt her?
“It’s probably better if we don’t. Blurring lines and all.”
I itch to grab her arm and pull her against me. I spent years wanting this woman only to have one night with her.
Clearly that one night wasn’t enough. Fuck.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she says and moves toward the door, but my hand is on her arm this time.
Look at me.
And when she does, it’s still there. I’m not imagining it. That thing that’s always been between us is still fucking there.
Why do I suddenly feel the need to make her see it?
“You know . . .” I say playfully. “I require a lot of maintenance. Me and my ego? We’re demanding. Petty. Have a lot of fucking needs.” I shrug. “McMann said anything I needed, you’d provide. My bet’s on you doing your job to the best of your abilities.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I lift my wrist and show her the light pink heart tattooed there. The one that’s proof of a dare I made. One we had a whole discussion about the last time I saw her so she knows the meaning behind it. “Actually, you know I would.”
“Quit being selfish. People are waiting to finish and go home,” she says and then stalks past me. I know she tries to slam the door, but the shock on its hinge prevents her from doing so.
I chuckle.
Nothing like being denied a good slam.
Shit. I scrub a hand through my hair and stare at the door she just went through. The one I should also enter because she’s right, everyone in there is waiting on me.
I walked away from her a long time ago without looking back.
I’ve seen her one time since then, and that one time is cemented in my memory forever.
So why is seeing her again—when I’ve gone on and lived my life—causing such confusion?
Because your life’s in limbo, Jennings, and she was the only real thing you ever knew.
Fuckin’ A, man.
If I’d known that Bristol worked for McMann Media, I may not have said yes to their offer.
Who am I fucking kidding? That would have made me sign even quicker.
Yeah, I’m the one who walked away again last time. Who blocked her number from my cell all those years ago. But life is too fucking real right now, and losing myself in her for a while seems like it could be a good fucking distraction.
“I can’t do a repeat of seven years ago where you play with me while you’re in town and then return back to your glamorous life without ever looking back.”
She’s right.
I know she’s right.
But it doesn’t make me want her any goddamn less.
You signed on the dotted line, Vin. You have a job to do. A job you’re clearly struggling to get through, and it’s only day fucking one.
Do the job.
Do the one thing you’ve never been able to do when it comes to her—keep your hands to yourself.
Try to forget just how hard Bristol Matthews is to quit.
With a sigh I feel deep in my bones, I open the door with a determination to remember those three things and resignation that I’m probably going to fail at least two of them.
CHAPTER SIX
Bristol
“Momma?”
Jagger stirs beneath the covers as I slide in beside him and pull him against me. He snuggles into me, his face beneath the curve of my neck like he’s done since he was a newborn, his hand resting on my heart, and his feet gently rubbing against mine like a cricket.
“I’m here, buddy,” I murmur before pressing a kiss to the top of his head and simply breathing him in. Strawberry shampoo and everything that is my little boy weaves into my soul, and I sigh.
His dark hair and light eyes. His olive complexion. His mischievous smile and belly giggles.
As I stood in the doorway watching him sleep, my heart felt like a balloon in my chest, expanding with more love for this perfect little human I created. That I’ve raised. And all of my mistakes—the ones that have robbed him of things every little boy deserves—made that balloon feel like it was going to burst.
I needed to hold him. To touch him. To pull him in tight. To try and erase the torrent of emotions coming at me one after another.
“I don’t feel yucky anymore,” he slurs in his sleep-drugged state. It feels like days since he threw up on my shoes and it was less than twenty-four hours ago.
“That’s good.” I lean back, brush his hair off his forehead, and can’t help but smile. His dark lashes and rosy cheeks get me every time.
“School?”
“Uh-uh. Not yet. Go back to sleep.” I hold him a little tighter and lightly stroke his back to help him get there. He has a few hours left before we start the morning routine. A routine that will be much easier no doubt since my mom, who is currently asleep on the couch, will be there to help with.
“You’re in my bed.”
“I just missed you is all.”
“Missed you too,” he says seconds before his breathing evens out again.
Sleep. That’s what I should be doing. That’s what I want to do considering I’ve been running on fumes and caffeine for the past few hours.