“Let’s see . . . you work for me, you’ve signed an NDA, and yet you and Robert still chat about everything.”
“That’s different.”
“Not the way I see it.”
“Will you stop being so damn difficult?” I throw my hands up. “I’m nowhere near happy with this arrangement either. I had plans. I had—”
“Plans? What were you planning on doing? Knitting a sweater in between appearances?” He stands to full height and in this moment I hate everything about him. The fact that I’m here. The way he looks in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the cuffs. The danger warring in his eyes.
“Knitting a sweater?”
“You’re so uptight, I figure you have to do something to unwind.”
“Uptight?” I laugh, but then it slowly fades off as my synapses fire and the bed behind him comes into clear focus. “That’s what this is all about?” I screech and throw my hands up in the air. “I should’ve known. You’re pissed because with me here—and with one bed—you won’t be able to sleep your way through every city.”
His chuckle doesn’t hold an ounce of humor. “Sure. Yes. That’s exactly what this is about.”
“Great. I’ll steer clear of you so you can do whatever it is you do.”
“Make sure you do that.”
“I will—”
The clomping of feet up the steps of the tour bus stops me from finishing my comment.
“Are we ready to hit the road?”
I turn to see the owner of the soft southern drawl. He’s short and wide and has a white beard that could rival Santa Claus. His smile is broad and his hand holds a steaming cup of coffee.
“You must be Mick?” I say as I step forward and shake his free hand.
“And you must be Harlow. So nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say.
“Mate.” Zane greets him from behind me with a slight nod of his head.
Mick smiles at him and then looks back at me. “I loaded the cupboards with food and put all of your belongings away as well. The gas tank is full and I’m caffeinated. Are you two ready to hit the road and head to Arizona?”
We both murmur some form of consent as Mick ambles toward the driver’s seat, his humming and jovial spirit nowhere near a reflection of the midnight hour reflected on the clock. Within moments, the engine rumbles to life, the bus vibrating from its force.
I stand there for a few moments. Watching Mick go through some kind of mental checklist of things he needs to do on the dashboard calms me down some.
Zane is still a jerk, but we’re stuck together. It’s going to be a long eight weeks walking on egg shells but I can do it for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Forcing myself to let it go for the time being, I walk into the bedroom without acknowledging Zane at all. He’s sitting at the desk with the blue glow of the laptop creating a halo around his head. I start opening and shutting the drawers of the mini-dressers to try and find my pajamas. It takes me a second but I find them and then head to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
I take my time removing my make-up, washing my face, and changing into my pajamas to the slow rocking of the bus as it makes its way down the highway. When I emerge from the bathroom, Zane is standing there, midway through pulling his arms out of his dress shirt.
We both freeze. Our eyes meet. His stutter over me temporarily before they regain their customary guarded edge. Frozen in indecision, our eyes hold as he removes his shirt and lays it on the bed. There’s a ghost of a smirk.
“You dropped something.” He says the words without any emotion and then tosses something to me that was sitting on the bed.
In reflex, I try to catch whatever it is and in the process drop everything in my hands—dirty clothes, shoes, cell phone—including the box he threw. When I bend over to see what it is, every single part of me flushes a deep red.
And I want to kill my mother when I stare at the ‘Trojans’ label on the box of condoms looking back up at me.
Flustered and more than embarrassed, I gather everything on the floor in a frenzy and try to bury the box of condoms in the mess of clothes. When I stand up, Zane has moved in front of me, bare chested with abs and tan skin and biceps on display, and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Here I was thinking your big plans between shows was knitting sweaters . . . guess you never really know someone until you live with them.”
“It’s not what—that’s not what—they’re my mom’s.”
Oh. My. God. Did I really just say that?
Zane’s laugh rumbling around the small space tells me that in fact, I just did. I lower my eyes and look back at the pile of clothes—and condoms—and get a grip on my mortification.
Like it could get any worse . . .
“Missing something?” A lift of his eyebrows. A taunt in his smile.
I snap my head up to find that bare chest eye-level, way too close, and the black, lacey thong I’d taken off in the bathroom, currently hanging from the tip of his index finger.