The way she trailed her fingertip over her collarbone to direct my gaze at her cleavage as if I couldn’t miss it. The way she slid the toe of her high heels up and down the front of my shin beneath the table. The way she downed her drink in one sip and explained that she didn’t have a gag reflex.
That was all I could think of the entire time. This—she—everything about her was too fucking easy. Always saying the right thing. Always perfect in positioning, in the way she pouted her lips, in the suggestion lacing every single innuendo she threw my way.
Not once did she throw her hand to her hip and tell me like it is. Not once did she argue or challenge or call me on the carpet.
Fucking Harlow.
It’s all her fault. This. The tour. Me wanting her. All of it.
And that’s why I’m running right now. Pushing myself through the streets of Austin at a pace I don’t run. Exhausting myself so that when I go back to the tour bus, I don’t do the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about this morning.
Fucking her. Taking her to bed and finishing what that kiss between us started last night.
Because Harlow Nicks spells trouble for me in every sense of the word. She has my every wire crossed. And she’s made me hesitate to step over a line I thought would be a no brainer to cross: sleeping with her.
Women like Simone want one thing: sex, the power that comes with the sex, the visibility for her career that comes with being associated with my name. That’s easy for me. I can give her or anyone that. It’s safe and clear cut and leaves my freedom untouched. And my heart.
No, I prefer a simple case of scratch my itch and I’ll scratch yours back.
Or lick. Licking’s always a good way to return the favor.
But with Harlow, it’s different. She’s not impressed by any of this. She thought the coach was cool—it is pretty fucking sick—but me? She’s not impressed by anything when it comes to me.
That’s different for me. Not the world I know. And fuck if I know what to do with it other than to stay as far as hell away from it.
Because if there’s one thing that guys do better than thumping their chests to win a contest, it’s staying as far away as possible from something that scares them.
And Harlow scares the hell out of me.
My feet falter as I run into the parking lot at the back of the convention center. The coach is there and Harlow’s silhouette is framed in the tinted windows of the kitchen area. She’s standing, bringing a mug of coffee to her lips, her hair piled on top of her head, calling to me just like the sound of her soft snores were this morning.
Welcome to hell, Phillips.
Where the temptation is hot as fuck, the consequences are damning, and the sins are at your fingertips waiting to burn you.
“HOW’S IT GOING, MIJA?”
Hearing my mom’s voice brings a sudden rush of homesickness I didn’t expect and tears burn the back of my eyes despite the smile on my lips. “It’s going. It’s so very different than what I expected and yet at the same time, I feel like it’s what I’m meant to do.”
“I’ve been seeing the advertisements. There was one in People Magazine yesterday.”
“There was?” I ask, feeling stupidly happy about that.
“Yes. It was a great shot of you and Zane. Sexy and stunning and it even had me thinking I might sign up for SoulM8 myself.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? I may be older but I’ve still got parts that work and a prince waiting to fit me with a glass slipper.”
“Mother.” My laugh fills the coach.
“It’s true. There’s no shame in that.” I can hear the crinkle of paper on the other end of the line. Almost as if she’s opening the magazine and looking at the ad again. “It’s a full page ad, too. I showed everyone in line at the supermarket.”
“Oh, god.”
“I did. I also bought every copy they had.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did too. I’m not letting my baby’s big break go by undocumented.”
“I’ve had breaks before.” Let’s hope this time around, the visibility actually pans out and more jobs come in because of it.
“You have. But this time I know it’s going to be the one, Low. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You have to say that,” I say through a chuckle. “You’re my mother.”
“You know me better than that. I tell you truths only. That’s my job.”
“Truths and fairytales,” I say with a laugh.
“You’re never too old for a fairytale, mija.”
“Oh, please.”
She lets off a string of Spanish saying that I’m crazy and it makes me smile. And miss her.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” I say softly.
“Missing me, are you?” she asks in her knowing mother’s tone.
“Yeah. I am. It’s . . .” I look around at what my world now consists of and long to tell her the truth. Confining. Surreal. Confusing. “It’s an experience,” I say.
“Tell me he’s treating you well. That he’s not pressuring you to do things you don’t want to do.”
“No,” I laugh, glossing over the fact that he may not be pressuring me, but temping me is another story. “He’s a gentleman.” Except for when he kisses me senseless one night and then the next few days only grunts words to me unless we’re in promotion mode. “He’s confusing.”
“Men always are, mija.”
“He’s . . .”
“You like him.”