“Come on,” he urges gently, “just this weekend. I’ll have you tucked in by Sunday at midnight.”
“If I go, there will be no tucking in.”
“Uh huh.”
“And this is a really, really bad idea.”
“Senseless and reckless,” he murmurs heatedly, bringing it all back so effortlessly, “so come.”
“If I do come, I will be turning you down gently.”
He replies on exhale. “I have a feeling you’ll try.”
“I’ll succeed, but I’m dying to see you play.”
Victory flits through his eyes. “I’ll give you the best seat in the house, baby.”
“Uh huh, after I travel for hours in a van full of sweaty men.”
“Five hours, six tops, depending on traffic, and I’m so fucking pissed at you right now,” he repeats, his eyes flaring, “so expect a fight.”
Before I can speak up, a horn blares obnoxiously a street over, and Easton chuckles, glancing in that direction before turning back to me. He looks so beautiful. His hair is longer, his skin darker, seeming drenched from the summer sun, which beams down on him as it lowers in the skyline.
“Natalie,” he murmurs, pulling my chin by his fingers back toward him. “I really just want to talk to you, so please don’t force me to play dirty because I have time to kill between gigs, and if you don’t get,” he bites his lip, “your perfect ass in my van, I’m going to bend you over Monday morning and bite it right in front of your daddy. Bet.”
I gape at him. “You did not just threaten me.”
“Yeah, I did, and don’t look at me like that. It’s par for the course, but don’t mistake me. I’m just A-sided enough to make good on mine.”
“This is serious,” I snap.
“You’ve made me painfully aware, Beauty,” he runs his hands down my back and presses his forehead to mine.
“Jesus,” I sigh, sinking into his hold.
“Easton,” he corrects, pointing to himself.
My grin wins again. “Stop being so…”
“Irresistible?”
He grips my face and licks his lips, and I follow the trail of his tongue.
“Easton, please,” I say breathlessly as he flashes a devil’s grin. He closes his eyes briefly before reopening them, the intensity of the man I met still there. Inside them I see nothing but a reflection of my own desire. It’s as if a second hasn’t passed at all, but so much has changed. So much, at least for him.
“You know, Mr. Crowne, months from now—probably a lot less, you’ll be selling out stadiums.”
“We’ve already sold out the Staples Center at the end of August.”
“Oh my God! That’s incredible! I truly am so…so very happy for you.” Sentiment waters my eyes as he stares at me, seeming satisfied by my reaction. “I mean, I knew it was going to happen…and I’m happy to say I told you so, and Easton, the things the critics are saying…it’s…”
His eyes glint as though he’s justified a thought or a notion.
“What?” I prompt. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Well, you seem happy,” I say. The creased line I thought was permanent between his eyes appears to have all but disappeared. He seems more approachable and, altogether…lighter.
“I’ll be a lot happier when you get the hell in the van.”
I shake my head, and he pinches his dark brows. “What?”
“Nothing. I just can’t believe you’re here and that you came all this way for me.”
“Would have come a lot sooner had you answered the fucking phone.”
“East—”
“Like I said, we’ll fight later. Let’s get you packed, okay?”
I bite my lip and find myself nodding. “Okay. But I have conditions.”
“Of course, you do,” his smile stretches his lips as his hands ghost over my skin. He can’t seem to stop touching me. I can’t seem to stop wanting him to any more than I can turn down his invitation.
“Follow me home, and I’ll pack a quick bag.”
“I’ll help,” his gaze dips to my navel.
“I’ll be packing alone.”
His eyes flick up before he grips my neck and crushes our mouths together, his kiss promising and demanding. He ends it just as abruptly.
“You can’t—”
“I just fucking did,” he replies smugly before releasing me. Running a hand through his hair, his eyes shine suspiciously as he rakes his lower lip with his teeth, dangerous plans seeming to formulate as he does. “Lead the way,” he orders, his expression flashing with smug surety before a satisfied smile blooms on his face.
He turns and saunters toward the coffee shop, natural swagger on full display. Studying his silhouette, I bite my own lip, loving the snug fit of his board shorts and the spectacular outline of his muscular frame beneath his T-shirt.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I call after him. With his back to me, he shakes his head in obvious annoyance before jogging in the direction of his van.
I can’t help but watch him go, my heartbeat ramping up as I walk toward my car. Once behind the wheel, I catch my beaming smile in my rearview as I buckle in and take a few sobering breaths.
“Just the weekend, Natalie,” I tell myself. Just the weekend. Two more days.
Just to see him play.
And then I’ll let us both down gently.
Space Age Love Song
A Flock of Seagulls
Natalie
After battling Easton for minutes—minutes he argues we don’t have to spare—I relent and let him into my apartment. The thought of being intimate with him again and suffering a similar aftermath is too much to bear. Even if we can’t become anything resembling what we left in Seattle, I decide to live in the moment, if only to witness him realizing his dreams.
He’s mostly quiet as he prowls around my apartment, pausing at my built-in bookshelf before focusing on the digital photo frame that fades in and out with years of pictures.
“Is the brunette Holly?”
“Yeah,” I reply from beside my bed in front of my open suitcase, flattered he remembered her name. A second later, his posture stiffens.
“What?”
He lifts the frame that hosts a picture of Damon and me the night we graduated, arms thrown around each other, smiles beaming. “Please tell me this isn’t fucking Damon.”
I can’t help my answering laugh. “Yeah, and sadly, he’s even prettier in real life.”
“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath as I press my lips together, trying desperately not to read into the hint of jealousy. As pretty as Damon may be, not once have I ever felt a tenth of what I do when I look at Easton.
At my closet, I glance over to see him pulling my Cactus yearbook from the shelf.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the oldest publication at the University of Texas. It’s kind of like a yearbook for each graduating class.”
“Did you like college?”
“Yeah…well, in hindsight, it’s kind of a blur to me.”
His chest bounces as he puts the book back. “In other words, you didn’t cut loose much.”
“Didn’t have time. I spent a lot of it working at Speak when I wasn’t helping at The Daily Texan.”
He lifts his chin in prompt.
“The UT paper,” I clarify.
“Overachiever,” he mutters, closing the book before shelving it and gazing at me with an intense stare. “Good thing you now know you’re capable of more, at least with me.”
“Think so?”
“I know so,” he says with a level of certainty that has anticipation rolling through me.
“Well, that’s not possible,” I mumble, grabbing a skirt from a hanger and tucking it into my suitcase.
“What’s that?” He asks, temporarily distracted by the mini maracas I got as a souvenir on a family vacation.
“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” I amplify my voice and make a mental note the man has bat hearing. “Those are from Mexico,” I say as he rolls the tiny instruments between his skilled fingers.
“Yeah? I’ve never been.”
“It’s a must. Dad used to take us annually to this spot he loves. It’s less touristy, and—” I turn and falter when I see Easton standing in my bedroom doorway, his hands braced on the frame above him, biceps bulging. He’s so fucking perfect that I pause my packing to admire him.
“Your place is nice. Comfortable.”
“Thanks,” I can’t help my smile, “I’m sensing a but…”