“My little equestrian nerd,” Easton muses as I turn the camera back on me.
“Do you ride? Well, I mean, would you?”
“Yeah, sure. For you I’ll try it,” he says softly, the view of him doing a number on my insides.
“Don’t expect to see me on a motorbike, but you can teach me to play an instrument.”
“That’s a decent compromise. Which one do you want to learn?”
“Maybe the drums?”
“Done. I’ll give you your first lesson in Tahoe.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.”
“I’m so excited.”
He chuckles. “Easy to please.”
“Well, I hope you’re patient. I have no rhythm.”
“I disagree,” he fires back. “You sure give one hell of a lap dance.”
I bite my lip and shake my head. Every day I read headlines that praise Easton’s genius—declaring him a revolutionary—and every night since Dallas, I talk to the man I met in Seattle. The man who took my hand and helped me make sense of the state I was in.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s one and the same. As a journalist, I finally understand the distinction between the fantasy life most believe celebrities dwell in and the reality of their every day. Insight that not many people can truly understand, unless they live behind the scenes.
Not that the jet setting, yacht life isn’t possible, because it is. It’s just not practical for everyday living. Easton’s daily routine is exactly as he described, far from that luxurious life, but he’s anything but boring as he claimed to be. He’s insightful and brilliant, and I love hearing him talk about anything and everything.
We bicker—sometimes outright disagree—but at the end of every conversation, we just stare at each other with longing in our eyes and voices when we’re forced off the phone. He’s texted or called me every day without fail since Dallas. We’ve spent a few late nights on the phone, which has only made me more of a believer that I’m a priority for him.
“I never saw a picture of your mom,” he remarks as I exit the closet filled to the brim with years full of juvenile junk I left behind. Crap that my sentimental parents never threw out, despite turning my old room into a guest suite.
“Really? Well, I can remedy that.” I exit my bedroom and walk down a long hall. Framed photos line the wall between guest bedrooms, and I search them to find a recent picture before flipping the camera.
“This is my mom, Addison Warner Hearst Butler,” I laugh.
“That’s a lot of last names.”
“She mostly goes by Butler. This was taken two years ago, at Thanksgiving.” Dad grins behind Mom in the kitchen, his arm wrapped possessively around her chest as she grips it, smiling more at him than posing for the photo. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“She’s beautiful,” Easton says, “but you look so much more like your dad.”
“Which she unfairly holds against him.”
“They look happy,” he observes.
I sigh. “Yeah, they do. They are,” I agree, turning the camera back on me. “Is this weird?”
“Not for me. Not at all. I hate that it is for you.”
“It’s just guilt.”
“We aren’t doing anything wrong,” he insists.
“Says you.”
“Baby, can we not do this today?”
“Okay, sure. Sorry,” I turn the camera back to the wall of photos and accidentally scan one I’m not crazy about, just as protests come flying out of my cell speaker and my ears redden. “You weren’t meant to see that.”
“Fuck that, turn it back,” he commands.
I shake my head.
“Right now.”
Sighing, I flip the camera back to a picture of me in a bikini top and tiny shorts, standing in front of Percy and holding his reins at the pasture fence.
“A little to the left,” he commands again.
“Geesh, bossy.”
“Got it.”
“What?!” I turn the camera to see the notification that EC took a screenshot.
“You perv, I was barely seventeen.”
A satisfied grin covers his beautiful face. “I’m going to lose some skin, servicing myself to that one.”
“Shameless,” I grin. We’ve been on the phone for hours. Most of the time, he was on the road but refused to let me go as he checked into his hotel. As he unpacked, I cooked dinner. As he ordered room service and called his business manager from the hotel phone, I showered. I’ve loved every minute of it, and the fact that he refused to end the call no matter what was happening lit me up from the inside out because it’s as close to together as we can be. Easton’s exceptional knack for making ordinary days extraordinary and menial tasks seem substantial, unchanged. Even on FaceTime.
“Your parents live in a palace, and you live in a shoebox,” he chuckles.
“Yeah, and how many square feet is that house you described as a prison?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m moving out when the tour ends. I tried to find a place after you left Seattle, and my dad ratted me out, so Mom went postal. Trust me, I’m aware I’m too fucking old to live at home—and have been for years—but in my defense, I slept at that studio. It wasn’t embarrassing until now.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, and don’t think for one minute I don’t know you’re frugal.”
“Did you just call me cheap?”
“Maybe a little,” I grin, entering my room.
“I know how to manage my money,” he states, “there’s a difference.”
“I’ll take your word on that, and you did spring for a private plane,” I lay back against my pillows, and his gaze dips.
“About that, I actually called in a favor,” he admits sheepishly.
“You shit, you let me believe you paid for that. That’s some favor.”
“It doesn’t hurt to have friends.”
He averts his gaze briefly, and I realize he’s checking the time on his hotel nightstand. “It’s getting late. You tired, baby?”
“A little, but I don’t want to get off.”
He lifts a brow.
“The phone,” I grin. “I mean, I’m not saying I want to get off, either, you know what I mean.”
“There’s that gift by way of words. Thank God I speak fluent Butler gibberish.”
He full-on laughs at my answering expression. “Kiss my ass, Crowne.”
“God, what I wouldn’t give to do just that and more.”
My cheeks hurt with the width of my smile. “And just like that, you’re forgiven.”
“Good. Put on your pajamas,” he orders softly. “I’ll tuck you in.”
“Uh…” I eye my duffle bag. “I’m good.”
His chuckle fills the room. “What’s with the hesitation?”
“No hesitation.”
“Your neck is turning tomato, baby. No sense in ever lying to me… Ah, I know what this is about.” A smug smirk graces his face. “Grab your sexy cap, Miss Muffet.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know it’s there,” he taunts. “Come on, let’s see it.”
“Fine.” Sighing, I walk over to my duffle and put the phone down next to it, giving Easton a view of the ceiling. “But I’m not sure you can handle this three-alarm fire I’m about to start.”
“Oh, I can handle it.”
“Yeah? Think so, big boy?” I tease, tucking the last of my hair in before I rapidly start to undress and redress.
“Hit me, Beauty.”
Once dressed, I whip myself into view, my hat and quilted snap button robe aging me about thirty years as unguarded laughter bursts out of Easton.
“Seriously? Babe, what the fuck?”
“The house is drafty at times,” I assert.
“So, you decided to make your grandmother’s robe a staple?”
“It’s comfortable,” I contend.
“God,” he muses. “I fucking miss you.”
“That’s a mutual feeling, Mr. Rock God.”
Mid eye-roll, he lifts from his bed. “So, what’s next, a gooey green face mask?”
“It’s gold, and it’s not gooey, but I’m not subjecting myself to any more of your shit. Self-care for women is already a pain in the ass without adding your testosterone into the mix. Besides, it’s your turn. Let’s see your pajamas.”
He disappears from the camera, making me dizzy with the rapid change of hotel scenery before I’m knocked stupid by the sight of him walking into the bathroom, his reflection showing nothing but tan, rippling muscles, and perfectly filled black boxer briefs.