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“No rest for the wicked then,” I say.
“You ought to know,” says Drew, the corner of his lips twitching with the hint of a smile. It makes me want to lick him there.
The random impulse startles me, but Drew mercifully doesn’t have time to comment since the cleanup crew picks that moment to dismantle the stage curtain, letting shafts of light fill the backstage area.
It’s absurd, really. I left this stupid crush behind in college, maybe even before then. I still shouldn’t have such a strong reaction to this guy, not after all these years. Not after the way he’s treated me.
And how has he treated you? Except the times you deliberately provoked him and that one lightning-strike episode in the closet backstage, Drew’s gone out of his way to make sure you didn’t screw up your chances with Sizzle this week.
“I guess I would,” I say, conceding the point. “And with that in mind… what would you say to a truce?”
“A truce?”
“We have five days in the godforsaken wilderness—”
“It’s a five-star resort.”
“—and almost round-the-clock filming to look forward to next week.”
Reciting our grueling production schedule next week has somehow amused Drew, bringing his grin back full force and goddamn it, I want to kiss him again.
“And Bailey will be there,” I add. Drew watches me carefully, his grin fading slightly, only to be replaced by a look of such heat my heart starts pounding.
“Yes, she will.” He looks me over slowly. I feel the weight of his gaze on my body like a touch. God, I hate him. “All right, Lawson. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Drew stretches out a hand and I take it reluctantly. The rough skin of his palm chafes against mine, making me shiver.
“You’re right,” he says, holding on just a little bit too long. “It’s going to be quite a week.”
Before I can ask him what exactly he means by that, the cleanup crew descends on the backstage alcove and we’re surrounded by people laughing and chatting as they start packing up equipment. Drew drops my hand like it’s on fire and gives me a look, weighty and significant, before exiting the stage area.
It takes me a couple of minutes to get my breathing under control and by the time I do, the crew is looking at me funny, so I clear out as fast as the crowds and traffic will let me.
Several hours and a few beers later, I still haven’t deciphered that last look and it’s thoroughly pissing me off. Though I’ve finally deduced that pissed off is my go-to reaction to Drew Hicks, whether it’s rational or not.
Mostly, it’s not rational. And I’m pretty sure I figured out why.
I want him. I want him every bit as much as I want Bailey. And considering I have ten years of unresolved feelings for her, that fact scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
Music and noise from the pub downstairs drifts up the stairwell as I lock the apartment door behind me. Too many thoughts, not enough space. I need to get out of my own head for a bit, and that means getting out of my little apartment. It’s a nice enough space, if tiny. It suits me. More or less. But I’m buzzing with the high of a job well done—if the comments on Sizzle’s website are anything to go by—and that last tête-à-tête with Drew and making out in that booth with Bailey. I need to get out of my head for a bit, and Rusty’s Pub downstairs is the fastest way to make it happen.
The dining room is still crowded, a good sign for the Sunday night dinner rush. My favorite spot at the end of the bar is open, so I slide into the high seat and scan the room for Rusty, the mountainous bear of a man who owns the building. He’d rented me the second floor apartment three years ago, right after my parents fulfilled their lifelong dream of moving to the Florida coast.
I’m studying the crowd and don’t notice right away when somebody comes to stand in front of me behind the bar.
“Get you something to drink?”
Whoever’s asking isn’t Rusty. I turn to see a vaguely familiar-looking brown-eyed guy, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband.
“I know you,” he says, tapping a finger on the bar top. “Wait, don’t tell me… bourbon on the rocks?”
“That’s me,” I say, reaching out a hand. “I’m Cooper. You worked the bar at the Sizzle TV gala, right?” We shake hands and the guy gives me a saucy wink.
“Name’s Beck,” he says. “You were with that gorgeous couple and that bitchy brunette.”
“Christ, I’d forgotten about her,” I laugh. “What are you doing behind the bar? You must be new here.”
“Something like that,” says Beck, grinning.
