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“You don’t know?” asks Bailey.
“He was like that when I got here.”
“Hardly,” I say, unable to keep from rolling my eyes at that. “I was minding my own business when you got here. You’re the one who barged into the shower.”
“The shower, huh?” says Bailey, a flush rising to her cheeks. “Lord, that’s hot.” Bailey feathers a touch over my cheek, tipping my chin up when I try to avoid her eyes. “What’s going on, Coop?”
Drew’s fingers thread themselves between mine. I have to squeeze my eyes shut against all the goddamned feelings. Fucking feelings. Such bullshit.
“Sizzle decided to terminate my contract,” I say. Drew sucks in a breath, his fingers tightening on mine.
“What happened?” asks Bailey, incredulous. “There’s no way they were dissatisfied with your work.”
“No,” I admit. In fact, Greeley had gone out of his way to praise my work before he fired me. “It was the investigation. They saw us on the security feed backstage and decided I wouldn’t be a good fit with the company going forward.”
“This is my fault,” says Drew, sitting up and tunneling his hands through his hair before meeting my eyes. “All of it. I’m so sorry, Cooper.” He retrieves his jeans from the floor and hikes them up. Bailey and I pull our clothes back on too, following him into the kitchen area of the suite. Drew pulls three bottles of beer out of the fridge, sucking down half of his right away.
“Last time I checked, there were two of us backstage that day,” I say mildly. His sudden agitation soothes me somehow, making it easier to stay calm. Pretty sure that’s more perverse than all the fighting-hate-sex we just indulged in, but it’s always been that way with Drew. Winding him up calms me down, though I don’t like seeing him upset for real. And this is very much for real—in all my self-pitying the last couple of hours I’d kind of forgotten his job might be at risk, too.
“Will they fire you?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer but ready to help him and Bailey kick some ass if necessary.
Drew shakes his head. “Not unless they find evidence of me tampering with the equipment,” he says.
“Which they won’t,” says Bailey, certainty in her voice.
“Which they won’t,” Drew echoes. “I expect my boss will have something to say about the security tapes, but I’m not going to lose my job over it.” He flushes, looking guilty as hell. I shake my head, heading off yet another apology.
“I’m an adult,” I tell him, glaring at him. “It was hardly professional of me, but I knew what I was doing.”
“Still,” says Drew.
“If they got you on camera doing anything like what I just watched, I can see why it might cause some problems,” Bailey chimes in. She’s trying to lighten us both up, and I set my beer down on the counter so I can slide my arms around her, kissing her soundly for the first time since this morning. Holding her like this goes a long way to bringing me back to normal.
“Nothing quite so dramatic,” I say, moving my mouth to tease along the curve of her neck. “How on earth did I miss this voyeuristic streak of yours? You were a meek little thing back in college.”
Bailey laughs, even as she shivers in my arms. “Hardly meek,” she says, gripping my shoulders.
“He’s got a point,” says Drew. He’s propped a hip against the counter, watching us over the top of his beer. “But then again, I can see the appeal.” He studies the pair of us, making no move to involve himself but tracking every move we make. When Bailey moans softly into my mouth, I see goosebumps break out over his body, his nipples going hard.
“What time is check-out?” I ask.
“Noon,” murmurs Bailey.
That gives us about fourteen hours to ourselves. Hitching Bailey up so she can wrap her legs around my waist, I set her on the counter beside Drew.
“Not much time then,” I say, going to work on her blouse.
The next two weeks are a whirl of texts and phone calls and late nights where nobody gets enough sleep. I spend an inordinate amount of time at the computer, doing my level best to recover my audience’s attention, using every trick I can think of to bring my numbers back up. The most successful turns out to be a video compilation of my worst kitchen fails, all recorded at various points over the last couple of years. There are a lot. Cooking is definitely not my thing, despite my foodie persona. And it turns out my audience digs that—the comedic element fits with the rest of the material I’ve built and plenty of my fans have chimed in with their own kitchen-fail stories, giving me a whole new direction to work with.
My nights are spent chasing Bailey or Drew, or both when I get really lucky. He’s been working overtime for Ty on their next project, trying to keep from drawing any extra attention while the network continues their investigation into whoever tampered with the competition finals that day. Bailey’s been busy working on something secret while she’s finishing up her final days at the bank; she swears she’ll tell us about it soon.
Every minute we spend together makes for another day I don’t want to be away from them. Nobody dares to bring it up, though I’d swear Drew was about to a couple of times—I think he wants to talk. About us.
I’ll put that off as long as possible, thanks. I’m well aware there’s every chance that this is his shot with Bailey too, and that they might decide their years of friendship mean they’re meant to be together, all by themselves. At which point I’ll be shit out of luck, so we can have that conversation maybe never.
Before I know it, it’s a cold, sunny Sunday afternoon and I’m standing at Bailey’s door. She shuffles out, locking the door behind her and taking my elbow as I escort her down to my car out of the cold.
“You ready for this?” she asks as I slide into the driver’s seat.
