Great, Margarita calories are probably the last thing Ineed.Irun my hands over my torso, checking for a visible belly outline, picking myself apart, wondering how I’ll feel tonight when Iplan on getting naked with Gage for the first time. Ihave a feeling I’ll be turning the lights off,ugh.
I hear the pool house door open and shut again, and a little rap on the bathroom pocket door. Ishout, “Seriously, I’ll be right out, Gage!” Ihuff at myself in the mirror, adjusting my chest until my cleavage is borderline inappropriate for a family pool party. Next, Ifluff my hair, waist-length and curled at the ends as always, and decide this is as good as it’s going to get.
I whip the pocket door back in its pocket while Itake a step outside it. But someone’s blocking me, ashirtless someone, and it isn’t Gage. Our chests bump together before we lock eyes. The skin-on-skin sends goosebumps everywhere.
“I’m not Gage, and this isn’t a Stephen King novel, Baby. Like what the hell kind of name is that?”
I jump backwards, surprising myself with a delighted and thoroughly shocked squeak. “Jett?!”
“Baby, as Ilive and fuckin’ breathe, darling, bloody come here!”
Jett grabs me, and my throat goes bone dry. My brain has absolutely no say in what Ido next. He picks me up as Ijump, and my legs wrap around his firm – firmer than Iever imagined – body without my consent. He spins me around, his black nails gently scratching my back the way they’ve been known to do.So why is my whole body suddenly reacting?Maybe it has something to do with his other hand holding me up by my barely covered ass.
“Missed you, Princess,” he rasps in my ear.
Full. Body. Chills.
Okay, now my throat isn’t dry, exactly, it’s like … so thick Ikeep trying to swallow but Ican’t.My Jettdoesn’t give me goosebumps or chillsorrestrictmy airway! Does he? Imean, the first two when he sings, sure. Certainly not that last one, never!
Finally, Ireel back and he sets me down, one hand still on my shoulder. Irub my eyes like a sleepy toddler who’s just woken up.
“Jett?”
“Jett Raven Jones, at your service, Baby. And thatismy real name. We established this, what? Nearly eight years ago? Who else would it be?”
But he runs his fingers through his slicked-back hair, jet black without any crazy puffs or dye in sight. Adead giveaway that heknowshow different he looks. How polished, howgrown.The face, the body. Are youkiddingme?
My God. This is my Jett?Since when did Jett becomemine?His carved cheekbones and sharp jaw catch my eye. Wheredid those round cheeks go?The messy black liner is gone, but rather carefully applied just at the waterline, and Ifeel like those pale green eyes can see straight into my thoughts.
Jett is like family.But Ican’t help it. My eyes wander down this new body of his as if it were the latest art exhibit at the Getty. The farther down my gaze goes, the blood in my body moves south, too. Ican’t ignore his newly defined chest and the fresh tattoos that cover it. Some are very traditional, veryblack panther baring it’s jaws, his namesake bird in flight, and the year his grandad was born.Some are very cute like acoconut cocktail with a little umbrella and straw but the coconut is a skull,and aghost holding a grim reaper scythe that says born to raise hell.
And lower, there’s Led Zeppelin lyrics along his rib cage, which Iswoon over because instead of lullabies as a baby, IhadRamble OnandGoing to California.Then there’s,holy shit.Idon’t know how, but it just … comes out.
“Fuck,Jett,how many abs do youhave?”
He releases a loud laugh. “I think eight, last time Icounted.” This Jett is cockier than old Jettand why do Ilike it?
Now it’s time for his eyes to wander, lifting an eyebrow as he squeezes my hips. “How many fucking curves doyouhave, Baby?”
My throat closes entirely at that, and Ijust shake my head so he continues. “My personal trainer hates me, that’s all. Wanted to be in the best possible shape for my world tour in a few months. What happened to Asshole Archer and who’s that tall, dark, and handsome twat out there, hmm?”
My throat relaxes enough to squeak out, “What happened tothat AnnaBella?”
His eyes are laser-focused on me, and neither of us needs to say anything. Mum and Lola are the queens of spilling tea, and we both know damn well how those relationships imploded. Awave of déjà vu washes over me as Ilook lower at his board shorts.
“Jett, why the hell are we matching?”
His eyes light up like he hadn’t noticed, either. “Jesus,that’s just so fuckin’us.
We were both asked to pick from a plethora of swimsuits, and both chose the matching black ones with white bats. Itreminds me of when that stylist made us lie down and blended our hair because they thought we looked so perfect as a pair.”
Maybe we do. Fuck, how long have Ibeen this blind? When did there become an US?
I pull him over to the full-length mirror and my voice shakes. “Do we?”
Those teeth and tongue burst out in an insane grin. “Baby, sometimes Ithink you’ve got blinders on.”
Suddenly, Iremember that clip again, the one of us jumping off the table dressed as Alice and the Mad Hatter, the night we met. Ithink of how the Brit media went particularly nuts for it; their hometown star with their king of rock’s daughter.
