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This wasn’t the time or the place. His teammate was lying in a hospital in a coma and might never wake up. What happened to me was the last thing Vic needed to hear right now.
I inhaled a ragged breath and raised my chin. “Promise me you won’t call my brother.”
He scowled. “Why?”
“Promise me, Vic. Please. I’ll tell you—just not right now. Not here.” And not until I had my shit together.
He stared at me for a few seconds, then nodded. “You nearly done your shift?”
I nodded. “Another hour.”
“I’ll pick up Jackson from Hettie’s.”
I had opened my mouth to tell him he didn’t have to do that when his hands moved to my hips and he helped me off the counter.
He linked his fingers in mine and led me to the door. He flicked the deadbolt and opened it.
Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed was Darius.
Vic gave a clipped nod. “Darius.”
Darius’ gaze slid to me, and he looked me up and down as if to make sure I still had all my limbs. Satisfied, he looked back at Vic and said, “Gate.”
Vic’s hand dropped from mine, and his arm hooked my waist, drawing me against him. Then we walked down the hallway into the bar.
Macayla
Vic: Cabin needs a deadbolt.
This was the text I received Sunday morning. A text that was five words long, lacked a single emoji, and still sent an eruption of tingles between my legs. Not that Vic was an emoji type of guy. I used to think he wasn’t the texting kind of guy either, but ever since he’d come back and we had our conversation in the girls’ bathroom, he’d texted—daily.
And my feelings for him had only intensified all week because he’d texted, installed blackout blinds on all the windows, and installed the new water heater. He’d also shown up Friday night to hear me sing, and then when I was done, he was right there next to me and whispering in my ear, telling me how good I sounded. Then he told me how much he hated all the men staring at me.
What he hadn’t done was mention anything more about why I didn’t want him to call my brother.
I swiped across my screen and typed in the passcode, then pressed the thumbs-up emoji reaction on his text because I was an emoji type of girl, especially when it was eight in the morning and I barely had my eyes peeled open. I tossed my cell onto the mattress, then threw the covers over my head to block out the sun peeking through the partially opened drapes.
I had barely slept. And the reason I hadn’t was that I’d been up until the wee hours of the morning, working on a new song. To compound the lack of sleep, my head was spinning with all things Vic.
My cell vibrated again, and I blindly reached out, patting the mattress with my palm. My hand landed on it, and I raised it to my face with one eye inched open.
Vic: Be there in five.
I darted upright. What?
Crap. I scrambled out of bed and ran into the hallway, pausing to glance in Jackson’s bedroom, but he wasn’t there. I hurried into the living room to see him tucked in the corner of the black leather couch with his coloring book on his lap, and a box of colored pencils beside him.
He was wearing his Spiderman pajamas. I said a silent “Yay.” He’d been wearing them to bed for a month now. I thought maybe it was because he was finally realizing that he wasn’t leaving. That I was permanent.
“Morning, little man,” I called.
He peered over his shoulder, and blond strands fell in front of his eyes. Definitely time for a haircut.
“Morning,” he replied.
Quietly coloring was his weekend morning ritual. He used to do it in his bedroom because he was afraid he’d make too much noise and wake me up.
“You sleep okay?”
