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Sutton turns, so she’s leaning against the railing, facing the opposite direction. The observation deck, not the spectacular view. “What’s your favorite dream?” she asks me.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer.Liereally. I do know the answer to that question; I have decided. But the honest answer—me and you—is problematic for a long list of reasons.
Sutton doesn’t push for a concrete answer. There’s a chance that means she knows she’s involved in the vague response. Instead, she slides closer, pressing closer and closer until she’s wedged between me and the railing. She smiles up, and I smirk down.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I reply.
The space between us has shrunk to nearly nonexistent.
“I want to kiss you,” I tell her, opting for some honesty.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Nothing.”
I’ve imagined kissing Sutton Everett an uncountable number of times. Every time I actually get to do so feels like reaching a finish line. Exhaling after holding a breath. Slipping into unconsciousness after battling sleep. Applying aloe to a burn.
Relief.
It takes her a few seconds to respond. I suck her bottom lip between mine, and that jolts her into action. Her hand lands on my bare arm, brushing my skin so lightly that it feels like a butterfly’s touch. The swarm in my stomach isn’t nearly as gentle. They side-check my insides. Her scent—something fresh and floral—sinks into my senses and swims through my blood, mesmerizing and meaningful.
She slides her hands up my arms and embeds them in my hair. My hand journeys north, tracing the bumps of her spine like a truck navigating a pothole-ridden road. Her left hand travels south, gripping the back of my neck and pulling me closer.
I groan into her mouth, savoring the way her soft curves feel crushed against me and the sensation of her tongue tangling with mine.
She pulls back first, her voice heavy with disappointment. “We have to go.”
Our chests are pressed together. I feel the unsteady breaths working their way into her lungs and then back out. She’s just as affected as I am and not pretending that she’s not.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Neither of us says a word as we descend the stairs until we’re back on the sidewalk. The black SUV is already waiting at the curb. The silence continues as we weave through the busy streets, headed toward the soccer stadium on the outskirts of the city, hosting tonight’s performance.
“I’m considering closing with a cover tonight.” Sutton speaks while staring out the window.
I glance over at her reflection in the mirrored glass. “Jackson didn’t mention anything.”
“I didn’t say anything to Jackson.” She looks over. “All I need is a guitarist.”
“For what song?”
A wry smile twists her mouth up. “‘I Walk the Line.’”
I study her, trying to read the significance. Is there any? “Interesting choice.”
“It’s a great song.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“So?”
She’s asking me to perform onstage with her. Not faded into the background with the rest of the band. Up front and center.
At this point, Sutton and I are somewhat of an open secret to the fifty or so people involved in the day-to-day operations of the tour. Anyone paying attention to what Sutton does during the tour—which iseveryone—knows there is something going on between us.
This will expand the frenzy of interest. I know it, and so does she. I don’t know what that means. Not caring who wonders about us and caring about us aren’t mutually exclusive.
