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Seventeen
The rest of the week zoomed by.
Presley and Cash had developed a routine of sorts. Coffee on the deck, although sometimes he brought her coffee to bed. His bed, since she hadn’t slept in the guest room since the Fourth of July.
Once she was out of bed, they’d either sit side by side and write on the dock, or if it was raining, at the kitchen counter instead. She’d had trouble focusing since Cash was plain distracting. Whether perched on a stool and singing bits and pieces of the song he was composing, or chewing on his pencil while reading his notes, his bare feet resting on the bottom rung of the stool. Just completely distracting.
Yesterday afternoon his low, rocky voice had stolen her attention from her writing. She’d leaned on one elbow and stared at his beautiful profile while he stumbled, started and stumbled again. He’d shot her a grin, but it faded when he noticed her staring.
“What?” he’d asked.
“You’re so talented. It would have been a waste for you to have become a football player. Or if you’d pursued the business side of music like your brothers. You’d have robbed everyone of your incredible voice. I’ve never heard anyone who sounded like you.”
“Pres—”
“I mean it.” She turned on her stool to face him. “You sing and I forget the world around me. I’m completely lost in your music. Not everyone has that ability. Just you.”
He blew out a breath from his nose, his fingers curling around the neck of his guitar. The rain picked up, beating the windowpanes and painting the outside a moody gray-blue.
“Get over here,” he’d told her. She’d hopped off her stool at the same time he left his. He set the guitar on a stand in the living room and then pulled her onto the couch with him.
First, she’d been on top, his rough jaw scraping her soft skin while he made out with her long and slow. Then he’d reversed their positions and pressed her into the leather cushions. They’d kissed for a long, long while as distant thunder rumbled. They’d advanced to heavy petting by the time the storm blew in.
She’d climaxed with his mouth on her nipple, his fingers in her underwear. Then she’d pushed him onto his back, and tried something she hadn’t experienced with him yet. She kissed a trail from his chest to his flat stomach and took him into her mouth.
She loved the heft of him, the taste of him on her tongue. She loved more the way she’d driven him to the brink. He nearly lost control but had stopped to haul her up by the elbows and kiss her deep and hard. They’d made love on the couch, but that hadn’t been hard or fast. Their lazy pace had matched the ebbing rain outside.
It was a memory of their rainy-day lovemaking that consumed her on Saturday morning. Not the sexy shower or the way they’d slept curled into each other afterward. They’d savored one another.
Like they both knew the end was coming.
When she’d first arrived in Beaumont Bay, she hadn’t expected to miss Cash when she left, but now she didn’t see how to keep from it. He was...consuming. And the last thing she wanted was to be consumed by anyone.
She climbed out of his comfy bed and carried her empty coffee cup downstairs, humming Cash’s new song, “Back for Good.”
He’d been piecing it together all week, and had finally laid down a track he and Will were happy with. It was by far her favorite song from the new album. It was soulful and, when sang in his rough, low, damn sexy voice, practically orgasmic. Since he’d sung it on repeat this week, and then several times in the studio while she’d watched and listened, the tune was on a loop in her head.
In the kitchen she hummed the chorus, passing by Cash, who stood, his back to her while he looked outside. Capable, attentive, sexy Cash. It really was too bad she was leaving for home tomorrow. Delilah had been generous about giving Pres extra time, but she needed to be back in the office for the release of the article. An article that didn’t have much of a chance of winning the coveted pay raise and internship. Not without the scandalous reveal she’d been plotting—she hadn’t heard a peep from Heather.
Not that Pres would have revealed the truth anyway.
Last night, while she listened to him sing his heart out, she’d decided to stop trying to figure out the inspiration behind “Lightning.” She’d written a robust article about Elite Records, with an exclusive behind-the-scenes peek at Cash recording his new album. She had weaved in details about the way he was at home—leaving out that she’d shared his bed, of course. And she’d outlined how generous he was with fans whenever they bumped into him downtown.
The fresh focus of her article had nothing to do with scandal or secrets, but she was proud of it anyway. It would give readers an honest look at an honest man, and whet their appetites for his next big hit. There was no way “Back for Good” wouldn’t go to number one.
If the new angle of her article cost her the contest, she would simply have to find another way to convince Delilah to grant the raise and transfer Presley deserved. Pres had known deep down she wasn’t doing the right thing, and the guilt had been eating her alive. She wasn’t going to sneak around behind Cash’s back anymore, not after how intimate they’d been. Not after that sexy afternoon on the sofa when their very souls had been involved in the exchange.
She cared about him too much to hurt him. The decision had set her heart at ease.
As she refilled her coffee mug she became aware of a searing gaze on the side of her head. She turned to find Cash watching her, his phone pressed to his ear and his expression fierce. He didn’t give her a panty-melting smile nor did he deliver a cheeky wink. And he didn’t crook a finger and invite her to come to him.
His shadowed brow matched the low-hanging clouds outside. His frown, edged by a day’s worth of growth on his jaw and cheeks, was just as dark. He was pissed and that sent a shimmer of fear down her spine.
“Guess who just walked into the room?” he said into the phone. His eyes narrowed to slits fringed by thick, black eyelashes as he watched her round the counter. “You guessed it. My fiancée, Presley Cole. You want to say hi?”
He offered the phone but she leaped away from it like he’d offered her a live rattlesnake. Evidently, Heather had read the email and had taken that “ring shopping” hint to heart. Explanations and excuses piled up in Presley’s mind.
“Never mind.” He returned the phone to his ear. “She can’t talk right now.”
