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When I finally find a quiet alley to duck into, I drop my phone back into my pocket, lean against the brick wall, and let my head fall back with a smack. It hurts a little, but the reality check of some physical pain seems entirely necessary right now.
How on earth did I let myself get here? Openly crushing on Brooke to the point that random strangers are making note of it? Getting jealous of an innocent touch from some schloppy news anchor? Actually walking away on a fake phone call so I don’t have to explain the beet-red color of my cheeks to anyone in passing?
Almost kissing her the other night after you got out of the shower…
Truth is, if it hadn’t been for the loud distraction outside the motor home, I know I would’ve kissed Brooke. I would’ve kissed her, and I have no idea how far I would’ve let that kiss go.
Oh, you know how far you would’ve let it go, but you don’t want to accept it.
I’m really on the cusp here of fucking things up for myself. A lot, a lot of things. I left Nashville behind with a clear mind and no women to speak of. I had goals—big ones—and my priorities were clear. I was ready and willing to put in the hours and the sweat equity and the creativity, but all of a sudden, I find myself on a three-week tour with one of my authors, driving the fucking motor home from city to city?
It sounds nuts. And at this particular moment, I can’t seem to convince myself that it really was the book that drove me—and not some insane need to be dangerously close to Brooke Baker for an extended period of time.
Like, did I know I was crushing and wasn’t willing to admit it? Or is this something new? Forced by the proximity and intimacy of living with someone for three weeks?
I really, really wish I knew.
But even more than that, I wish I could come up with a plan for how to stop it.
My phone buzzes in my hand—for real, this time—and I pick it up to look at the screen. An ill-timed message from Mo sits front and center.
Mo: BRO. WTF. I’m DYING here. It’s been a week since you’ve texted me back or answered my calls! You’ve got to tell me something, Chase! Are you avoiding me on purpose, or are you just too busy falling in love with Brooke Baker?
The real answer? Both. And oh baby, does the truth hurt.
Because if I don’t want to ruin literally everything, this cannot and will not happen. I can’t let it.
Brooke Baker is my author and nothing more. And that is fucking that.
Brooke
Lights dance through the windshield as Chase navigates the motor home through the outskirts of New Orleans on our way to San Antonio. It’s about an eight-and-a-half-hour drive, and thanks to some networking—aka an invitation to a late lunch and wine bar—with the people from Wake Up, New Orleans, we didn’t get packed up and on the road until about forty-five minutes ago.
And every minute has been filled with the soft sounds of the radio and zero conversation.
Six in the evening is not an ideal start to a long drive, so I can understand why Chase has seemed a little quiet. But still, I hate to be the kind of pain in the ass that turns a wholly good-natured man into a grump.
I thought about suggesting that we just wait until the morning to get on the road, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was questioning his system. He’s managed to get us everywhere we’ve needed to be on his own just fine, and he hardly needs me trying to tell him how to do it now.
I make my way to the front and slide into the passenger seat beside him with a groan. Benji lies down right behind my captain’s chair and tucks his head into the crook of his crossed paws.
Chase doesn’t look away from the road, and I feel the crease of a frown settle into the thin skin between my eyebrows. Not getting a smile stings, and even I know that’s a bit ridiculous.
Damn, you’re not even halfway into this tour with the guy and you’ve already become a glutton for his attention.
Instead of getting discouraged, I throw myself on my sword of apology. “I’m really sorry we got held up today. I can only imagine the last thing you feel like doing right now is driving across a state and a half, or however far it is to San Antonio.”
“That’s all right,” he says, still staring at the road intently. “I arranged to stop at a campground about halfway, so we can take a break in a few hours.”
“Ah, that’s the overachiever I’m beginning to know and love,” I say playfully, reaching out to give him a small shove in the shoulder.
