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I bark a fast laugh. “And I’m supposed to believe that?” I drop my head just as quickly. The sooner I get these freaking pants figured out, the better. “Just because you have no social pages doesn’t mean you’re not social, my friend. Even lasagna needs cheese and sauce to keep it company.”
And shit, where are my shoes? I sigh, realizing a trip back to the music room is necessary. Not a fun idea, confirmed from the second I step back into the cozy sanctuary where the air still smells like wonderful food and the best sex of my life. But there’s also the unmistakable twinge called eau de huge mistake. Namely mine.
I only pray to get out of here with a semblance of my professional integrity—or at least the PR contract for Appacenter—intact.
“But just in case you’re keeping up the needy puppy act for a reason…” I nod to acknowledge how he’s followed me back into the room. “You know you don’t have to worry about my discretion here. If it helps, I’ll sign a nondisclosure too.”
I pause, feeling like there’s mood-lightening gold to be mined here. He’s got to see it too. Even his worldly eyes probably haven’t seen too many partners willing to ink an NDA before their pants are back on.
But Darian’s not laughing. Not even tempted, if his tight glower is accurate. His tension is probably blasting sonic frequencies all the way to the radars at Point Magu. Probably Hueneme too. I’m puzzled about it, until glimpsing something else in his steady gaze. A little bit—all right, maybe more than that—of hurt.
Holy shit.
I’vehurt him?
“Okay, so…I’m sorry too,” I mutter. “All of that probably came out wrong. I mean, you’re not a dickhead—”
He grunts. “Gee, thanks.”
I bat at his shoulder. Damn, it’s like this guy’s been honing his physique for centuries. “You know where I’m going here. Don’t pretend that you don’t. We had a good time. For that matter, a very, very good time.” The last of that gets underlined by my light smile. “But let’s not spin it into anything it wasn’t or isn’t. I don’t need the pseudo therapy session to feel validated or connected about it. To be honest, we’re probably better off to skip it and call this a night.”
Especially if we’re going to be working together.
Thankfully, I know to punch the mute button before that part. Because who would then be the asshole about leveraging orgasms for dollar signs?
So maybe my personal growth tree has grown a few inches. It’s the assurance that helps me step back into my pants, straightening a little higher while connecting the complicated fastenings. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can really look at a man—even the one I still want to climb like a hungry tree frog—and acknowledge that because he’s been my lover, he doesn’t also have to be my soulmate and savior. Not in his eyes, and certainly not in mine.
“Well…all right,” he murmurs at last. “No spinning. No therapy.”
I release a big breath. “Thank you.”
“But I do insist on one thing.” He takes advantage of how I’ve dawdles my touch along his shoulder, cupping my hand with renewed persistence. “You’ll eat before you leave. You arrived here with nothing in your belly, and got down all of two bites before I mauled you.”
“Hey, lasagna,” I tease as he guides me back over to the couch. “For the record, it was mutual mauling.”
“Let me get you something else to drink,” he states as if that wasn’t a really good zinger. I’m about to remind him of the fact when he punctuates it by tucking my head against the ridges of his torso and lowering a gentle kiss into my hair. “Something that won’t impair your driving ability. Do you have a preference?”
I turn my head, looking straight up at him. And, in ways that surely shrink my tree a little, yearn for this moment to last longer than it does. There’s no logical reason to feel this secure with this man. This cherished. But I do…and there’s no denying that unnerving truth either.
“Sparkling water if you have some, thanks.”
Darian returns with an opened green bottle with the fizzes still popping from the neck. I take a grateful chug, since his empanadas carry a spicy kick.
Hisempanadas? While I can easily imagine the man knowing enough of his way around a kitchen to create the delicious turnovers, I don’t think he sped up here right after leaving the office to do that. If he’s not paying for this place with music money, there has to be other business operations he’s taking care of. But what? Is he still in the business? I found no records of that. Maybe he’s a silent partner in some places. A behind-the-scenes mogul. That one fits in so many ways. His presence is worthy of CEO status, though his humility would lend itself to effective leadership. Rarely have I met a musician who didn’t want to keep his projects at the center of conversation.
But the two of us have hardly made conversation our priority.
Making me almost—almost—take back the no-sharing rule as we eat in prolonged silence. I’m still mentally teetering on that fence, wondering if it’d just be easier to banter over surface subjects instead of dealing with his dizzying and decadent stares, when the gorgeous god himself saves me.
“Would you like to hear the new song I’m playing around with?”
I stop my fork halfway to my mouth. There’s a wickedly beautiful ravioli speared on the times but no way will I pass up the chance for a self-congratulatory grin. Just when I thought my precognition had a busted switch, here’s dolce lover man for the save.
“I’m sure I’d like mothing better.”
In this moment, I’m able to say it and mean it. It sounds exactly like my gushing from the office, but I was a hundred percent sincere about that too. What woman—what person—in their right mind would pass up the chance for a private Darian Z concert? NDA or not, I’m actually a little giddy already.
The woozy joy washes over more of me as soon as he turns my free hand over and kisses its back. “As Lady Quinn requests.”
