I wanted to travel.
I think I even wanted to travel with Adam.
But the last time I’d invested in this man, he’d let me down big time. He broke my heart.
The man in question slept on, lying above the sheets, wearing only a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. He had such nice thighs. Very pleasant to look at. Which reminded me that when he’d been throwing all of these crazy ideas out there, we hadn’t discussed if I’d be sharing his hotel room or getting my own. Would we eat meals together? How many hours a day approximately would we spend in each other’s company? Was dating/living with someone on tour the same as in normal life, or did new and unexpected rules apply? Such as no girlfriends at the afterparty. Because if that was the case, he could kiss my round ass. And what about this whole signing women’s boobies thing? I was so not down with that. He’d have to give up marking mammary glands or we were dead in the water right here and now.
A strong arm slung around my middle, pulling me back against the long hot length of his body. “Go to sleep, baby.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Shh.” Fingers moved my hair aside, and a kiss was pressed to the back of my neck. Another very pleasant thing. “Everything will work itself out. Go to sleep.”
And the bitch of it was, I did.
Following one of the best sleeps of my life, I woke up to the scent of bacon and eggs. Never a bad thing to wake up to. Unless you’re a vegan, I guessed. Adam’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled. Hard to tell which was the more intimate act—sleeping together or having sex. They both required a level of trust. Besides checking the time (almost eleven, yay for an awesome sleep-in!), I didn’t look at my cell. Whatever had happened overnight regarding the photos of Adam and I, I didn’t need to know. At least, not before coffee. The truth was, there was nothing I could do about the whole thing anyway.
“Who are you and what have you done with Adam?” I asked as I stumbled on out to the kitchen in my underwear and a borrowed tee promoting some brand of guitar strings.
He stood at the kitchen counter, scraping butter onto some toast—the kitchen counter we’d profaned last night. I tried to keep my focus on the food and the cooking, but the memories were too fresh. Whatever else this reunion had in store for us, that was at least a damn fine bit of profaning. We’d profaned the heck out of that counter.
“I was just about to come wake you. Breakfast’s ready.”
“You don’t cook.”
“I do now,” he said, pushing a plate loaded with fried goodness my way. “I also pick up my dirty clothes and have even been known to do a load of laundry on occasion.”
I gasped. “Good, God. How adult of you.”
“I told you. I’m a whole new man. Not only can I pay my own bills, but I also get shit done, baby.”
“Hmm. Are you eating?”
“I already ate.”
While inspecting the food, I climbed onto a stool, getting comfortable, mindful of the mild somewhat enjoyable ache in my nether regions from our furious fucking against the fridge. Maybe having sex with him again wouldn’t be the worst thing. Confusing as all hell, but still. The man would be gone to Europe soon (I wasn’t awake enough to ponder the should I or shouldn’t I go with him question yet). It’d probably be a good idea to get what I could while I could.
And he’d done a more than adequate job with the cooking. So the bacon edges were a bit black. They’d still taste delicious. Apparently, Adam was serious about showing me that he’d changed. Didn’t mean I was any closer to taking another risk on or with him. What a crazy notion. I mean, we’d hit the wall so badly. Our breakup had been loud and angry and heart-rending. And the thought of going back there…
“Coffee,” he stated, placing the steaming mug in front of me.
“Thank you. You’re dressed up,” I said, nodding to his pale blue button-down shirt. It was the only concession to formality, but for him, it was a notable one. His usual jeans and boots graced his lower half. His long hair had even been neatly tied back out of his gorgeous face.
“Ah, yeah.” He gathered up the dirty fry pan and so on, loading up a sleek dishwasher. “Here’s the thing. In all of the excitement, I forgot that Ev and Dave were throwing me a going-on-tour party today in their apartment upstairs. You’d be more than welcome, and I’d love for you to meet them. Will you come with me? Please?”
Ruh-roh. I took another sip of coffee. “More famous people?”
“More nice, down-to-earth people who’d love to meet you.”
“More people who’ve heard those songs about me. Though everyone’s heard those songs about me. But these people know you and they know…you know.”
He raised his brows and took a deep breath. “Jill. Listen to me. You’re overthinking this. Back in the day, Dave wrote a whole album about how Martha slept with his brother and broke his heart and then caused trouble with his new wife. It doesn’t matter. They’re all friends now and get along fine. They’d be the last damn people to make you feel weird about being in my songs.”
“Even if the lyrics are wrong.”
“I was angry at the time. We already discussed this.”
“Being your muse has its downside. That’s all I’m going to say about the matter,” I said. “So that’s what Martha was talking about? That album was about her? Wow.”
The doorbell rang, and he wiped
