Текст книги "Dirty Lies"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Aidan

There’s something to be said for waking up and finding your face plastered all over the Internet. And I’m damn sure it ain’t good.

I close the browser window on my laptop and then slam the top down for good measure. Then, for even better measure, I turn off the Wi-Fi on my phone, followed by my data connection. Some fan always finds a way into my personal email and bombards me with her crap.

“Ads!” Ella bangs on my bedroom door. “Your butt, here, now!” She knocks again, harder, and I groan, swinging the sheet off me.

“All right, all right,” I call back, dread filtering its way through my body as she thunders back down the stairs. If she’s yelling at me that way with her assistant sassy pants on, it only means one thing: Mr. Manager is on the phone.

For me.

Given how I’ve heard him tear Conner and Tate new assholes before, I can imagine what’s coming my way.

I tug on some sweatpants and go down a few stairs, tying the drawstring and almost tripping over a stupid doctor doll. It hits the wall and sings “Time for your checkup!” at me. I scowl at the odd little thing and go down the rest of the stairs, making sure I don’t step on any more of Mila’s toys.

Mom’s really gotta get that baby another toy box for this house.

“Ads!” Ella whispers harshly. “Marc! Phone!”

I take it from her and hold it to my ear. “Hey.”

“Aidan! You genius!”

I pause, then frown. Kye snorts, and Ella glares at him, mouthing, “Shut up!”

I focus on the call. “Genius?”

“Getting a girlfriend before you screw up!” Marc exclaims. “Brilliant!”

“Uh . . .”

“Just hang on to her long enough for Kye to get one too, will you? The media will be looking at you very differently now that you’re taken. . . .”

“You should see Twitter,” Ella mutters, sipping on a smoothie through a straw. She leans back against the counter and kicks a cupboard door shut with her foot. Hell—she’s barely been here, but she looks right at home against the old farmhouse-style room.

I bat my hand at her to get her to shush, then scratch my forehead. “Marc, hold up. Jessie isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Wh-what?”

“Not my real one anyway. It’s a ruse.”

“Are you paying her for it?”

“No. I’m not—” I pause when I glance at Ella. “Never mind.” I explain the reasoning briefly and grab the spare slice of toast off Kye’s plate. He reaches to punch me but I dart away, grinning.

“Okay. Whatever. It works. Make it last long enough for the rest of Tate’s bullshit to pass over.”

“Tate has no bullshit. For once.”

“Oh.” He hesitates. “Then make it last long enough for your bullshit not to take over. It’s good for business when you’re behaving.”

Considering we get more publicity when one of us fucks up, that makes no sense. “Sure. I planned on it.”

“Good. Make this believable. Public. Get photographed whenever you can. Make it obvious. Lovey pics. Happy pics. Good, strong, real relationship pics.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Take her to dinner tonight. Charge it to the band credit card.”

“What?”

“This is publicity. Take her to the most expensive restaurant and show the world you’re serious about her.”

“Marc. This is fake.”

“I know, kid. But they don’t. And one nice date and your face is on the front page of every tabloid and paper and the top of every newsfeed. Keep it going as long as possible. We can use the speculation to launch the new album announcement in December.”

Tate grabs the phone from behind me. “We haven’t started recordin’ yet. Shit, we don’t have any fuckin’ songs! . . . A month and a half is dumb. It’s a damn fling, not forever. . . . Yeah, all right. I got it.” He turns and throws the phone onto the sofa. “Ella, darlin’, book a table at that fancy-ass place Dad took Mom for their anniversary a couple of weeks ago.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Hey,” I say, making him turn to me. “What about your ‘it’s a damn fling’ protestation?”

Tate sighs heavily, throwing his arms out to the sides. “What Marc wants, Marc gets. He’s the boss, after all. And he wants you in a relationship so sudden and unexpected that the whole world will be holding its breath waiting for you to propose by Thanksgiving.”

“Then we break up explosively, and while me and by default the band are thrust into a permanent limelight, we announce our new album and probably another tour. Great, a new spin on capturing the attention.”

His lips thin. “Exactly.” The word is short and sharp and he stalks out of the room, leaving a heavy silence to descend over me and Ella. She moves, but not to go after him. Instead, she gets up and walks across the room to me, stopping just in front of me. I could rest my chin on top of her head, she’s that much smaller than me, but she takes a deep, resigned breath, and looks up at me, her dark eyes full of worry.

“Ads, do you know what that means? What he’s expecting you to do?”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

She shakes her head, her ponytail swinging. “No. Marc is expecting you to spend no time with her beyond what you have to. He wants you to make the world believe you’re in love without you even liking each other.”

The reality sinks into the pit of my stomach. “He wants us to care so little that the breakup will be as easy as slicing through thin air.”

“Precisely. Now, I’ve only met Jessie a few times. But I like her.” Ella pauses. “She’s fun and she’s bubbly and she’s carefree. She’s my friend, Ads, and I don’t want her to get hurt. So I’m asking you to think about this before you do it. I know how easy it is to fall for one of you. She might hate you now, but one night is all it takes to fall in love.”

Our stare lasts for a long, long second as her words swirl around me and hit me with their truth. It would be so easy to change the dynamic we have. So easy for one fuck to go too far, one kiss to mean too much, one touch to be too full of emotion.

But we’re not lying to each other. Neither of us is under any kind of pretenses about the status of our relationship. It’s the biggest load of bullshit to drop on Shelton Bay since silage season. We both have far more things to gain than to lose, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Gaining. Whether it’s publicity for the band or freedom for her, it doesn’t matter. It’s still something we both need, and this is one surefire, easy way to get it.

“I appreciate your concern, Ella, but there’s far more to me and Jessie than you know. We’re like oil and water. This is nothing more than an arrangement of convenience.”

She sighs. “I’ll book your table. Seven?”

“Please. Can you have some flowers sent to her, too?”

“Which ones?”

“Whatever they have.” I shrug. “Flowers are flowers, aren’t they?”

“Aidan Burke, you have a lot to learn about women.” She shakes her head. “And . . .” She stops and looks at something on her phone, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth before releasing it slowly. “And I’ll also tip off some media about your dinner date, at the request of your manager. Fantastic. There goes my day off,” she adds with a mutter, walking away.

“Don’t worry,” I call after her. “I’ll make sure Tate gives you a bonus!”

She flips me the bird over her shoulder. “At least text your girlfriend about your date, okay?”

I laugh, dropping onto the sofa and grabbing the remote. “Got it!”

Flowers.

What the fuck am I supposed to know about flowers?

“You’re wearing that on a date? Are you serious?” Kye leans against my doorframe, staring at my T-shirt, a disgruntled reflection of myself.

“What am I supposed to wear? A fuckin’ tuxedo?”

“A shirt with buttons at least, you bum.”

“This whole thing is stupid.”

“Yet you’re the one who started it.”

“Moment of weakness. And stupidity. And remembering how good she is in bed.”

“I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

I grin at him, and he returns the exact same smile. “Of course I had an ulterior motive. I can’t stand her company, but she’s damn good when her mouth is doing something other than talking.”

“Have mercy,” Mom sighs from the hall. “How’d I manage to raise four Southern gentlemen who are such disrespectful little shits?”

“Hey!” Kye argues. “I ain’t done a thing. It’s all him!”

“Like you respect women,” I snort.

Mom slaps us both in the back of the head, and we jump, rubbing the spot where her hand just collided, the way we’ve done so many times in our life. Fuck, I feel like I’m seven again.

“Y’all listen to me now!” she demands, straightening to her much-shorter-than-us full height. Somehow, though, she seems to tower over us. “I’ll have none of this ‘I like her because she’s good in bed’ nonsense in my house. We’re not in the fifties anymore, boys. Women are worth more than nightly entertainment.”

Kye opens his mouth to respond, but she points to the door, her eyes hard and practically screaming, I’ll talk to you in a moment. He follows her silent command and disappears through my door, leaving me solo to face the wrath of my mother at twenty-four years old.

“And you! Sit your ass down, boy.” She moves her pointing finger to my bed, and I take three steps back and perch on it. “I raised you better than this. I raised all y’all better than this. I know this lifestyle and your . . . manager . . . sometimes makes you forget how to behave yourself, Aidan, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna stand under my roof and talk about Jessie like that. A girl you’ve known almost your whole sorry life. I couldn’t give your father’s left testicle if you don’t like her or if y’all are still fighting from grade school. But if you’re gonna go through with this silly plan, you’re sure as hell gonna treat her like a lady and not a piece of trash. And that means takin’ off that goddamn T-shirt, pressin’ a shirt until it’s crisper than bacon on a Sunday mornin’, and watchin’ your mouth when you’re out with her.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Here.” She turns and opens my closet, pulling out a white shirt and throwing it at me. “Get yourself the iron from the laundry room and make that presentable.”

Tail between my legs, I pull it from the hanger and stand up, laying it over my arm. Shit, I’m well and truly chastised.

“And, son?” Mom puts her hands on her hips. “You’re a gentleman. Act like it. You better hold her door open and carry her purse and kiss her hand when you help her from a car. You got that?”

“Understood, Mom.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m Mom when I’m your friend. I’m ma’am when I’m kickin’ your sorry little ass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, scooting past her.

Fuck me.

I love her, but sweet Jesus. I haven’t been yelled at like that since the time the ant farm I was hiding under my bed broke open.

I guess I’d better be on my best damn behavior tonight, because I wouldn’t put it past her to book a table at the restaurant for herself just to keep an eye on me.

Down the hall, I walk into the laundry room to see the ironing board is already set up with the iron turned on.

Damn. The woman has a sixth sense, I swear, and it goes way beyond that “mom sense” she tries to claim. She’s a fucking psychic.

I press the shirt until there isn’t a crease in sight and put it on. I do up the buttons and roll my sleeves up to my elbows, the tree tattoo curving around my wrist and snaking up my forearm exposed. Running back upstairs, I reach to grab my stuff from the nightstand, but I catch my reflection in the mirror.

My arms don’t fill out this shirt.

And . . . shit. I don’t wanna be the guy that works out before the date, but hot damn, Mom just verbally shoved my balls back up into my gut, so a workout it is. I unbutton my shirt and throw it on my bed then drop to the floor. I get into push-up position and drop my body, doing ten in quick succession. Glimpses of my reflection in the mirror show tensed muscles. Then, I grab the shirt and put it back on. This time it’s much-better-fitting around my arms, so I grab my stuff before I go back down and all but run out of the house to avoid any more awkward run-ins with my family.

The last thing I need is another once-over from my mom.

I have got to get my own apartment.

I drive across town, doing my best to ignore the black car that came into view just behind me almost as soon as I left my house. Looks like Ella followed Marc’s instructions and tipped off the media about tonight’s date.

My stomach twists as I turn off Main Street and make it through the intersection just before the light goes red. The black car gets stuck behind it, and my lips tug up into a smile. I’m fucking delighted about it, and my laughter continues as I pull up outside Jessie’s house and jump out, leaving the truck still running.

The front door to her house opens and a girl’s voice rings out “Screw you!” before it slams. I hover by the truck, simultaneously hoping the screw you was and wasn’t to me, and wait.

The click click of a pair of high heels sounds, getting louder as they get closer, and I look up as the gate opens.

Her red hair is curled and swept over one shoulder, contrasting with her bright blue dress in the most stunning way. Her eyes are brushed with nothing but mascara, and her lips are as red as her hair, pursed and pouty. Her dress flares at her hips, stopping just above her knees, and as I drag my eyes down farther, I swallow at the sight of the black heels hugging her feet. The same ones I fucked her in, I’d bet anything.

“Are you tryna kill me?” I ask, opening the door of my truck for her.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Right now? No. But don’t push your luck.”

Her feistiness makes me laugh, and I take her hand, helping steady her as she pulls herself up into the truck. “I’m just being a gentleman,” I tell her when she shoots me a suspicious look. “And I’m under orders to make this as believable as possible, so if you see camera flashes, go with it.”

“How very gentlemanly of you,” she retorts dryly, swinging her smooth legs fully in and setting her purse on her lap.

I press my lips to her fingers and wink. “I’m a work in progress, sunshine.” I grin mischievously and walk around to my side, feeling her unamused gaze on me. By the time I get in and pull away, she looks like she wants to torture me by peeling off my skin, layer by layer, and throwing me into a pit of pure vinegar.

I glance at her as I drive through town, but she’s ignoring me. Her eyes are fixed on the side-view mirror. The reflection of the black car fills it, and Jessie purses her lips as she studies it following us.

“Company already. Nice.” The words are dripping with sarcasm.

“You knew what you were getting into when you—”

“Careful how you word the rest of that sentence, rocker boy.”

I smirk. “—decided to fake date me.”

“Yes. Which just happened to coincide with the moment you declared yourself my boyfriend in front of Shelton’s biggest gossips.” She rolls her eyes.

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again. You looked like you were about to lose your shit, and my hero complex kicked in. I can’t help bein’ this alpha.”

Jessie scoffs. “Well, Mr. Hero Complex, not every woman is a damsel in distress. We don’t all need a knight in shining armor to gallop in on his alpha horse and save the day. Some of us are perfectly capable of saving ourselves.”

“Next time I’ll leave you to it.”

“Sure you will. That’s why we’re here at some dumb fancy restaurant. It doesn’t have shit to do with your hero complex. It’s so you can use me for publicity to promote the album you don’t even have songs written for yet.”

Her honesty strikes through me like a knife.

She turns in her seat, finally bringing her eyes to meet mine. Blue and bright and scathing, she glares at me with enough anger to make my balls shrivel up into my gut. “Yeah. You forget I’m friends with your family. You might not listen to them, but I do.”

A hint of vulnerability is running through her voice. It mixes with the truth of her words, and guilt snakes its way through my veins. She’s right—Ella did try to tell me. And I didn’t listen.

Jessie reaches over and puts her hand on the steering wheel as the lights turn red. “You know what? Take me home. I didn’t agree to be your public bitch, Aidan. I didn’t sign up to be your freakin’ publicity stunt. I’m not fancy dresses and high heels and perfectly coiffed hair. I’m Spanx and bare feet and a messy twist on top of my head. I’d much rather slob it out on my sofa than go and impress a ton of people I don’t care about. I’m not the girl your manager wants me to be.”

“Are you wearing Spanx right now?”

“Excuse me?”

I smirk at her squeak and glance at her, a grin threatening when I see her jaw go slack and her eyes widen. “Are you wearing Spanx right now?”

“What does that have to do with you taking me home?”

“Just answer the damn question, Jessica Law,” I demand, seeing the restaurant we’re going to.

“It’s Jessie!” she snaps. “And yes! I am wearing Spanx!”

“Okay.” I pull into the parking lot. “Can you run in those shoes?”

“They’re five inches tall. I can obviously run a marathon.” Amusement glimmers through the annoyance in her eyes, just for a second, and her cheeks twitch as she fights the obvious curving of her lips.

“Trust me.”

Jessie

Trusting Aidan Burke is the very last thing I want to do.

In fact, I can’t think of anything worse. It’s akin to having a rusty six-inch nail hammered through my Achilles tendon. But there’s something. . . . There’s something in his voice, an understanding softness laced with gentle laughter that makes me want to trust him. Just for tonight—for right now.

Would it hurt, really? Would trusting him right now really kill me?

And it’s not like I don’t have weapons on my person. Stilettos can be lethal.

“Okay . . .” I say slowly as he pulls into an empty parking space. “What are you thinking?”

He grabs my headrest and twists his body, looking out the back window. Involuntarily, my eyes drop to the tattoo curving around his forearm. The pine trees stretch up, the black ink standing out against his lightly tanned skin, and I can’t stop myself from tracing every minute detail of the branches that stretch out and envelop his lower arm.

“Let’s go.” He yanks his keys from the ignition and shoves his door open, jumping out and running to open mine before I’ve even registered his words or movements. “That doesn’t mean sit there like a lobster waiting to be boiled, Jessie.”

“Shut your face!” I laugh, unbuckling my seat belt and swinging my legs around the seat.

Holy shit, it’s a long way down from this thing.

Aidan rolls his eyes and steps forward, wrapping his arm around my waist. I squeak and grab his neck, holding him tightly as he lifts me smoothly from the truck. He sets me down on the ground, and with his right arm still firmly around me, he swings the door shut and presses the button on his key to lock it.

The lights flash, illuminating a sleek black car in orange as it pulls into the lot. Aidan ushers me toward the door of the restaurant a little faster than I can manage in these shoes. Maybe he didn’t understand my sarcasm about the marathon.

“What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” he repeats, looking at me with a smile that might just make my stomach flip. I purse my lips as the door is opened and he ushers me inside. “Wait here.”

My lips part as he leaves me standing by the host and disappears toward the bar in the back corner. The dimly lit restaurant obscures my view of him, meaning I definitely can’t try and lip-read the conversation he’s having with a suited man I assume is the manager. They nod their heads and shake hands, and I glare as Aidan comes back to me.

That smile is back on his face—the stomach-flipping one. The little spine-shivery one. The one I’m hating that I like. “Come on.”

“To where?”

He shrugs. “Somewhere you can wear your Spanx and no shoes.”

I frown, and he takes my hand when I don’t move. “Are we supposed to be here?” I ask when he pulls me through the door marked STAFF.

“I told you to trust me. I promise I ain’t gonna kill you and bury you in the woods.”

“Oh, now I’m convinced to trust you.” I roll my eyes. “Just so you know, the heels on my shoes are real sharp, and I’m not afraid to use them as a weapon.”

His eyes glimmer with laughter. “Noted, sunshine.”

“That nickname really pisses me off.”

“I know,” Aidan whispers, leaning in so his breath flutters across my cheek. “But I have to admit, I love the irony of it.”

“Because I’m such a ragey bitch?”

He pushes open the back door of the restaurant, where a car is waiting. A tall, built guy is holding the door for us, his hair trimmed short and the sharp planes of his face illuminated by the restaurant’s security light.

Aidan grins, walking backward toward the car. “You call it ragey, I call it sexy. It’s all in the eye of the beholder, baby.”

“You’re crazy.” I shake my head, fighting my smile, because his is just so damn infectious.

“Ajax,” Aidan greets the man. “That was quick.”

“It’s why you pay me,” he replies with a quirk of his lips.

“Jessie, this is Ajax, the head of our security. And the guy inside the car is Carlos,” Aidan says, handing Ajax his truck keys.

“Miss Jessie,” Ajax takes my hand and kisses it softly.

“Hey,” Aidan says. “You’re gonna show me up in the gentleman department.”

“Yeah?” Ajax drawls. “How’s that workin’ out for him?” he asks, looking at me.

“Kind of rough. He might need some etiquette lessons,” I reply, cutting my eyes to Aidan. “On second thought, he definitely needs some. A real gentleman would never look at a lady like he wants to haul her off over his shoulder caveman-style.”

Ajax laughs as I get into the car. Aidan follows, sliding across the seat until his side is pressed against mine, and he slips his hand between my thighs. “On the contrary,” he murmurs into my ear, the low husky tone of his voice making my heart thump loudly. “A real gentleman absolutely would haul his lady off over his shoulder—and he’d smack her ass for good measure, too.”

“Are you threatening me?” I turn my face to his and inhale when his breath ghosts over my lips.

“Promising.”

“There’s a difference?”

“A real big difference.” He creeps his fingers up the inside of my thigh.

I shiver at his touch. The tremors that creep across my skin slowly are white hot, and I can almost feel my body being smothered at his insinuation—and damn it all, my body wants to know exactly what the difference between a threat and a promise is. What his difference is.

“Did you just call me your lady?” I raise an eyebrow, removing his hand from its all-too-warm-and-comfortable resting place.

“Fuck no. I don’t have to be in Mensa to know you belong to no one but yourself, sunshine.” He brushes his fingertips across my jaw and turns me to face him. My eyes flutter shut, but I force them open and make myself meet his unwavering gaze. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a part of me that kind of wants to make you mine. Just to see if you’ll break.”

“Theoretically, of course.” My words are whispers, so I clear my throat. “Right?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Theoretically. If there were a single part of me that wanted this relationship to be real.”

“It’s always a pleasure to know we’re on the same wavelength.”

“So we’re agreed that sex is on the table tonight?”

“Wait, what? I don’t remember agreeing to sex. Ever.”

“Ever, huh?” His eyebrow curves slowly. Sexily.

“Except that one time. One time, Aidan.” I hold my finger up between us as his lips move to the side in a knowing smirk. “I agreed to be your girlfriend in public, and that didn’t include your fuck buddy in private.”

“Can we put sex on the table?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because in case it escaped your notice, I was drunk when I had sex with you. More drunk than I should have been.” I sniff and fold my arms. “So the only way you’re getting me to have sex with you is by getting me drunker than I was then.”

The car comes to a stop and Aidan leans over me, pushing my door open. He unbuckles the seat belt from my hip and I take it from him before he can remove it from across my body, because, you know, I can do that. And maybe because I feel bad for telling him I’d never sleep with him unless I’m drunk.

Who the hell am I kidding? I’m female. All he’s gotta do is slip his hand between my legs again and tickle my thigh like he just was and there’s a 90 percent chance I’m going to mount him.

Apparently hormones are stronger than common sense.

He gets out of the car, cutting a dull figure as he does. Guilt slithers through me, so I swing my legs out after him, tug my dress down, and hesitate.

“Wait,” I say as he walks in front of me, illuminating the bitty ground of the woods with his phone screen. The harshness of my words really do hit me, and I bend down to pull off my heels so they don’t sink, like the simple act of covering my stomach will absorb the impact of my own bitchiness.

He turns, flashing his light at my feet. “You want my shoes?”

“What for?”

“To get to my truck.”

I’m not even going to ask how that got here. “I’m a country girl, Ads. I’d rather have mud between my toes than a stiletto blister on my heel any day of the week.”

I can’t see his grin in the dark as he walks to the truck cab and turns his key so the light comes on, but I can feel it. Hear it. I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s almost as if the upturn of his lips is a jingle—like the ones in Christmas commercials. The cheesy, dumb ones that you always want to turn off but find yourself humming when you’re in the shower.

That’s it.

His smile is a Christmas jingle. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, you just can’t get it out of your head.

“Here.” Aidan pulls the tailgate down and pats it.

I set my heels down on the truck bed and narrow my eyes. Pillows, blankets, all thrown in haphazardly, like Sof’s daughter Mila tried to make a blanket fort but gave up after hauling everything up here. “What is this?”

He sighs. “This is our first ‘date.’ ” He grasps my waist, his fingers stroking my sides as he gets his grip right and lifts me until I’m sitting on the tailgate, my legs swinging beneath me.

“I don’t understand,” I say softly, pushing my bangs from my eyes and looking at him.

He shrugs before pulling himself up next to me. He gets to his feet and walks across the truck bed until he reaches the back, then drops down among one half of the pillows. “I’m an asshole, Jessie.” He looks at me slowly. “I’m not Prince fuckin’ Charming and I ain’t ever gonna pretend to be. Except for maybe that one time in the café.”

I fight my smile.

“But I’m not so much of an asshole that I’ll make you do shit you don’t wanna do. Jesus, baby, you don’t wanna dress up in fancy shit for a fancy meal you’re gonna hate every second of, then don’t do it. It’s just that simple. If you’d rather have pizza and wear yoga pants, then we’ll do that for our fake date. But I draw the line at shitty rom coms.”

My heart thaws toward him. Just a little. “Then why didn’t you ask me if I was okay with it? The fancy meal.”

“Because I’m a guy, and my default is ‘presumptuous bastard.’ ”

I look at him and smile, turning my whole body toward him. I want to agree with him—tell him he’s right. He is a presumptuous bastard. That a bunch of red roses and a dinner summons isn’t the way to make me even want to pretend to be his girlfriend. And that’s exactly what I say.

He tilts his head, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing what seems like barely-there outlines of small tattoos curving across the top of his chest. “Red roses, huh? How’d you like those?”

“That sounds awfully like you don’t know what flowers you sent me.” I raise an eyebrow.

“There’s a chance I may not know the difference between roses and daisies and enlisted some help.”

“Basically, you asked Ella.” A smile threatens as he pauses, taken off guard. “It’s okay. Whatever. But, um . . . I’m sorry.”

He turns to me slowly. “Did you drink before you came out?”

Ignoring him, I continue. “For what I said. Just then. About having to be drunk to sleep with you. That was uncalled for.”

“Don’t sweat it, sunshine. You could have said ‘blind.’ Or ‘stupid.’ Or ‘dead.’ ”

I swallow my laugh and crawl up the truck.

“Totally just saw right down your dress.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, tugging my dress up and down at the same time as I settle into a corner and reach for a blanket. The radio is playing quietly as I pull the cover over my legs, making it pool around my waist, and lean back to look at him. He rolls his head to face me as I pick at a loose thread on the corner of my blanket. “I wouldn’t have to be drunk to sleep with you. Or not as drunk as I just made out. At all. I mean, it wasn’t bad. Sleeping with you, that is. Being drunk is always bad, especially the next day. Sleeping with you was good.”

“Just good?”

“Oh shit.” I run my hand down my face. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t need to be drunk, okay? Just maybe tipsy. Or merry. Or happy. Or high on sugar or something. I can think of worse things is what I think I’m trying to say. Oh my God, why am I allowed to talk? Why has my voice not been taken away?” I clap my hand over my mouth, but remove it instantly. “I need to shut up. Like, now. Because I’ve already made a total ass of myself. Like, ten times over. Holy—”

He’s leaning over me, grinning, white shirt tight and straining across his shoulders and upper arms. One hand is gripping the side of the truck bed and the other is coming up to cup my chin and tilt my face up until our mouths are a breath apart and I don’t know how to breathe that breath or think or move or breathe or move or breathe.

“Jessie,” he whispers, so much in my name. So much, but just nothing. So much nothing but so much everything. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” I squeak, because that breath of space becomes a nothing of space, and the only thing I know is the firm press of his lips covering mine and his fingertips holding my jaw.

This kiss wasn’t meant to happen—not like this, just us two, in I don’t even know where, in the back of his truck with the radio buzzing quietly, pillows and blankets surrounding us and the stars blinking through the trees.

It was supposed to be a forced kiss in front of cameras.

Not one that feels kind of real with no one but the darkness as a witness.

But, for the life of me, as his hand curves around the back of my neck and I clutch his shirt in my hands, I can’t bear to pull away. As warmth and desire and the unrelenting feeling of being wanted for just a split second worms its way through my body in a sensation so strong it could easily become addictive, there’s nothing I want to do more than sit here in the back of his truck like a couple from a part-swoony, part-corny country song, and let Aidan Burke kiss me until he gives me back the breath he just stole.