Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
A flush of heat hits my cheeks. “Ms. Darling, I cannot recant my earlier statement. Getting involved with a member of the tour is a bad decision and one that can affect everyone. Which means it will always be my business.”
All true. And I sound like an utter git. Fuck it all.
“You’re talking like a duke again.” She straightens and smoothes a hair back from her face. “Which means you’re feeling guilty.”
“Know me so well already, chatty girl?”
“Yes, I do.” She moves to pass me but pauses. “You’re not fooling anyone. And when you want to admit you were jealous, I’ll be waiting.”
With that, she walks away, her round hips swaying. I appreciate the view, even as I’m mentally kicking myself.
“It will be a long wait,” I call.
She flips me off without missing a step.
Hell, I do like this girl. Too bloody much.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
Men can suck it. Especially hot, suit-wearing, bossy, jealous, chest-thumping men. And he was jealous. Gabriel can deny it all he wants, but that whole freakout had nothing to do with looking out for his “boys.”
Maybe it’s weak of me to admit I’d find the whole incident a turn on if he’d done something physical about his jealousy—thrown me over his shoulder, proclaimed me his before fucking my brains out. Yeah, that would have been hot. But no, it was much more, stay away from my friends, and I’ll stay away from you. Not cool.
And embarrassing, because as quickly as I took him off to finish our discussion in private, I know people saw the start of it. You don’t bite the head off your lead guitarist in public and expect people not to talk. Especially when your guitarist runs away as though his life depended on it; thanks very much, Jax, you weenus.
I’m still fuming when Brenna seeks me out. “So sorry about that,” she murmurs, walking with me to my room.
“Were you going to assign me a bus?” I ask, zipping up my bag. “Or just throw me under one?”
She winces, her nose wrinkling. “I know, I know. I am a gossiping hag. I was low on caffeine and in a pissy mood.” Her gaze travels over me as if looking for battle scars. “I didn’t think Scottie would flip his shit like that. He doesn’t normally have a bad temper, but he’s been a bit off lately.”
“Off?” I ask, despite not wanting to talk about The Incident at all.
“Distracted. Snippy.” Brenna shakes her head, her ponytail swaying over her shoulders. “He’s always fairly deadpan and unflappable, stone cold.”
Gabriel leaning into me, his breath on my cheek, whispering please flashes through my mind. That man wasn’t cold or unflappable. But I don’t want to think about that version of Gabriel. My attraction to him is inconvenient and annoying. I have a job to do—one other photographers would kill for.
But Brenna is still eyeing me with remorse and worry. “I am sorry, Sophie. I didn’t mean to set him on you like that. Do you want me to talk to him?“
And poke the bear? I can imagine how that would go. “No, it’s fine. We worked it out.”
She looks dubious but nods. “Right then. You’ll be traveling with the guys.”
“Really?” I don’t know where I expected to be placed in our traveling caravan, but I hadn’t thought right with the band.
“They like to travel in one coach for camaraderie, and your job is to capture that, so it makes the most sense.”
“And they’re okay with this?”
Brenna grabs one of my bags, and we exit the room, heading down to the waiting cars that will take us to the buses. “Yeah. They’re a pretty open bunch, all things considered. And they trust me when I say you won’t post without permission.”
Translation: Don’t fuck that trust up for me.
“I want to thank you again for this opportunity,” I tell her. “I won’t let you or the guys down.”
Brenna smiles. “I know. I’m a good judge of character.”
I have to laugh at that. “I am too. I just seem to ignore my common sense when I most need it.”
“Shit, if we’re talking about our love lives, I know I have you beat. I’m a train wreck with an atomic bomb on the top.”
Before we enter the coach, Brenna hands me a small key for later use. We’re alone for the moment, and she shows me around. There’s not much to see. The front has a lounge space and a galley kitchen-bar to the side. It’s dark and sleek, and there are three TVs on different walls.
“The guys store instruments and a few small amps in the bins,” she says, pointing to ebony wood cabinets overhead. “And then there are the bunks.”
Mid-bus is reserved for bunks that line both walls, leaving a narrow hall. Four beds and then a small master bedroom at the very back, with an even smaller bathroom between them.