Consumed(31)

“I should.” The king-size bed squeaks as he leans in close to me and places his hand on my bare knee. “I should say f*ck sleep and spend my last few hours in my bed inside of you instead of arguing over shit I can’t change. It f*cks with my head enough as it is without you reminding me.”

I cover his hand with mine, entwining our fingers as he gives the sensitive spot on my kneecap a little squeeze. “I don’t want that.”

But I do want honesty.

He pulls in a deep breath, and when he continues, his voice is calmer. “I know you don’t. All you need to know about Sam is that we’re done. That thinking about her is bad for music. Bad for this tour. Shit for me.”

Once, he told me I was bad for music, but I understand how his ex-wife could screw with his productivity. Even if I don’t understand the reason behind all of his evasiveness. Scooting away from him, I slide off the edge of the bed.

“Si—” he starts, but I shake my head.

“I’m fine.” I walk through pitch black to the bedroom door and turn the dimmer switch just enough to get a good look at his face. His dark eyebrows are pulled tightly together, and he’s dragging the palm of his hand across the dagger-filled heart tattoo covering his chest. “I’m going to grab a water, need anything?”

He shakes his head, and as go into the hallway, his voice freezes me. “This is still f*cking new to me.”

Tension pulls my shoulder blades together. “I know it is. Be back in a few.”

I spend longer than a few minutes downstairs because I make the mistake of grabbing my laptop from the huge pile of luggage waiting in Lucas’s foyer. As I drink a bottle of water, I check my email. Three Google Alerts that have made it into my inbox since the last time I checked several hours ago.

Each notification leads me to an article that connects me with Lucas Wolfe and Your Toxic Sequel.

“Nashville-Based Designer Consumes the Wolfe,” I whisper, reading one of the gossip titles aloud. Beneath the caption is a photo—one that I hadn’t realized was being taken because it’s me from behind—of Lucas and me earlier this evening during one of our rare moments alone. His hand is resting on the small of my back, and he’s leaned in close to me, his full lips worked up into a sexy grin.

Because I’m not quite ready to take a massive blow to my confidence by reading what his fans have to say about this, I exit out the website instead of scrolling down to the 87 comments that have already been posted.

I knew this was bound to happen. Eventually. I just hadn’t realized that the press would climb onto it so soon.

I start to sign out of my email, but a new message at the top of my inbox stops me. It’s an inquiry form sent directly from the website I had a friend create for my wardrobe consulting. I click on it, expecting a request for a price quote or a message from one of my clients.

Instead, it’s a short message that has absolutely nothing to do with my job. Three sentences but just enough to send my world spinning.

He didn’t waste anytime getting back with you. Hope you enjoy it, Sienna Jensen. I just wonder . . . will you still want him when I’m done.

-SAMANTHA W.

There’s no need for me to sit around wondering if this is from the Samantha because it’s obvious. Speak of the unstable devil—the devil who had personally sought me out on my business website just to send me a passive aggressive message. With my fingers and hands tingling, I close my laptop, shove it back into the bag, and return it to the foyer. I tiptoe upstairs where I find Lucas facedown, sleeping soundly.

Standing on my side of the bed, I clench and unclench my hands, wanting to wake him up though I know it’s pointless. Telling him that his ex electronically threatened me—if I can even call it that—will do nothing but frustrate him. And besides, it’ll just make me sound like I can’t handle my shit—the exact thing that Sinjin warned me about earlier.

He doesn’t budge when I stretch out beside of him, or when I clear my throat.

“When this is all over, you, Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe, will tell me everything.”





Lucas





The shrill ring of my phone, and not my alarm clock, jerks me out of bed. Sienna is sleeping peacefully in the bed next to me, and the room is dark, but I know we’re running late. I accept the call, knowing damn well who’s waiting on the other line without looking at the screen.

“Wake up,” Kylie sings. “And don’t give me that crap about already being up. I can practically hear the yawn in your breathing.”