Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)(23)

But I can’t give voice to those feelings, nor can I give in to them. I’m doing this with Miller for the chance to make a little extra to support Chloe and me. I’m not doing this to scratch an itch for thirty days.

Sex itches can be scratched with battery-operated friends.

I’ll do what any brave heroine faced with a challenging task would do—badass her way through it with a sword, never giving in, never surrendering.

Before he leaves, we play a quick game of Bananagrams, unleashing our inner twelve-year-olds when he plays titular and I build dongle off his L. We decide that those two words are so quintessentially dirty-but-not that we might as well make the game a tie.

“I wish you a titular goodnight,” he says with a wink as he heads to the door.

“May you have a wonderful dongle,” I say, but I can’t stop laughing, and I’m glad Bananagrams has rerouted my racing hormones.

Once he’s gone, though, the silliness stops, and so does my laughter.

Instead, all night long I fight off images of him. His hazel eyes flickering with desire. His strong body, moving over me. His lips brushing mine.

The next day, those images intensify, so I take out my imaginary sword of resolve and slash them to tattered bits.

I head to the recording studio, prepared to do battle with my newfound and most inconvenient lust.





Chapter 15





Miller



As I sing to Ally, I tell myself I could just as well be singing with Campbell or Miles. “Maybe, if you come back to me . . .”

But hell, I wouldn’t sing those words to my brothers. We’d sing them together to an audience of faceless thousands.

Only, Ally is my audience, and I’m hers, and I should not be thinking of what my audience would look like in my bed.

Stunning, and hovering on the edge of pleasure.

I part my lips to sing the next line. “Maybe if you come hard with me.”

I groan in frustration as I botch the line of a song I wrote a few months ago and tweaked on my piano the other day for the two of us. My hormones are having a fucking field day. Little evil imps.

Ally stops, gesturing take five to the engineer in the sound booth.

She closes the distance. “You’re stiff.”

Stiff. She doesn’t know the half of it. Iron spikes have nothing on me. Because Honey Lavender is in the house, singing, dancing, shimmying, and raising my flagpole.

“You need to let go,” she tells me, smoothing her hands over my shoulders, and even that’s arousing.

Everything is with her today.

She’s like a sultry torch singer. She might as well don a red satin dress and slink her way across a baby grand piano, singing Billie Holiday’s “These Foolish Things.”

And I’d be that guy in the smoky, dimly lit jazz club, wearing a dapper suit, unable to take my eyes off her as she seduces me with bedroom eyes and her bourbon voice.

Only, I can’t be that guy. I can’t let my best friend turn me into a full-blown horndog.

So instead, I’m a robot today.

Clunky and awkward and banging into everything.

I never ever had these problems when I sang with my brothers.

Obviously.

“I’m all good,” I say, like I’m one cool cat. I roll my shoulders as if all I need is to slough off the day’s worries.

“You’ve been tense all morning.”

Singing with her is the cruelest torture, and it’s killing me not to grab her and yank her against me during every verse.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night,” I lie. I slept like a baby. I had a jerk followed by eight full hours, just like the doctor ordered.

She tugs my hand, pulls me through the booth and out into the hall. Weirdly, it’s more private here.

“Miller, you know what made us click the other day?”

I shrug, shoving a hand through my hair in frustration.

“You said it yourself. It was chemistry.”

“Right. Sure. We sounded good together.”

“And we looked good together,” she says. “Don’t forget that. We had that je ne sais quoi.”

“Fine. We had some je ne sais quoi. Where did it go?” I pretend to look around. “Is it down there?” I point to the end of the hall. “Is it hiding under the carpet?”

She sets her hand on my heart, and my breath hitches. “It’s here. It’s us. It’s our friendship.”

“It is?”

She nods, certainty in her eyes. “Yes. It gives us a freedom to be physical with each other. A hand on an arm, a naughty look.”

That’s from friendship? I thought it was from this bizarre new desire to fuck her, which I NEED TO IGNORE TILL THE END OF TIME.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Because we know each other. Because we trust each other. We’re like . . .” She stares at the ceiling as if hunting for the right analogy. “Like dance partners. Don’t be afraid to dip me, or spin me, or bend me.”

I let out a tight breath, and the tension starts to fade. She’s telling me to be physical. She’s telling me to give in. For the sake of the music. “You’re saying we should be a little flirty?”

“Yes. I won’t bite.” She shimmies her hips like she’s loosening up for an exercise class. “Let’s have fun. Let’s play with the words, let’s get in character.”