The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(52)

“Whoops,” Yasmin says. “Lost Charlotte.”

Hudson bursts into tears too.

And even though this is exactly why my bookstore is as successful as it is—we are so relatable here—I say a silent thanks to the universe that Levi’s friend wasn’t around to witness this.





Eighteen





Levi



It’s mid-afternoon Sunday when I roll out of bed. I’m in New York, in my penthouse in Tribeca, and I would’ve been up a few hours ago if I’d gone to sleep before eight this morning.

Early morning was my only chance of catching Ingrid awake and free to chat, and since I was up until four working on a new song after flying in after Tripp’s bachelor party last night, it made sense to stay up a few more hours rather than miss her entirely today.

And now she’s running her kids between play dates and birthday parties.

I snap a picture of my view of the Manhattan skyline and text it to her.

No answer, so I hop in the shower.

She’d like my shower. It’s state-of-the-art, with wall nozzles and a rain shower head. Heated towel rack within easy reach. Heated floors too.

It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, and I’ve rubbed more than one out to fantasies of her wet and naked in the shower with me. Here. Copper Valley. My place in LA. Any shower will do. That look on her face when she came in her hallway—and how easy it was to get her there—I want more.

I want all of her.

And I currently hate my calendar for keeping me out of Copper Valley for the next eight days.

I have a dinner meeting with the president of my record label at eight, two days of meetings about my next album, and then my plane leaves for Germany Tuesday night. On any other trip overseas, I might call up an old friend from the area for a good time in my three spare hours. This time, I haven’t even left yet, and I want to be back home.

I’m getting attached. This isn’t normal.

But it’s not as unwelcome as it should be for a guy who’s known since birth that he wasn’t ever planning to settle down with a woman.

I picture sweeping her away for a weekend at a mountain cabin, snow falling outside, fire roaring in the hearth, me strumming my guitar while she reads a book, sometimes sharing her favorite passages with me, sometimes laughing softly to herself until I can’t resist being so close without touching her.

Stripping her.

Caressing her.

Tasting her.

Her hands exploring my skin.

Her eyes dark and needy.

Her lips parted, her tongue darting out, hungry and eager while she devours me with her eyes, so turned on that she’s subconsciously rubbing her own breasts.

I jerk my aching cock while the hot water pounds down on me.

Eight. Fucking. Days.

I don’t want to wait eight more days. I want to see her now.

And it’s not because I didn’t get off in her hallway. It’s not because things have to be even.

It’s because she’s hot. She’s smart. That mouth—whether she’s gasping my name or kissing me or sassing me over whatever, I want more of it. All of it.

I have an obsession, and her name is Ingrid Scott.

Even her name makes my nuts tighten and my cock strain, and I’m blowing my load in my hand before I’ve completely mentally stripped her.

One hundred percent official.

I have a problem.

She’s not my first no-strings relationship.

But she’s the first I can’t stop thinking about.

And no amount of showering until the water runs cold can wash her away, put her back in the for when I have a free minute box, or convince me that I have any right to ask to date her for real.

I’m out of town for the next eight days, home for two, out to…hell, I don’t even remember where I have to go, but I know I’m booked until Thanksgiving.

Tripp’s wedding weekend.

And then I’m not off-off the rest of the year, but I’m slowing down.

Just until January, when I take off the same way Ingrid’s ex apparently used to as well.

I’m in a foul mood when I walk out of my bathroom, rubbing my hair dry.

Almost miss the smell of coffee.

Did I set the timer?

Or— “Jesus Christ, asshole. Who let you in?”

Davis is stretched out on my couch, reading a book with a cartoon dog cop on the cover. He’s in cargo pants, a Nine Inch Nails concert T-shirt, and Chucks, which he has propped on my armrest. “The door. You wanna know what I know, or not?”

I glance down—not naked. I’m in a towel.

Lucky Davis. And now that my heart’s settling back in my throat, yeah, I’ll admit I’m glad to see the fucker. “I saw you last night at home and you couldn’t have made the offer then?”

“Nope.”

“What’s it gonna cost me?”

“If anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you don’t want anyone to know you’re in New York. And you could’ve avoided anyone knowing you’re in New York by not breaking into my place.”

He smirks.

“Hairy asshole,” I mutter. “You want them all to know you were here.”