The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(71)

He blinks at me, and suddenly, we’re both cracking up.

This.

This is what I want.

I can’t have it—not long term. My kids deserve someone who’d be around more than he’s gone, and honestly, I do too.

But tonight?

Tonight, I’m going to make the most of every single minute.





Twenty-Five





Levi



She’s everything I didn’t know I was missing.

The thought won’t stop bouncing through my head as I sit with Ingrid at the small table I set up in front of the windows overlooking downtown. She’s wrapped in my favorite bathrobe, moaning over bacon-wrapped scallops that I pan-fried myself while she slipped into the bathroom to freshen up.

She gestures to her mostly-empty plate. “Seriously, when did you learn to cook like this?”

“I went through a Cooking Channel phase during my Chase the Beat tour.”

“When was that? Two years ago?”

“Five.”

“Five?”

“I was on the floor talking about the stage set-up with my tour manager when Tripp called to tell me James was born. He’s five, so…”

She leans back and sips her wine, the robe gaping open enough to tease me with what I know is hiding underneath. “I like that you remember things based on family events.”

“What else would I track it on?”

“Seriously? That was the year I took home three Grammys, maybe?”

I shake my head. “Nah. That’s all frosting. And I like the cake better.”

She purses her lips, and my cock leaps again. I want her hands on me again. I want her mouth. I want her legs wrapped around my hips.

Now.

For dessert.

After dessert.

Before bed.

In the shower.

Against the glass windows.

In the morning.

The next day.

The day after.

“So if you like the cake better than the frosting, what’s your stance on chocolate chip cookies versus gelato?” she asks.

I reach across the table and slip my hand into her, rubbing her soft skin. “Gelato sandwich with chocolate chip cookie bread.”

“Ooh, you’re cheating.”

“Nope. Dreaming.”

“Well, if we’re dreaming, I want a birthday cake with cheesecake on the bottom—graham cracker crust, please, but a thick one, because I want to taste it—and a layer of salted caramel gelato on top of that, then a massive layer of brownies, which you’d have to pre-bake and smush on to get it right, so I’m probably doing this out of order, but I really want that graham cracker crust too, and then a huge swirl of homemade whipped cream, sprinkled with peanut butter cups and topped with a cherry, served by a shirtless man with glitter in his hair.”

“When’s your birthday?”

She laughs and squeezes my hand. “Nope. Not telling. You’d probably do it, and then I’d eat it all and die of a sugar coma.”

“I could get you a small one.”

“And then I’d let my kids eat it all.”

“Now you’re being difficult on purpose.”

Her eyes go distant, but she’s smiling. “Can you imagine Hudson on that much sugar?”

“You’d have to put a tracking device on him then turn him loose in Reynolds Park to run it off.”

“The poor squirrels.”

“And geese.”

“And the fountain.”

“And the rage yoga people.”

“Rage yoga? That’s a thing?”

Her eyes go comically wide, and I can’t decide if she wants to join the class, or if she’s mad at me because she thinks I made it up.

I lift my other hand. “Swear to god. It’s a thing. They almost took Beck out a couple years back when he pissed off the entire female population of the world.”

She laughs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ask Sarah sometime. She tells it best. Or Ellie. She saved him.”

The candles are getting low, and she’s not picking at what’s left on her plate anymore. And now she’s biting her lower lip.

I don’t know if it’s the suggestion that she hang out with people in my circle, or if it’s that she’s full, or if half a glass of wine will put her to sleep, but something has definitely shifted.

“Dishes,” she says suddenly. “You did all of my dishes. And made dinner. I should—”

“Leave them. No kids. No squirrels. I’ll get them tomorrow. I have a few more days before I have to hit the road again. Plenty of time to clean a few dishes.”

Her eyes flicker. “Lots of travel next month?”

“Few shows. Couple other things. But it’s light compared to normal. And once I’m home, I have a couple weeks actually off before it starts up again in January.”

Seventeen days, to be exact. And oh, the things I could do with Ingrid in my time off if I can convince her to trust my resources for finding babysitters.

“Hmm.” She frowns, but then her gaze drops to my chest, and she bites her lower lip.

Don’t tell my mother, but I’m eating dinner without a shirt on.