Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)(15)

“It’s called a beard,” Wyatt interjected.

“It’s called ridiculous,” Ryder shot back. “Now pretend you have manners and say hello to Poppy, will you?”

“I’m pretty sure Poppy won’t complain about his manners,” Jared said slyly. “And they’ve already said a lot more than hello.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ryder looked concerned. “Have you been around before? I’m usually pretty good with faces, but did I—”

“Oh, no. We’ve never met before,” she rushed to reassure him. “I actually came to the club last night to see you play. I’d planned to introduce myself after your set, but…” She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. What was it about this band that had her constantly feeling like an idiot?

“But she met Wyatt first and forgot all about the rest of us. Isn’t that right, Wyatt?” Jared continued to poke at the both of them. “In fact—”

“That’s enough, Jare,” Wyatt said, pushing back from the table and crossing the room to take her hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Fuck. She went weak at the first touch of his palm against hers, at the first look from those crazy, electric-blue eyes of his. The last time he’d stood this close to her, those eyes had been hidden by shadows, as had most of the rest of him. And still it had taken him less than five minutes to have her coming against his mouth. Here, now, in the bright light of day, he was even more overwhelming. Even more enticing.

Despite her best intentions, and the very stern talking-to she’d given herself in the shower that morning, she could feel her knees tremble and her panties grow damp just from the look in his eyes. Just from the promise of dark sex and darker pleasure that rolled off him in waves.

He was too sexy for his own good. Definitely too sexy for the good of her mental health. Oh, she’d always known he was hot—it was pretty hard to miss it, after all. But since he’d gone to rehab, he looked different.

Sure, his height was the same—all six feet, two inches of it—as were his razor-sharp cheekbones and long, lean build. But everything else had changed. His perennially long, caramel-colored hair had been cut into a shaggy fringe that almost completely covered one of those Pacific Ocean blue eyes. His usual irregular scruff had been trimmed into a neat beard and the ring he normally wore on the right-hand corner of his bottom lip was long gone.

Was it any wonder she hadn’t recognized him in the shadows last night? Without a clear look at his face, and with his black and white tattoo sleeves covered, there was nothing about him that screamed Wyatt Jennings. At least not the Wyatt Jennings she and the public were used to.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t still the hottest thing she’d ever seen. Because he was. Oh God, he was. And when she added in the ripped jeans and tight black T-shirt that showed off both his model’s build and his spooky and spectacular tattoos to their best advantage, was it any wonder she was practically salivating? Any wonder that for long seconds all she could think about was what it felt like to have his mouth on her clit and his fingers inside of her?

Not what you’re here for, she reminded herself a little desperately. Not what you’re supposed to be thinking about. But how could she not think about it when Wyatt was standing right in front of her, looking like that? Looking at her like that?

Then again, everyone in the room was currently looking at her expectantly, like she was supposed to say something. She wracked her brain, tried to remember the one sentence Wyatt had said to her. But he’d said it after he’d taken her hand, and since her entire body had turned into a live electrical wire at the first brush of his skin against hers, she had no idea what that one, simple sentence had been.

Finally Quinn—who was definitely the most social of the group—took pity on her. “So, you guys met at Antone’s last night?”

“Yeah. We did.” Wyatt still didn’t drop her hand. “Although I didn’t realize who Poppy was at the time.”

“I didn’t know who Wyatt was, either,” she blurted out as she fought her way through the sensual haze his proximity put her in. “At least not until Jared came looking for him. It was dark and he looks different than he used to and I totally feel like an idiot. If I’d known—” She cut herself off when she realized she was babbling.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Wyatt told her, half-amused and half-soothing. “I’m just the drummer. Nobody ever recognizes me.”

“Right,” Jared agreed, and though his words dripped with sarcasm she couldn’t help noticing that his eyes—and his smile—had warmed considerably when he looked at her. “You’re such a wallflower I’m surprised anyone even knows you’re in the band.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be fame-whore lead guitarists,” Wyatt shot back.

“Fame is the burden I have to bear,” Jared answered primly. “It’s not my fault I’m the pretty one.”

Poppy burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. The whole group was a lot funnier than their bad-boy images led people to believe, and she loved it. Loved pretty much everything about them.

Jared lifted a brow at her, pretended to look injured. “Excuse me, but is all that laughter supposed to imply I’m not the pretty one?”

“No, of course not! You’re totally the pretty one. You’re the prettiest, absolutely.”