Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
I’m sorry, Bear had said.
Are you? I’d challenged, hoping against hope he’d say he hadn’t been—that, in fact, he’d wanted to do it again.
He hadn’t taken it back, though. Instead, he’d doubled down and reiterated just how sorry he was.
Apparently, kissing me was a regrettable activity.
Well, he could take that apology and shove it up his ass. Bear didn’t get to lecture me about people like my cousin using me for their own gains and then try to pretend the sexiest fucking kiss in recorded history hadn’t happened, as if my feelings didn’t matter one bit.
He wanted my honest emotions? He wanted me to be real with him and not fine?
Then he needed to know I was angry. That I was mad as a fucking wasp. That I was a whole nest of wasps, in fact, and they buzzed with restless intensity under my skin.
What was I supposed to do with this feeling? Of wanting him, getting a single taste of him, and then learning there were no more tastes coming?
And how was I supposed to act normal and pretend it hadn’t happened?
I tried to be reasonable and calm myself down. Was Bear even gay? I still didn’t know for sure. Had the kiss been some kind of failed experiment for him? Or was he so wonderfully and annoyingly dedicated to his job that he thought kissing me might somehow compromise my safety?
If so, he was dead wrong. I couldn’t be in the same room with my bodyguard anymore without feeling nervous and hot. Without feeling like my face and ears were going to melt off from the humiliation of wanting someone who didn’t want me back.
Without wondering if kissing me had been like getting a free sample of something that looked and smelled amazing at the grocery store and realizing it tasted like dog shit.
That was me. I was the dog shit.
And yes, my brain could argue against that conclusion perfectly well. Millions of fans around the world found me way more attractive than dog shit. I knew that, objectively. But there was nothing objective about this feeling of rejection from the man I was most attracted to. From the man I most wanted to like me back.
I was like a pathetic emo teenager, sitting alone in the darkening room, strumming my feelings out on a guitar.
I needed a distraction.
Better yet, I needed things to go back to normal with my close protection officer.
Which was why, when Bear poked his head into the sunroom after the sun finished slipping behind the mountains across the water, his eyes serious and wary and tentatively hopeful, and said, “Hey, I, ah… had an idea for dinner.” I set my guitar on the stand and stood.
“Yeah, okay. I’m easy.” Hopefully, he didn’t notice me wince at the embarrassing word choice.
“Hope you like horseradish.” Bear turned and moved toward the kitchen. My eyes flicked down to his ass out of habit.
He had clearly just showered because his hair was wet, and he was wearing different clothes than he’d had on earlier. Now, he was dressed in soft sweatpants—the kind that were loose at the hem and so thin from washing that the fabric draped over… everything… in a way that highlighted his assets rather than concealing them.
Goddamn.
I blinked and followed the lines of his body up to his broad shoulders, which pulled the smooth cotton of his T-shirt taut across his back. The shirt was new with a still-bright list of tour cities on it.
Halifax
Montreal
Toronto
Milwaukee
Detroit
Chicago
Minneapolis…
I remembered each city we’d visited late last year. Memories of shows came flooding through my mind, moments when Bear had pressed his large hand against my lower back to usher me through tunnels and down hallways. It had been during that portion of the tour that we’d truly broken the ice between us. Once someone had seen the ugly, backstage side of you, it was hard to keep them at arm’s length.
It had started with a few small moments.
In Halifax, he’d accidentally walked in on me while my voice coach was making me sing a silly song that repeated the line “Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers” over and over at ascending scale and speed. In addition to sounding ridiculous, I was also shirtless with a giant orange warming muff around my throat.
Somehow, he’d managed to say, “Micki is limiting the VIP meet and greet to fifteen minutes,” with a neutral expression.
In Toronto, I’d tripped in front of hundreds of people. Thankfully, Bear—or had I still called him Ryan then? He’d been “Bear” to me so long I couldn’t remember anymore—had been holding my elbow, so he kept me from face-planting. Then he’d immediately said in a voice loud enough to carry, “Sorry, Mr. Barlo. Didn’t mean to bump you.”
In Detroit, I’d been so tired I’d forgotten the name of my own hometown. “Where are you from in Georgia?” the hairstylist had asked, making friendly conversation. I’d stared at her in the mirror. “I have family in Valdosta. Anywhere near there?” she’d prodded.