“Tell me you don’t regret it. I need to hear it.”
She was quiet for a few long seconds.
He gave her a small squeeze. “I need to know, Kylie Lou. Before anything else happens between us. I need to know if you regret anything. Being with me, giving me your virginity, touring with me, any of it.”
He thought his head might fucking explode while he waited for her response. Finally her chest pressed against him. He felt the sob before he heard it.
“Oh, baby, no. Please don’t cry.”
“No,” she said with a surprisingly even voice. “No, I don’t regret any of it.” Her body went slack against his under the weight of her confession.
“You had a big day. Ambulances and canceled shows and all that. Let’s get you to bed.”
Trace scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the head of the bed. After tucking her in, he sat in a nearby chair.
“You’re not coming?” she asked quietly, her voice thick with exhaustion. Or intoxication—he wasn’t sure.
Apparently not. “I’m good right here. You need to get your rest. Doctor’s orders.” He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his fist. “If I get in that bed, you won’t get a bit of sleep and we’ll just have to cancel tomorrow’s show too.” He winked at her and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead before resuming his position.
Her eyes blinked slowly when she turned on her side to face him. “I was looking for you because...because I wanted tell you something. I needed to tell you something.”
He was tempted to make a joke. To pretend what had just happened wasn’t as monumental as it actually was. But the sexy-as-hell sleepy-eyed look she was giving him and the raw vulnerability she was exuding were compounding the hell his dick was giving him for not giving her what she’d wanted. What they both wanted. And all the blood was still residing south of his brain so he couldn’t even think of a good joke anyway.
“What is it, pretty girl?”
“I tried so hard to stop but…but I couldn’t.” She wrapped her arms around the pillow beneath her and yawned.
He brushed the strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes out of her face.
“Couldn’t stop what, Kylie Lou?”
“Loving you,” she breathed, effectively sucking all the air from his lungs with the strength of an industrial vacuum. A tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth as her eyes fell closed. “I still love you, Trace. And it’s exhausting pretending that I don’t. I thought you should know.”
Before he had time to say it back—to tell her that he’d never be worthy of her love, but that he’d gladly take it and try to be—she was asleep.
TRACE WOKE up with one hell of a crick in his neck. He winced when he tried to turn his head only to find the sun glaring in his face.
He couldn’t remember why he’d slept in a chair instead of his bed. He blinked several times and the room came into focus.
It was a hotel room. An empty hotel room.
The previous night’s events came rushing back to him all at once. His eyes landed on the empty bed.
Where the hell is she?
He let himself hope that maybe she was in the bathroom and now that she was sober and rested, they could talk. He could tell her that he loved her, was in love with her. He was ready to do all that mushy shit he’d swore he never would. Tell her every detail of the moment he fell in love with her and why. Discuss the next step in their relationship. And then he could give her what she’d come to him for last night. If she still wanted it. God, he hoped she still wanted it.
He was still smiling at the memory of her in his arms, of their hot-as-hell encounter in the hotel elevator.
Until he saw the note she’d left on his pillow. It was written on the hotel stationery.
Thanks for not taking advantage last night. Sorry for throwing myself at you. Won’t happen again.
-K
“Dammit,” he shouted into the empty room. His open palm smacked the wall above the headboard, sending a jolt of pain screaming up his arm in response.
He lowered himself onto the bed. Which was a huge fucking mistake. Because it smelled like Kylie Ryans and bourbon.
He didn’t even care anymore. He would drink when he fucking wanted to drink. Because it didn’t even matter.
He’d taken the high road, tried to do what was best for her, and he’d still screwed up somehow.
And the cruel joke that was his life, he’d gotten his girl back for what felt like mere seconds. Only to lose her. Again.
Because he wasn’t just a fuck-up. He was a champion first-class fuck-up. A regular fuck-up would have lost her. But no, not him. He hadn’t just lost her.