It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(43)

She skimmed her fingers over his chest, marking each rib with a tip, seemingly mesmerized by the way he felt beneath her hands. “Your body is like a sexual playground,” she murmured. “Like a swing, a slide and a merry-go-round all rolled into one.”

He grinned up at her, palmed her breasts and thumbed her nipples, then flexed determinedly beneath her. “Then ride.”

And she did.





8




HAVING BEEN SUFFICIENTLY distracted twice—once against the wall and once in the bathroom—Layla milked the final note of her final performance from her instrument, then casually strolled offstage. She’d done it, she thought. She’d played without once thinking of the audience. Bryant was standing off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, the strangest expression on his face.

Bewildered, indulgent…and oddly tortured.

Curiously enough, she understood that.

Things would never work between them on a permanent basis. She’d known that. He’d all but told her that he didn’t ever want to settle down. She’d agreed to the terms and she wouldn’t embarrass herself by trying to prolong the inevitable. Bryant had laid everything out for her so that she could make an informed decision before she slept with him.

She’d made the decision—she would accept the outcome.

That didn’t mean she would have to like it, because she didn’t. She hated that it was over between them before it had scarcely begun. Was she in love with him? Truthfully, she didn’t know. She’d never been in love before. She had nothing to compare this to. Looking at him made her chest hurt, having him inside her made her feel that her bones were going to melt with happiness. She loved listening to the sound of his voice, appreciated his keen mind and sharp wit. His smile lit her up, made her want to smile, too.

Was that love?

It was something, and she hated walking away from it—from him. But she would do it because that was what was expected of her.

“That was beautiful, Layla,” he said. “I might be biased, but I think Clint needs to forget Rusty and hire you on a permanent basis.”

She was flattered, but hell, no, and she told him as much. “Don’t you dare suggest that to him! I’ve been able to handle performing live because you’ve been distracting me—” her gaze tangled significantly with his “—but I’m not cut out for stage work.”

He sidled closer. “I’d be happy to distract you all the time if you joined the band,” he said.

“Take one for the team, eh?”

He laughed, searched her face. “Something like that.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ll build my house and stick to the studio.”

He nodded and his expression said he’d expected as much. “Wanna play Scrabble?” he asked, jerking his head toward the game.

No. She wanted to sneak out to the bus and make love to him again. She wanted to ask him to come to Christmas dinner with her family, then ask him to come home with her and make s’mores in her living room fireplace. She wanted to see him in her house and in her bed because she knew he “fit,” because she knew he belonged. But until he figured that out—and she was prepared for the hurtful fact that he probably never would—there was nothing she could do.

Instead, she blinked away the moisture in her eyes and the ache in her chest and said, “Sure.”

And the last word she played was bittersweet.



TELLING HIMSELF THAT HE was the master of his destiny, that he wasn’t going to be like his father, that what they’d had was wonderful but couldn’t possibly be sustained, Bryant followed Layla to her car at the Nashville airport under the guise of making sure she wasn’t attacked.

In truth, he didn’t want to be away from her and was dreading the moment when she would get in her car and drive off, when the contact would be lost.

He grimly suspected a part of him would be lost as well.

She turned and smiled up at him, but the grin was frayed around the edges and didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Here I am,” she said, clicking her doors open with the keyless remote. To his surprise she drove a truck.

He grunted. “I pictured you in something a little more sporty.”

She stepped out of the way while he stowed her bags. “This is more practical,” she said. “I hated asking my dad every time I found something I needed to haul home.”

That made sense. Little Miss Independent. He managed a grin. “Guess it’ll come in handy when you’re bringing all those flats of flowers home, huh?”

Another pained smile. “Yep.”

He studied her for a moment, wishing he could say the words that would allow this to last, to keep her near.