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Steve had been chasing pussy since he could walk. The family cat had been terrified of his grabby toddler self and had run for her life, but he now appreciated the practice. Since puberty, he’d been chasing pussy of a different sort. And the five sexy goth ladies who were currently directing eye daggers in his direction—apparently they hadn’t appreciated being called hookers—might be running now, but he was sure it wouldn’t take much effort to catch his pick. And he already knew which one he wanted.
“I call dibs on Red,” he said when his bandmates shuffled into the car. Red was a mix of fire and ice he couldn’t resist.
“Excuse me?” she said, blinking a pair of stabby green-gold eyes.
He wondered what she looked like without the dark and heavy makeup, without the fancy clothes, with all her barriers down. He guaranteed he’d know before the night was over.
Dare, who was sitting to Steve’s right—apparently the entire band seemed keen on squashing Steve against the far wall—elbowed him in the ribs.
“You fucking moron,” Dare said close to his ear. “Those women aren’t your entertainment for the evening.”
Steve begged to differ.
Dare whispered, “They’re the members of the band joining us on the next leg of the tour.”
The ones that had ousted Zach’s band, Twisted Element, from their tour lineup? Well, fuck them and their fantastic tits. Zach was his best friend. That made these chicks his enemies.
“Is it too late to take that cab?” Steve asked, eyes narrowing at the newly recognized threat in goth clothing.
“Stop being a drama queen,” Sam said, his boner for the new talent he’d scouted obvious. “This is the band I was telling you about. Baroquen.”
Steve forced himself not to roll his eyes. What a stupid name. They didn’t look broken to him.
“Nice to meet you,” Reagan said to the enemy. “I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to your music yet, but Sam says you guys rock.”
Why was Reagan kissing their asses?
“You’ll get to hear them tomorrow during your satellite radio performance,” Sam said. “It’s all been arranged.”
Steve went entirely still. So not only was Sam giving these newbs a spot on the tour, but also one on Exodus End’s satellite radio segment. What the fuck?
“You gave them our airtime?” Max asked, his voice hard and lethal.
Steve knew from experience that one did not stand in the way of Max’s success.
Sam—who Steve had long since dubbed his number one enemy—shook his head and extended a placating hand in Max’s direction. “Not all of it. They’re just playing one song.”
“If it’s a problem—” The woman with blue hair tried to get in a word.
“It’s not,” Sam said. “Let me introduce you all.”
Steve pretended not to care, but he was listening because he still wanted under Red’s skirt. Maybe to get back at her for being part of Sam’s big plan to destroy his best friend’s band. Maybe because her black-painted lips would look spectacular wrapped around his cock. Or maybe because the instant his eyes had met hers, he’d wanted her.
Sam nodded toward the green-and-black-haired woman on the far end. Was that a wig? Were they all wearing wigs? Did none of the carpets match the drapes? Or had the carpets been removed? Another important fact Steve vowed to know the answer to by the end of the night.
“Sage plays guitar.”
Sage lifted a hand in greeting. She looked . . . nice. Too nice for Steve. Her type always got quickly attached on an emotional level. Steve didn’t do emotional attachment. Not since Bianca had destroyed his naturally romantic nature and replaced it with the cynical man left standing. The romantic part of him was curled up in a corner somewhere, sucking its thumb.
“Lily plays drums.”
The woman with short black hair, with longer white strips framing her lovely face, nodded. Happily taken. Steve could always tell when a woman was off limits, and he never fiddled with another man’s diddle.
Sam’s attention shifted to Red, and Steve couldn’t help but stare. God, she was beautiful. And from the icy glare she directed at him, she apparently hated his fucking guts. He’d have fun turning her ice to fire.
“This is Roux,” Sam said.
Roux. Her name whispered through his subconscious, making his belly tighten and his balls ache. What a sexy name. He couldn’t wait to whisper it to her while he filled her with his cock.
“She plays keyboard and sings harmony,” Sam added.
Steve’s illusion of perfection completely shattered.
“Keyboard?” he snorted. “What kind of metal band has a keyboard?”
“We’re more a mix of punk, goth, progressive, and hard rock than true metal,” the purple-haired woman said. She was the band’s leader. Probably the vocalist. Male or female, they were all alike: bossy and self-important.
Roux extended a finger in Steve’s direction. The middle one on her right hand. He was going to show her where to stick that finger later. And watch, his mouth watering, as she obeyed.
Steve was so lost in his fantasies that he didn’t catch the rest of the conversation. A couple of the chicks were blabbing about guitars or something with Dare, which didn’t interest him in the least.
What interested him most wasn’t even how snug and warm Roux’s pussy would feel when he fucked her later that night. Zach had been devastated when Steve had told him that Sam was replacing his band on the tour, though he’d laughed it off. Zach laughed off everything that hurt him deeply. But the two of them had made plans to take Europe by storm. The idea that Twisted Element had been replaced by this vat of estrogen in black lace and excessive eyeliner had Steve seething.
“How can you possibly think our fans will like this group of goth girls better than Twisted Element?” Steve asked Sam, giving zero fucks that the goth girls in question were listening.
“I don’t think that,” Sam said. “I think the opposite of that. Baroquen appeals to a younger fan base. A fan base Exodus End currently lacks.”
Steve snorted and shook his head. All their greedy manager cared about was dollar signs.
“So you think teenage goth kids will flock to see these wannabes and when we play them some real music, they’ll become our instafans?”
Roux snorted. “Already living up to that asshole reputation of yours, eh, Aimes?”
Steve smirked. She was all talk now, but soon she’d be all moans and begging followed by crying and whining when he kicked her out of his bed before morning.
“His best friend is in Twisted Element,” Reagan said. “How do you expect him to feel about them getting fired so you can take their place on the tour?”
It was nice that someone in the band understood where he was coming from, even if his bros never backed him up when he went toe to toe with Sam.
“We didn’t ask for Twisted Element to be fired,” Roux said. “But we’d be fools to turn down this gig.”
The blue-and-black-haired chick squeezed Roux’s leg. Lesbian leanings? God, he hoped so. But maybe just friendship. He wasn’t sure.
Blue turned her attention to Steve and his bandmates. She even looked sincere when she said, “We are incredibly lucky to have been given this opportunity. We won’t let you down.”
Steve was trying not to like these women. Trying to hold a grudge. It was useless. Sam was the asshole here. Especially since he sprang this surprise on the band when they couldn’t freely speak their minds. Roux might be thinking that Steve was being an asshole, but in truth he was reeling himself in far more than he’d like.
“Twisted Element was allowed to finish out this leg of the tour,” Sam said. “They should be glad their mediocrity was allowed on your stage in the first place.”
Steve’s jaw hardened. Old guy was apparently looking for a fat lip. His hand clenched into a fist. “Mediocrity?”
“Really, Sam?” Dare shook his head and pressed his knee hard into Steve’s thigh to give him the grounding he needed to maintain his cool. “Must you always push his buttons?”
Sam smirked. Steve’s fist tightened.
“Did you really give up some of our unplugged satellite radio segment?” Max asked. “You know how important it is. The reach is nationwide. Hell, it’s global. This isn’t some local radio station you’re talking about here. It’s satellite radio, Sam.”
And maybe that action would be what finally shifted Max to Steve’s side. He’d been trying to get the band to dump their manager for years. Logan had seen Steve’s logic from the beginning, but Dare and Max had always sided with Sam, thinking Sam, rather than their talent, was responsible for their enormous royalty checks.
Sam lifted both hands and shrugged. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said. “Tonight I want you all to have a good time. Get to know each other. Stir up some interest.”
Oh, Steve would be getting to know these ladies, all right. And he’d do it by stirring up something far more pleasurable than interest.
The limo pulled to a halt, and the door on Steve’s side of the car opened. Their chief of security, Butch, popped his head into the car, his wide face friendly and his large mustache quivering slightly with each breath.
“You all ready? There’s a line about a block long of people wanting autographs. You can bypass it and go straight upstairs to the party if you’re not in the mood.”
“Always in the mood for adulation,” Steve said, exiting the car.
The crowd started screaming excitedly the moment he came into view.
“Did he say adultery?” he heard Roux ask.
He grinned, wishing that had been what he’d said. They were going to have a great time together after he got his ego stroked by some fans. Roux would just have to be satisfied with stroking the rest of him.
Steve headed for the crowd, taking any piece of paper shoved in his direction and scrawling his signature on it, stopping to be photographed with and often groped by numerous female fans as well as to take photos—sans groping—with a few dudes. Steve had the adulation thing down pat. A band’s drummer was usually one of the lesser known members of the band, but not in Exodus End. He was as well-known as Max and Dare—at least—and far more recognized than Logan, who was usually left with scraps. Luckily, Logan was too good-natured to care that at least twice as many fans vied for Steve’s attention. And Steve found it easy to ignore the fact that their male fans flocked around Dare like he was their personal guitar god while the ladies tried to get a hand on Max. Steve was satisfied having an equal parts “rock god” and “sex symbol” status. He could just as easily shoot the breeze with wannabe drummers as flirt with the ladies. Normally he’d take a few hotties upstairs to the after-party with him, but tonight he decided for once to do what Sam suggested. He wanted to get to know the ladies of Baroquen, one lovely red-haired vixen in particular.
When he decided the crowd was never going to thin out—for every fan that left happy, two or three more arrived to seek attention—he signaled Butch that he was ready to call it quits, said his goodbyes to nearby fans, and headed inside. With a relieved expression, Dare followed him.
“I didn’t think we’d ever get away,” Dare said once several members of their security team had ushered them safely inside the building.
Steve snorted at Dare’s predictability. As an unapologetic introvert, the guy wasn’t exactly the life of any party. Funny how no one seemed to notice that.
“Is Zach going to be here?” Dare asked.
Steve shook his head. “I didn’t ask him. I figured he wouldn’t want to celebrate the end of his career.”
Dare took his eyes off the closed elevator door to give him an odd look. “You didn’t say that to him, did you?”
“Of course not. I’m not that much of an insensitive asshole.”
Dare looked unconvinced.
“He’s going out with his band tonight,” Steve said. “He told me that before I got the chance to invite him, okay? Plus, if he sees Sam, it isn’t going to end pretty.” And Steve would be more likely to join the fray than to try to stop it.
The elevator dinged as the doors slid open. They stepped inside, two members of their security team joining them. Steve was so used to the presence of tough dudes in bright orange T-shirts that he didn’t bother censoring conversations.
“Sam is trying to do what’s best for us,” Dare said. “Why don’t you get that?”
“Sam is doing what’s best for himself.”
“I don’t think the young women of Baroquen feel that way about him.”
“Because they think he’s going to make them stars.”
“He will make them stars.”
That was probably true. “But he won’t care who gets hurt along the way.”
“And that’s perfectly normal in this business.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be.”
The doors slid open, and a rush of adrenaline surged through Steve’s body as loud music poured out of the enormous ballroom. His gaze landed on Roux at once. Not that she was hard to spot; dozens of party attendees surrounded the members of Baroquen, all wanting to hear the story of how they’d gotten a gig as an opening band on Exodus End’s world tour. When she didn’t return his heavy stare, he went to the bar and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. A moment later Logan arrived. By himself. Which was odd because he’d been surgically attached to the nerdy reporter chick who’d been following them on tour for the past few weeks.
“You didn’t bring Toni?”
Logan smiled. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Ah.”
“You haven’t picked up a woman yet?” Logan slapped him on the back. “Isn’t like you to have an empty arm.”
Steve glanced to the open spot at his left. Logan was right; it wasn’t like him. As if conjured by magic, a stunningly gorgeous woman filled the spot and smiled up at him, her dark eyes and the top three buttons of her blouse open in invitation.
“Buy me a drink?”
“Open bar tonight,” he said before turning back to Logan, who jerked away slightly and eyed him as if Steve had been replaced with an imposter. “Do you think I need to apologize?”
“For telling her it’s an open bar?”
Logan peered around Steve’s back and grimaced slightly. The drink woman must still be standing there. Not that Steve cared.
Steve ran a hand over his face. “Not for that. For calling our new opening band hookers.”
Logan turned to where a twittering crowd still surrounded the members of Baroquen. Steve had to admit he loved their sexy image, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.
“I doubt they took you seriously.”
“I called dibs on Red, for fuck’s sake.” And he felt bad. Steve did have a conscience. He just liked to keep that little secret under wraps. Made it easier to check his emotions and make people think he was too cool to give a shit. Plus, when he acted like he gave zero fucks, pussy magically fell into his lap. No-strings-attached pussy. The easiest kind to get over.
“It was a pretty shitty way to introduce myself to them,” Steve added. And maybe he wanted an excuse to talk to them. Well, one of them. “What kind of drink do you think Roux would like?”
“Roux?” Logan’s blue eyes lowered as he puzzled over the name. “Like rue the day or a baby marsupial from Australia roo, or the gravy mix kind?”
“I think it’s the French word for red.” Steve snorted. “But I’d love to mix her with some of my creamy sauce.”
Logan shook his head. “You see? That’s why you offend women.”
He would never say that to a woman. Probably. “Roux is the one in red.” And even though he wasn’t currently looking at her, he was very aware of her.
“Oh, so that’s why you think her name is French for red.”
Actually, it was because that was the sexiest option. His mind couldn’t comprehend anyone naming her after a marsupial. But he nodded.
“Probably not a good idea to fuck around with any of those women, man,” Logan said. “We have to be on tour with them for months, and if one of them grows attached to you . . .”
Steve would normally consider Logan’s advice spot-on, but he wasn’t feeling very normal at the moment. He was feeling—like every other person in the room, apparently—compelled, intrigued, interested. In Roux’s tits. Yeah, that was all it was. Attraction. Desire. Longing. She had a fantastic rack. That was all he cared about.
He turned toward the woman beside him. His brush-off hadn’t sent her packing. “What are you having?” he asked.
“Appletini.”
She sipped the pale green cocktail through a tiny straw, her eyes giving him hints about what she’d be willing to suck on if he presented it to her.
“Wanna taste?”
She held her glass out to him, but he lifted a hand and shook his head. He didn’t want to lead her on. It wasn’t his style. She was hot, and normally he’d have loved to have a great time with her, but he wasn’t interested. Not tonight. Having always been driven by feelings and needs, Steve wasn’t one to overthink why he didn’t want her. He just didn’t.
“Do most chicks like those drinks?” he asked the bartender, who shrugged. Steve sighed. “Give me an appletini.”
While he waited for the bartender to mix the vile-looking concoction, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the crowd had finally thinned around Baroquen; Max had entered the room, and crowds naturally gravitated toward him. Even five hot chicks in corsets and short skirts were less of a draw than Exodus End’s exasperating lead singer.
Steve scraped his drink and the newly mixed appletini from the surface of the bar, gave Logan a nod—though he was deeply immersed in conversation with Toni now and didn’t notice—and crossed the room, unable to take his eyes off a certain keyboardist. Perhaps she sensed the weight of his interest because when he was about ten feet away, she sent a few exceedingly sharp eye daggers in his direction and turned her back on him.
Steve stopped walking and gawked at her very cold shoulder. It had been a while since a woman had rebuffed him. Been even longer since one had posed any challenge. The corner of his mouth curved upward as he resumed his current trajectory. He stopped about two feet from her.
She tried so hard to ignore him that her body went stiff. If he shifted into her peripheral vision, she turned away slightly, until they were practically twirling in circles.
“The asshole brought you a drink,” he said.
“No, thank you.”
“He also wanted to apologize for calling you a hooker.” Surely that would make her at least glance at him, maybe even smile. But no. “I didn’t really think you were a hooker. It was a joke.”
“Not a very funny one.”
“Yeah, well, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She angled toward him—finally—and their eyes met. Hers were a deep green with a beguiling rim of gold around the iris—undoubtedly the most beautiful eyes he’d ever stared into. His heart skipped a beat and began to pound as familiar lust scorched his veins. She licked her lips and turned again. “Apology accepted. Excuse me.”
She walked away. From Steve Aimes. Like he was just some random douchebag on the dance floor hitting on her. What the fuck? He trailed after her and tapped the edge of her drink glass against her shoulder.
She stopped and turned slowly.
“Your drink.”
“I don’t drink,” she said, her eyes cold as she stared up at him. “And in case I wasn’t clear, I’m not interested, so go bother someone else.”
He actually felt a stab of hurt with the added knife twist of insecurity. He hadn’t been rejected in a great long while, and he wasn’t sure why instead of turning him off—he could have his choice of easy pussy in the room—it made him ache for her.
“I think you’ve misjudged me,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
At least he had her talking. “I wanted to welcome you to the tour and ask if there was anything I could do to make this transition easier, but I guess you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”
She stiffened slightly.
“So I’ll be on my way.” He tossed back her drink, forcing himself not to wince at the sweet and tart flavor of it. “Thanks for the drink.” He tilted the empty glass in her direction and nodded.
When he turned to walk away, she touched his arm. Her fingertips seemed to burn into his flesh.
“Wait,” she said, shouting over the loud Pantera song blaring in the background. “You probably think I’m some ball-busting megabitch.” He liked that about her. “If you want to talk business, I’d love to hang out with you, but if you’re just trying to get in my pants . . .” The fire was back in her sensational eyes as she quirked an eyebrow. “. . . still not interested.”
“I assure you,” he said, “I only want to talk business.” When had he become such an accomplished liar? He almost had himself believing his words.
“Do you want to go out on the balcony?” she yelled. “It’s a little quieter out there, and I could use some fresh air.”
And privacy? Was she looking for privacy? Hell yeah, he wanted to go out on the balcony and be alone with her.
“Do you want to grab a drink first?” He jerked a thumb toward the open bar.
“Just water for me, but you go ahead.”
He didn’t want to drink if she wasn’t drinking. “I could use some water myself. I get dehydrated onstage, and we played three encores tonight.” That statement usually made a woman gush her appreciation of his skill on the skins—he knew for a fact that he was the most imitated drummer in all of metal music—but Roux merely nodded.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said.
He wasn’t sure how much sweat could pour off a keyboard player, but the stage lighting was brutal regardless of the amount of energy one expended onstage. She followed him to the bar, and Steve got more than one odd look when he ordered two waters. He handed her a little plastic cup brimming with ice water, took his own, and followed her toward the balcony. He tried not to stare at her ass and legs too much as they crossed the now-crowded dance floor. Max, who loved to dance, was surrounded by two-thirds of the women in the room as his dance partners. The charismatic lead singer even managed to give each one of them a bit of personal attention. Steve concentrated on following Roux as she navigated the edge of the undulating crowd, pulling his eyes off her ass every few seconds to make sure she didn’t catch him checking her out. But who could blame him? The woman was fucking exquisite.
A cool breeze stirred against his heated skin when she pushed the balcony door open. Dare was standing alone, staring out into the lights of the city. He turned toward them and nodded, a greeting that Steve returned. Steve wasn’t sure how Dare managed to be a loner no matter the size of the crowd around him. Was even less sure how he could like being alone, but there was no denying he did.
“Hello, Dare,” Roux said. “Is it okay if I call you Dare? Or should I call you Mr. Mills?”
Dare chuckled, his good-natured smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Dare is fine. You’re Rrr-raww-roxie?” He squinted, as if that would make him recall her name.
“Roux,” Steve said. “She’s the one who plays keyboard.”
Roux slapped his forearm playfully. “An instrument Steve does not approve of in a metal band.”
Fuck. So she remembered all the stupid shit that had spewed from his mouth in the limo? Sam had been there. Steve could not be expected to maintain good manners with that greedy son of a bitch in close quarters. Regardless, Steve shouldn’t have insulted her. He was sure Roux was an excellent musician. Because greedy sons of bitches like Sam wouldn’t waste time on a band that wasn’t phenomenal, no matter how sexy they looked. Unless Sam planned to market their look rather than their sound. Steve wouldn’t put it past the guy. He kept trying that stupid shit with Reagan, and Reagan wouldn’t have it, but these young women seemed a bit more accommodating to Sam’s bullshit. Steve wondered if he could protect them from the wolves. Or at least one wolf.
“I’m sure you could prove me wrong,” Steve said, tossing back his water and wishing it was whiskey. “Maybe a keyboard isn’t completely stupid. Progressive rock bands seem to like them okay.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he couldn’t help but smile. He’d known at first glance that she was beautiful and sexy, but it seemed she was playful and fun too. He did love a good time.
“A lot of metal bands are introducing new elements to their music,” Dare said. “Keeps things interesting.”
“I prefer the standard bass, rhythm and lead guitars, and most importantly, drums, but I’m old school,” Steve said.
“Are you sure you’re not just old?” Roux smirked as she sipped water through a tiny red straw.
Was that why she wasn’t interested in him, because he was old? Since when was thirty-four old? Since she was probably twenty. He tried not to think about the logistics of the age difference too much. She was definitely a fully grown woman.
“You’re not even old enough to drink, are you?” he asked. “That’s why you refused that apple shit I tried to give you.”
“What?” She shook her head. “I’m plenty old enough to drink and have been for several years. I just don’t.”
“And why not? Afraid you’ll fall for my charm if you’re drunk?”
“That’s the only way I’d fall for a guy like you.”
A guy like him? What kind of guy did she think he was?
“He’s actually pretty cool when he doesn’t drink,” Dare said. “But judging by the size of the party in there, that condition’s not going to last long.”
“I don’t have to drink to have a good time,” Steve said.
“But it helps.” Dare shifted away from the railing and turned to the glass doors that led back to the good time inside. “It was nice talking with you, Roux. If you or any of your bandmates need to vent, I’m told I’m a pretty good listener.”
She beamed. “You’re a real class act, Dare Mills,” she said, toasting him with her half-finished glass of water.
Unlike your friend here remained unspoken, but Steve felt the insinuation clear to his bones.
Dare opened the patio door, and the blare of an old Aerosmith song punctuated his return to the party. Steve would have bet his favorite drum set that the guitarist would seek out his little brother, Trey, within the next few minutes and then leave the party early. Dare was predictable that way. It was not a trait Steve shared with him.
He turned to Roux, who was admiring the city lights of the New York City skyline. “I’ll miss this while we’re in Europe,” she said.
“Not if you’re doing it right,” he said with a laugh. He’d made so many plans with Zach regarding what they’d do at each stop along the tour—hadn’t been much sightseeing in those plans. Steve stared down into his glass of water—was he seriously drinking water just to get in this chick’s pants—his mouth set in a hard line. Technically, it wasn’t her fault that Zach’s band had been kicked off the tour prematurely. That was all on Sam.
“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“I’m the only one of my friends who doesn’t drink, so I’m always the designated driver, and drunks are really fucking annoying when you’re sober.”
“Never noticed that.”
“You’re probably one of the drunks, then.”
He chuckled. “True. Is there a reason you don’t drink? Or do you just not like it?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he was worthy of knowing her secrets. “My father was an alcoholic.”
“I see.” He felt there was a lot more to the story than that, but he didn’t press her. “How did you get into music?”
Her body relaxed slightly. “My foster mother was a music teacher.”
Foster mother? There was definitely more to the alcoholic father story, then.
“So she introduced you to music?” He moved closer to Roux at the railing until their arms touched—a little test of her receptiveness to him—and she produced a little shudder. When she didn’t move away, he knew he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction between them.
“Not just me,” Roux said. “All of us.”
“All of who?”
“My bandmates. Mama Ramona raised us all. Gave the gift of music to as many of us that would take it.”
“You grew up with your bandmates?”
“For the most part. We’re foster sisters. I didn’t start living with them until I was twelve. Lily—she’s our drummer—was Mama’s first foster daughter. Mama’s had twelve of us in her care at one time or another. I guess that would be thirteen now. I think a new little one moved in a few weeks ago. I’ve lost track now that we moved from Boston.”
Boston? She didn’t have an accent that he could detect.
“You don’t seem bitter about your family situation at all,” he said, watching her face and the genuine love that shone in her eyes as she spoke of Mama Ramona.
“Why would I be bitter? That woman took me in, showed me love, taught me how to believe in my dreams, how to make a future for myself, gave me the gift—and curse . . .” She laughed, the soft sound making him want her even more. “. . . of a dozen sisters. On top of it all, she taught me how to play the piano.”
“So what happened to your real parents?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“It’s not a fun story,” she said, her hand fiddling with something dangling from her bracelet. After a moment, she released what he assumed was a charm of some sort and pressed her wrist out of view behind her back. “Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating tonight?”
“If you don’t want to talk about it—”
She shrugged. “Telling the story doesn’t bother me. It bothers the people I tell.”
“I think I can handle it.” He leaned against the railing, expecting to hear a story of abandonment. As her focus shifted inward, the flash of pain that crossed her face and the unexpected tug at his heart made him wonder if he could handle seeing her hurt.