Sinful Ever After (Sinful Serenade Book 5) - Crystal Kaswell Page 0,64

my shoulder. It's not hers—those are around my waist—so what the fuck is it doing there?

I turn to face whoever it is that's touching me. It's an occupational hazard. Didn't always mind so much, but who the fuck is dense enough to touch a guy when he's embracing his wife?

It's a teenage girl. She's young, but she's old enough to know better.

"I... I... I'm sorry." She steps closer. "I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of Sinful Serenade, and I..." She looks back to her friends—another half-dozen teenage girls—standing in the corner. "Could you take a picture with us?"

Willow steps backward. She motions, go for it. She never gets jealous. She growls when fans, female fans at least, touch me without asking, but she doesn't get jealous.

I look at the girl. "Yeah, sure. If you do me a favor."

Her eyes light up. It's not that kind of favor, honey. This girl must be fifteen or sixteen. She knows what a wedding band is.

She knows what a couple looks like.

If she's a fan, she knows I'm married.

I turn back to Willow. She's wearing that same frustrated expression. Her eyes are on her cellphone. Again. A lot of people pull their cell out every time they get a spare second—I certainly look at mine more than I should—but not Willow.

It was the same thing last night.

And this morning.

She's not texting anybody. She's not doing anything but staring at the screen, frustration filling her eyes.

Someone tugs at my hoodie. Sure enough, it's the girl. Usually, I like talking to fans. I wouldn't have any of the stuff I have if it weren't for people who like our music. Or people who like Tom Steele, famous drummer.

I exploit my celebrity. So fucking what? You gotta do something if you want to stay in people's minds. And I'm happy to be the fun, hot bad boy who's good for a night but certainly not good for bringing home to Mom.

Everyone has an image, whether they're aware of it or not. Everybody projects something to the world. At least I'm in charge of mine.

But why the fuck does everybody think they can touch me without asking?

Don't have the patience for this shit right now. Don't have the patience to ask her for a favor—to stop touching people without asking first.

But I know my role. I gotta do this shit if I want the band to keep going, and we can't afford to drop anything else with Miles and Drew wanting us to slow down our tour schedule.

My shoulders relax. Slowing down sounds nice. I won't admit that to them, but it sounds like fucking heaven. More time with Willow, just the two of us—what the fuck else could I want?

I grit my teeth and oblige. After I'm done posing with the teenagers, I nod goodbye and send them on their way.

Willow is leaning against the railing, her hands folded over her chest, her eyes on the fake sky.

She brings her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curl into a half-smile. "You look pissed."

I shrug.

"Usually you hide it better." She slides her hands under my hoodie and presses her palm flat against my stomach, over my t-shirt. "I hate it too."

"What?"

"When girls touch you." She pushes off the railing and rests her head against my chest. "Why don't you ever ask them to stop?"

I shrug.

"Doesn't fit the Tom Steele brand?"

"Why don't you and Mom shop without me? I'm not in the mood for the celebrity shit right now."

She looks up at me, her hazel eyes filled with affection. "Is something wrong?"

I nod.

"What?"

"My wife's upset but she won't talk to me."

"Oh. I'm just thinking about something."

It's that fucking asshole who hurt her. Can't believe I agree with Drew about something, but that fucking asshole doesn't deserve oxygen.

I hate that he's still breathing.

I hate that she has to wonder if he'll show up on her doorstep one day.

Part of me wants to arrange to have him killed or arrested, something to make sure he's gone forever. But Willow would never forgive me if she found out. She's a good person. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, not even the man who nearly destroyed her.

I slide my arm around her waist and pull us to a secluded corner. Once I have my back to anyone who will walk by, I lean closer.

Her expression is vulnerable, needy. "It's not about Bradley."

"What's it about?"

"A decision I have to make. It's really not anything you need to worry about." She rests