Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,245

to him, all these questions about our night, whether he felt it too, whether it’s just my imagination working overtime…yet here we stand, making small talk as we prepare breakfast.

“I’ll probably go visit my family at some point.”

“Where are they?”

“Phoenix.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Yeah.” I watch the toaster heat the bread with its red coils. “I moved out here for college and stayed after graduation.”

Mark grabs some plates from the cabinet next to me, and I tear my eyes away from the bread long enough to pour the orange juice.

“Weather’s about the same, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Phoenix usually runs a few degrees warmer.” Am I really discussing the weather with Mark fucking Ashton?

“I prefer the weather in LA. It gets hot, but it usually sticks around the eighties in the summer. I try not to hang out here too much in the summer.”

“You don’t like feeling like you stuck your head in an oven?” I tease, and he laughs.

“Not my preference.”

“Have you ever played the summer tours out here or Phoenix?”

“Yeah, but we require indoor venues.”

“Smart. What’s your favorite venue?”

“To play?”

I nod.

“There’s a little place in Wrigleyville called Sevens that we always played before we signed with our label.”

“Where’s Wrigleyville?”

He chuckles. “Chicago.”

“Where you’re from?”

The toast pops up, startling me.

“Yeah. We could walk to it from the house where our parents raised us.” Us. He means his sister and his brother. “Just a little dive bar.”

“When was the last time you played there?”

He thinks for a minute as he divides the eggs in half and plates them. “Probably eight years ago.”

“Have you ever thought of just showing up and playing a set?”

He laughs. “No, I haven’t. But now I am.” He hands me a plate, and I stick a piece of toast on it. We head over to the table.

“What would they do?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. We owe them a lot, though. They put up with our shit when we were stupid kids without representation.”

“What does that mean?” I take a bite of my eggs and let out an mmm.

He shifts in his chair. “It means Ethan and I used to be stupid. We’d play drunk or sometimes high, break bottles, start fights.”

“High?”

“Weed, mostly, though Ethan will try anything. No one cared back then, but as soon as we signed with the label, we had to straighten out.”

“This is you straightened out?”

He laughs. “I found different vices.”

“Women?”

He shrugs, and the mood is suddenly uncomfortable as I hit the nail on the head. “It’s all an image created by my publicist. Sex sells and all that.”

“So you’re saying you don’t sleep with a different woman every night? Because from my recollection, I was one of them.”

He looks across the table at me with a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Not a different woman every night.” His voice is soft but a little defeated.

“Most nights?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Some. I’m not making a very strong case for myself.”

“What are you trying to argue?”

“I don’t always bam and scram.”

I raise a brow. “Bam and scram?”

“Fuck and truck.”

I drop my fork to the table with a clatter. “Um…what?”

“Screw and shoo.”

I cover my mouth to hide my laugh.

“I don’t want you to think that way about me.”

I want to ask why not, but I have a feeling it’ll only lead me to an answer I shouldn’t hear—not when I find myself pining for him—for that one lost night between us.

“So tell me more about the private Mark Ashton, then,” I say instead. “Something different from what your publicist projects.” I pick up my fork and take another bite and let out another mmm of satisfaction.

Mark readjusts in his chair. “Can you stop making that noise please?” He takes a bite of toast. “Nice job on the toast,” he says.

I hold in another giggle. “Thanks. The eggs are good, too.”

“There you go. I’m good at making eggs. That’s something they don’t print in the tabloids.”

I laugh. “They should. What else?”

“I love football.”

“Who doesn’t?”

He nods with approval at my comment, and there’s something so intrinsically sexy in the fact that he approves of something I like that a pang of intense desire darts through me.

I ignore it because I have to.

He clears his throat. “Where’s my brother?” He speaks quietly and without looking at me.

“Houston.”

He looks down at his plate. “You deserve better than him.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s my brother and I love him because he’s family, but someone like you can do better than someone like him.” His voice is a warning, and it splits my already fragile