“You’re leaving?” he asked, pinning me in place with his gaze.
“No. Not exactly.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned back against the counter. Why was it that dressing rooms all felt the same? “I’m staying at Berkshire, but I won’t work for Ben anymore.”
“You’re not leaving Berkshire. Just me.” He cringed. “Just us. As in, the band.”
“You’re not my band, Nixon. You’re Ben’s. I’m getting promoted, not leaving you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I hearing about it in the goddamned hallways?” He laced his fingers and linked them above his head.
“Because I just heard about it in the hallway, and until it was set, I wasn’t allowed to say anything! Nothing was official, at least not until right now.” I took a deep breath, trying to remember there were staff members and fans outside that door. “I take my job very seriously.”
“I’m well aware.” His eyes widened as his mouth fell slack. “Holy shit. That’s the deal you made with Ben, isn’t it? When this”—he motioned between us—“started, you said you made a deal with Ben. I just didn’t press the issue. You made a deal about me.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Yes. The deal was that if I got you through the shows already on the books, I’d get my own band to manage, as long as the partners agreed.” My voice fell to a whisper.
“February,” he said softly, his arms falling to his sides.
“February.” I nodded.
The space between us crackled with tension. I just couldn’t tell if that crackle was electricity or the warning that sounded just before you fell through the ice.
Three heavy knocks sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Nixon called back.
Chris, the security guard, popped his head in. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a woman out here who’s pretty insistent that she see you.”
My stomach pitched and rolled. So far, he’d kept his word, but how long would it be before I was too complicated, too physically unavailable for him to stick around for?
“Not interested,” he answered Chris, but stared straight at me.
“Okay. She’s not typical, if that makes a difference. She’s older than your usual…you know,” Chris added.
“Still not interested,” Nixon responded.
The nausea in my stomach subsided as Chris shut the door.
“I’m not leaving you,” I said softly, pushing off the counter.
“For another few months,” he retorted, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the couch.
“You knew you only had to keep me around through the February shows.” My mouth went dry at the sight of those familiar, cut lines, all brilliantly inked in various shapes and patterns. “Remember? You didn’t even want me here.”
“I didn’t like you then!” He marched toward me, but I held my ground. “When were you going to tell me?”
“As opposed to liking me now?” I fired back. “I was going to tell you when Ben—my boss—told me I could!” I raised my finger to point but ended up tapping him lightly on the chest.
“I like you just fine, Zoe. One day, you might start to believe that.”
I lifted my chin. “You want me. There’s a difference.”
He cocked his head to the side and dragged his heated gaze up my body in blatant appraisal. I ignored the way my breasts tightened and my blood grew hot. “Spoiler alert, Zoe. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve dreamed about stripping these dresses off you for years.”
My lips parted. He noticed.
“You’re not going to say the same?” He lowered his lips until they grazed mine.
“I’ve never seen you in a dress.”
He grinned. “Smartass.”
“Every woman I know wants you,” I whispered. “You make every eligible bachelor list. Every sexiest man. Every hottest musician. You’re well aware of your own appeal.”
“I don’t give a shit what every other woman wants. I’m asking you.” He sucked my lower lip between his, then scraped it along his teeth before releasing it.
“Yes, I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.” The admission came in a rushed whisper, but it was there.
He smiled, long and slow. “Good. It’s nice to know we’re on equal footing on that issue.” He turned abruptly and tugged a new shirt from the hanger. That one would end the night with whatever fan in the crowd caught it. He’d stopped wearing his own shirt out years ago.
“You walking me to the stage, Shannon?” he asked.
Shannon.
“Absolutely.”
He slung his favorite Les Paul over his back, then opened the dressing room door. “They’re all yours.”