Chapter 45
W atching Bo struggle with his emotions, I realize I said too much, revealed how jealous I am of any woman who gets his attention. He doesn’t really want me in his life anymore. He just doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.
I want you safe. Happy and healed. That’s all I ever wanted for you . The words hit the bull’s-eye in the center of my heart. But I can’t allow hope to lodge there. I remember my disappointment when we were teens, and I saw him kiss Crystal. Then tonight, it’s obvious he’s a favorite with the groupies. Of course he is. He’s handsome, talented, and experienced. Without a doubt, he can have any woman he wants simply by crooking his finger. And I must accept that Bo Jackson will never crook his finger at me.
“Goodbye, Bo.” I wrench the words free from the tangle of emotion in my chest and walk to the door. Unlocking it, I twist the knob.
“Not yet.” He covers my hand with his own.
“Please. Just go.” I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to be a strong and self-sufficient person who doesn’t need or want him anymore. The truth is I long for him, for the boy I could trust. He was my safe place. The only place where I felt free to be the real me.
“It’s me who should be pleading with you.” His hands fall to my shoulders, and he gently turns me around. His touch isn’t meant to be erotic, but the way my body responds to it is.
“That’s not necessary.” I bring my arms up to cover my puckered nipples. My tank is too thin, but he stops me.
“Don’t be mad. Don’t shut me out.” He strokes the skin over my shoulders with his thumbs, which are calloused from years of playing his guitar. I tingle and yearn in response to the innocent caress. Heat pools between my thighs.
“I’m not mad. I’m just cold.” There, I have a believable excuse for why my nipples are poking my shirt.
“I’ll warm you then.” He brings me closer, enfolding me in his arms. He’s warm. He smells incredible. He’s Bo. I melt into him. He’s not merely a safe place. He’s the only place where I feel like I belong.
“You feel so good,” I say huskily. “I mean, you’re so warm. Thanks.”
“You’re the amazing one, Peace.” He eases back and tips up my chin. His eyes search mine. I drown in those gray-green pools and fly straight to heaven on the wings of the approval within them.
“You are,” I disagree and place my finger over his mouth when he parts his lips to protest.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” His mouth moving against my skin makes the heat between my legs throb. “You’re the one who’s sweet, understanding, and beautiful.” He lightly runs his fingertips along the edge of my jawline.
“New topic.” I’m dizzy and shiver in pleasure. From his touch, from his praise, from his breath that’s damp against my shimmering lips.
“You’re the new topic.” His mouth curves sexily at the edges. “When we were kids, I used to stare at you when I thought you weren’t looking. Now I can’t force myself to look away. Peace Jinkins is all grown up and she’s fucking gorgeous. We should take out ads, design T-shirts.”
“Thank you.” My lips twitch.
“It’s the truth,” he says firmly.
“Speaking of T-shirts.” I use his teasing to segue into another topic. “Your band lacks those and a logo.”
“I wasn’t done talking about how pretty you are.” His gaze dips to my mouth as he runs a fingertip down the length of my nose.
“Enough.” I smile. “I get what you’re doing.”
“You do, huh?” His gaze lifts. “You’ll need to enlighten me.” Confusion flickers in his eyes that are darker than before.
“You’re trying to build me up, fix my fragile ego, make up for lost time.”
“Why would I need to do that?” He cocks his head. “When a million other guys have surely told you how stunning you are.”
“I don’t have time for guys.” I shrug to sell the lie. “I’m too busy with school. And anyway, I like books more than people.”
“Your love for books hasn’t changed. What about music?” he asks.
“I like music better than anything.”
“We continue to have that in common.” His emerald and platinum eyes gleam as if polished. “Are you still journaling?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“Just your thoughts or poems too?”
“Sometimes I jot down a poem.”
“Can I see one?” he asks.
“No way.” I shake my head.
He flinches. “Guess some things have changed between us.”
“My poems are personal,” I explain, wanting to smooth the jagged edge of hurt in his gaze.
“And we don’t share secrets anymore.” His jaw hardens. “Is writing your major in college?”
“No, marketing.” I don’t mention the music aspect, being vague on purpose. He’ll find out soon enough that I’m working at Black Cat Records this summer.
“Not what I envisioned you doing.” He narrows his eyes. “Why did you send back the letter I sent you?”
“The money you sent me, you mean?” I’m familiar with the letter he’s referring to. It’s the only one he ever sent me. But he caught me off guard asking about it. “Did you write it yourself?”
“I dictated,” he replies. “Car wrote it.”
“I figured. It didn’t look like your handwriting.”
“Why didn’t you keep the money? You earned it.”
“Those poems were a gift,” I explain. There weren’t any strings or obligations associated with them. “A gift is not a gift if it’s paid for.”