Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
S unlight streams through the window. Where are the blackout shades? I must’ve forgotten to pull them in place last night.
The smell of coffee reaches my nose. I know I didn’t set up the coffeemaker last night. My right eye pops open and I’m greeted with orange and yellow, two colors not in my rental’s palette.
I sit up, the blanket falling to my waist, exposing the necklace on my naked torso. I didn’t fuck Michelle last night, did I?
Realization sets in with a vengeance, reminding me of everything that occurred—resulting in my spending the night in Jenna’s house. How her mother left us before dessert. How Jenna moaned over the tiramisu. How the paparazzi attacked her when she was getting the car.
I fumble for my phone and pull up the expected email from our PR team. Shit. This has to be over two pages long. I skim the bolded headlines: Say you’re out in the Hamptons for some R&R. Do not mention your injury unless you want the press to be all over your rehab. Tell them how excited you are for the movie and tour.
It’s the final one that captures my attention: How do I want them to handle Jenna?
Handle Jenna?
The team gives me different options, if-then scenarios. If you want to distance yourself and the band from her, then we suggest going to a different clinic. If you want to protect her out of loyalty to Darren, then we understand and suggest you make a statement to the effect you’re spending time with her out of pity.
Pity ?
I continue reading to the end, which causes me more concern than the tone of the entire thing. The PR team concludes by saying Jenna causes negative reactions among UC’s fans, so they prefer option one. If I’m in agreement, they give three alternate places to try. Other rehab clinics are listed, with their contact information.
My eyebrows shoot together. Jenna’s not something to “manage.” She’s a real human being who’s been through so much—if not more —than the band. I’m certain she hasn’t confided in me a fraction of all she dealt with following Darren’s death. I’m not going to cause her more pain.
I reread the PR email’s last section, and anger boils up from within. I’m not leaving the poor woman to fend for herself like we did following Darren’s death. Back then, the band was in freefall. Now, it’s only me falling apart. I tap my thigh, which doesn’t hurt this morning. Yet. Give it time. Especially with the exercises Jenna has planned.
I write a terse email to the PR team, saying I’m not turning my back on Jenna. I’m also not here out of pity. Pity! For fuck’s sake.
Ditching their “professional” suggestions, I begin to brainstorm my own. Remembering Mom’s diatribe, I don’t want to tell the world how stupid I was to pull my groin. Lying low in the Hamptons seems plausible, but for the weather. Maybe I can say I wanted to enjoy the beach in winter? But my family’s from the Jersey shore. What if I reached out to Jeremy Davis? He took a positive spin in his article in the Record News about UC.
“Hey there,” Jenna intrudes on my musing. “Brought you some tea. I remember you prefer it to coffee.” She hands me a mug with the tag for white tea hanging over the side and sits on the other end of the sofa, tugging on her robe to keep it closed.
My thoughts scatter. “Thanks.” I blow into the steaming hot mug.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. You looked deep in thought.”
Do I share what the PR team said? Maybe some of it, considering she’s implicated. “I was trying to work out a strategy to get the media off my back out here.”
She takes a sip of her coffee. “Oh. They were, uh, intense last night.” She pulls out her phone. “Did they post any articles today?”
Shit. I didn’t have time to check what they wrote. “I didn’t look. They probably didn’t disclose much more than my general location.” Why didn’t I look at this before my emails? I can only imagine what they had to say—Jenna’s carrying my baby or we went off and got married. I rush to The Gossip , a well-known sleazy tabloid. I’m not quick enough.
“Oh.” Jenna’s palm covers her face. “At least they spelled ‘Black Widow’ right.”
“What?”
She hands me her phone and my stomach plummets. This is much worse than I imagined. The headline screams, “Black Widow Picks Her Next Victim.” Beneath it, the article states I was out to dinner with Jenna Westfield, formerly Darren Hilliard’s girlfriend, who died a couple of years ago in an overdose. The implicit gist is Jenna’s killing members of UC, with me next on her target list.
“Jenna, oh my God. I’m going to kill those fuckers.” I drop her phone onto the coffee table.
She doesn’t shed a tear, merely rubs her thumb and pinky together. “Those reporters have no idea how their words hurt. They’re only trying to sell magazines. Or get clicks.”
I can’t let her handle this all by herself. I toss the blanket onto the floor and pull her body into mine. “Jenna, I’ll fix this.” I rub my hand up and down her back, her head cradled against my naked torso. “They’re going to be sorry they messed with me. ”
Her breathing comes in short pants, but she doesn’t make any other sounds. I continue comforting her, even in this small way. “I need to come up with a story about why I’m out here. Something better than I came out to the Hamptons for some rest and relaxation.” But what?
“King and Angie.”
I look down at her, trying to make out what she’s suggesting. It’s difficult when she’s so close. I inhale her unique vanilla-floral scent. “Maybe the Huntes invited me out to Aroostook, is that what your suggesting?”
She doesn’t respond with words, but her blonde head bounces on my pecs.
I work through her suggestion. “Because they’re raising their profile out here?” Sounds lame.
Jenna pulls away—my necklace peeling away from her cheek—grey glossy eyes boring into me. “Maybe they were trying to get you to buy something out here, and are wining and dining you?”
A slow smile crosses my face. “Since they know I’m going out on tour soon and won’t have time to check out properties when I’m away.”
“You can be a hard guy to pin down.” The mere fact she can tease me at this moment speaks volumes for her character. “I’ve heard you don’t own any houses?”
Her question makes me sound like a vagabond. “I bought a place for my mother.” Which she left last year for a place that suited her better.
“Oh. Very nice of you.”
A vision of Dad lying on the floor flashes. I didn’t do it to be nice. “I like your idea. If this PT thing doesn’t work out, I can get you a job in PR.”
She stares at my abs, but not out of desire. “I hate to be the subject of the press again. I thought I had left this all behind.”
I continue to stroke her back. “They were looking for an angle about why I’d be here with you. On the bright side, at least it means they don’t know I’m seeing you for physical therapy.”
Her chin lands on my pec and she taps my chest, over my heart. “There is that.”
Her sweet, simple gesture makes my breath catch. “Yeah.”
My gaze eats up her gorgeous face, attached to my torso.
She doesn’t move.
I take a breath. One. Two.
I lower my head, and our lips meet. Like a forgotten chorus, I slant my mouth over hers in an intimate introduction. My breathing increases, and my palms cup her cheeks.
She’s been a forbidden fruit for so long, but now my hunger is unleashed. I trace her closed lips with my tongue, and they part beneath it. Not needing a second invitation, I swoop in and move my hands to her back, pressing her closer against me.
Her mouth tastes of coffee and simply Jenna, a potent combination. One I could savor for the next few hours.
Or days.
Or years.
Beneath me, Jenna’s hands slide up and play with the hair at the nape of my neck. Her fingernails dig into my hairline, causing a slight prick of pain, which she smooths over with her talented fingers.
I groan, pulling her body closer to my hardening one. Until an off movement reasserts the muscle pull, and my thigh starts throbbing.
I spring back from her. “Aww, fuck.” My hands land on my thigh.
Her expressive eyes sweep over my body and widen as she realizes what happened. She also knows how much I wanted her, as my underwear does nothing to hide my rock-hard erection.
“Let me get an ice pack.”
Before she can move, I grab her wrist. “No. I need you here next to me more.”
Her body stiffens, and I know our moment is lost, yet I’m not sorry it happened. I wasn’t thinking of Darren when I was kissing Jenna, and I certainly didn’t kiss her out of pity. She’s a captivating, intriguing, brilliant woman. Unlike any I’ve ever known.
However, the way she’s worrying her bottom lip—the one I was caressing a second ago—screams the opposite about me. Us. Even though she doesn’t push away from me, I know she wouldn’t welcome my touch now. I drop my arm and she flees.
My leg extends, ready for the dreaded ice pack. While I wait, several texts ping. Before I can read them, Jenna reappears with it in her hand and I prepare for the cold.
Instead of doing the expected and passing me the ice pack, she lowers to her knees and tenderly places it over my muscle. “How’s that?”
My cock didn’t get the message she’s off limits. Jenna clearly knows how she affects me as it’s basically staring her in the face.
“It’s,” I begin. “Challenging.” The left side of my mouth crooks upward.
“I can see that.” Her eyes close for a moment. When she opens them again, shiny grey irises appear. “I’m not sorry.” She kisses me again, far too fast, then sits in the chair across from me. She picks up her coffee cup.
We return to sipping our hot drinks as if we hadn’t just kissed like horny teens, the quiet between us a sharp contrast to the prickly ice on my thigh. My mind reels from our kisses, and my body wants more. Well, except for the part wrapped in ice at the moment. To distract myself, I scroll on my phone.
“Got some texts?”
“Yeah.” I glance up at her, “The other band members are checking in with me. Guess they read the same article.”
“Nice of your friends.” She replaces the mug onto its saucer.
My stomach clenches. More like keeping tabs on their frontman.
“While you’re replying to them, I think I’ll go change.” She stands. “Maybe you can also reach out to King and Angie?”
Just like that, she’s back to the business at hand. Given she’s being raked over the coals, I can understand her thought process. “I’m not sure.” I lift the ice pack and return it to my thigh. “Think they’d be upset if I don’t buy?”
A devious smile crosses her face. “You never know. You could fall in love out here.”
Love ? Is she joking?
What if she’s not ? I wait for my body to revolt but it never does.
What if I already have?