Chapter Twenty-Six
Was Rhett arrested last night? A friend saw him downtown with cops.
The table is sticky. I press the pads of my fingers to the wood, and when I pull them away, my skin follows a second behind the rest of my hands. Across the crowded room, Rhett is at the bar, his own non-Rhett-Auburn-branded baseball cap pulled low over his face.
On the raised stage at the other side of the bar, a singer is tuning her guitar, adjusting the microphone in front of her. The ceilings are low, covered in stickers and graffiti.
Rhett saunters back to me through the crowd and slides into our circular corner booth, positioning himself so his back is to the rest of the bar. He sets two cans of club soda and a plastic basket of chicken wings on the table.
“Not very country boy of you.” I gesture to his drink. “Aren’t you supposed to eat, sleep, and breathe beer?”
“I don’t drink.” He shrugs out of his worn leather jacket. “It’s been about a year.”
My mind races back through every memory of him, slotting this new information into place. It’s so like him—reserved, focused, careful—that it hardly makes sense that I didn’t notice until now.
He takes a swig of his club soda and scoots closer on the bench until our thighs are pressed together. People buzz around us, but no one pays us any attention. We could be the only ones left in the world.
“This is where I wanted to bring you,” he says. “Last year, when … this is where I meant.”
Last year, when I said I loved Nashville and he told me it was his home, he said he’d take me. We were half asleep, tangled in my untucked sheets, and he put his pinky up to mine, pressed the pads of our fingers together.
“I promised,” he says now. “I’m a little late, though.
” He takes another sip of his drink and sets it back on the table.
“This is where I played my first big gig. A producer was here, and she signed me the next day. I owe this place everything. If I hadn’t been here—if she hadn’t been here… ” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be here now.”
“You would be, trust me.” I pick up a chicken wing and inspect it. “How hot is this?”
He takes a wing and bites into it, running his tongue along his lower lip to catch the dripping sauce. “Hot,” he says.
It shouldn’t be sexy—especially since spicy food gives me indigestion—but it is. I take a bite of the chicken wing and fan my open mouth. “Shit, that is hot.”
Rhett laughs and reaches forward, tugging playfully on the visor of my cap.
“I’m taking this off the second we leave,” I say.
“What, you don’t want to be a groupie?” He catches my cheek in his hand.
For a second I think he’s about to kiss me, but he just wipes a smudge of hot sauce from my lip.
He pulls his thumb back to his own mouth and runs his tongue over the spot.
Something tugs low in my stomach. I take a giant bite of chicken to distract myself.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
He doesn’t owe me a response, not with everything I’m still hiding, but he props his arm around my shoulders and leans in. “Anything.”
I’m not sure I even want the answer, but if I never ask, I’ll never know.
“Was I right? About the payoffs? Were there … others?”
The woman onstage starts playing.
“Christ,” Rhett mutters, glancing behind us at the stage.
“What is—oh.” I laugh and lean into his warm shoulder.
The woman is singing the title track of Rhett’s second album. Not the most popular, but one of my favorites. It’s well suited to her voice, thick and sweet as honey.
She’s the wind in my hair and the blood in my veins,
The creak of a stair when it’s starting to rain.
There it is again, the elusive “she.”
Rhett clears his throat, studies the table in front of us. “You were the only one,” he says. “You are the only one.”
The words melt into my skin. I’ve dreamed of him saying these words, but I never knew how it would feel: warm, safe, whole.
He reaches up, takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and looks deep into my eyes. The second payoff hangs in the air between us, but I leave it for now.
The singer’s voice goes high, pitches over a mountain, and tumbles down the other side as Rhett leans closer.
Oh my, oh my, how I love her, my dear,
The only thing I wish is that she were still here.
“I was going through a hard time when I met you. Cassidy and I were on the rocks and my father had just died.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he shakes his head, runs his hand down his face.
“Don’t be. He wasn’t a nice man. Meeting you felt like taking a breath of air after drowning.
” He cups my neck in his hand, tipping my head back.
“That night with you…” He lets out a breath, shakes his head.
“That was the best night of my life. But after you fell asleep, I didn’t think I could do it, drag you into anything more—I was still technically married to Cassidy.
I didn’t want anything to be messy. So, I left. ”
My heart thumps as I remember waking up in my bed to find that Rhett was gone, the mattress barely indented where he’d been just hours earlier.
There was no note, no scribbled phone number.
No coffee left on the counter. The only proof he’d been there was the deadbolt flicked in the opposite direction as it had been the night before.
“Plus…” he trails off, still chewing the inside of his lip.
“What?” I bump my knee against his under the table and he sucks in a breath. He drags his eyes up my jeans, my neck, and to my face. I feel warm everywhere they land, like he’s kissed his way up my body instead of just looking.
“I didn’t think you’d want this,” he breathes. “Me.”
My lips part, breathing in the first notes of the musician’s next song.
The echo of what I said to him after we almost hooked up in his hot tub at the mansion is a gut punch. I’d thought I was protecting us, but now I see how much it hurt him.
“I didn’t mean that,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I—I think I was just scared.” I rest my forehead on the soft cotton at his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. The words are so tender, so tightly wound that my throat squeezes. He has no idea how sorry I deserve to be.
Pulling away, he runs his fingers down the sweating aluminum of his drink. It’s mesmerizing, hallucinogenic. I down the rest of my club soda, feeling it cool my chest, my stomach, everywhere I want his lips.
“It’s too late.” My voice cracks. That’s what I said back on the roof of the mansion, but now I don’t want it to be true.
I want to turn back time and land back in my bed, curled into his warmth.
“It’s too late,” I whisper again. By lying my way onto this show, by sending his texts to Serena, I’ve made damn sure it’s too late no matter how badly we both want it.
A tear slides down my face and Rhett brushes it away.
“Is it?” he asks.
Those two words lodge like a peach pit in my throat. Lips parted, I shake my head. “I don’t want it to be.”
The way he’s looking at me, his knee brushing mine under the table, his hand on my hip, blocking out the rest of the world.
We’re not just talking about sex. And here, in this crowded bar, no one is paying us any attention.
Instead of pink strobes, neon signs flash on his face.
He’s the band and I’m swaying to his melody. I’ll go anywhere with him.
He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, takes a ragged breath. “I…” His fingers flare on my hip, sending a shock through me. His eyes dance down to my chest, drag up and pause on my lips like he’s as attuned to my body as I am to his.
“Just once,” I whisper. “One more time.”
His eyebrows contract, but it’s so sudden, that I might have imagined it. He glances over his shoulder, pulls his cap lower over his forehead. I may be anonymous, but he isn’t.
“Let’s go.” I wind my fingers through his and pull him out of the booth, through the crowd of people now dancing to a Kacey Musgraves cover.
It’s not cold outside, but the fresh air is a slap in the face, a reminder of how dangerous this is. We turn into an alley and Rhett presses me to the cool brick wall. His hands frame my hips, his eyes search my face.
“Georgia.” It’s a plea and a prayer. He swallows hard, glances at the mouth of the alley, but no one passes. His knee presses between mine, parting my legs. “Are you here for him?”
I shake my head, lips parting, letting Roland out of my system. It’s not giving myself away, not really. It’s just a nudge in the right direction. And as much as every part of me is aching to tell Rhett everything, this is all I can manage. Because if I give him more, I could ruin everything.
“If you want to stop, tell me,” he says. He leans closer, a lion stalking its prey. I’m craving the pounce. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
And then his mouth is on mine, his hand sliding down my thigh, sending heat through my jeans as he lifts my knee and presses his hips into mine. He trails his lips down my throat and lifts my T-shirt, fingers tracing up to my chest.
“Georgia,” he murmurs. His eyes are dilated so far I can barely see the green rims. His thumb skims my ribs, his jaw flexing as he works his fingers higher, brushing across my taped nipple. He brings his head back ever so slightly, an amused smile on his face. “May I?” he whispers.
Breathless, I nod, and he gently peels away the tape, my skin gasping with it. He leans in, taking my earlobe between his teeth, and pinches my nipple between his fingers. I bite my swollen lip, fighting to keep from making noise.
Reaching for his belt is a frantic scramble of fingers, hands, skin.
His breath hitches, a flush blooming over his jaw.
He drops his mouth, pressing his tongue to my clavicle, the divot at the base of my throat, before hooking a finger inside the waist of my jeans.
He trails his tongue back up my neck, his saliva hot then so cold on my skin.
A flash of light makes us both jump, and Rhett springs away from me.
“Rhett!”
A reporter has crept around the corner, camera pointed in our direction.
“Rhett, over here!”
Instinctively, Rhett sweeps his arm in front of me, pushing me out of sight. I cower behind him as another flash of light dazzles the alley.
“Rhett, who’s the girl? How’s Love Shack?”
“Rhett, have you talked to Cassidy?”
I press my hands to his back, trying to pull him away. “Come on,” I plead. “Come on, let’s go.”
But he’s stuck, staring wide-eyed at the reporter. The man’s voice echoes through the alleyway. “Rhett, I have a source saying that you were arrested last year for throwing a beer bottle through Cassidy Foley’s window. Do you have a comment?”
Rhett stiffens, and I bury my face further into his back. Could this reporter be telling the truth? Pressed into the soft fabric of his shirt, tears prick my eyes.
I feel Rhett shake his head before he says, “Go to hell.”
Once the reporter is gone, I pull back from Rhett, who’s breathing hard. He leans against the brick wall, cursing under his breath.
“We have to get you back.”
I blink tears from my eyes. “But—what if they got a picture?”
“I don’t think he got your face,” he says heavily, before turning back to me. “I’m so sorry.”
It’s so much to take in, but the reporter’s words ring in my ears. “Was that true?”
Slowly, he nods, his jaw set. “Yes,” he breathes.
“I was arrested last year. For throwing a beer bottle through Cassidy’s window.
I was drunk. She cheated on me, messed everything up.
And I … I trusted her.” His voice breaks, and he runs a hand through his hair before looking up at me.
“Lainey must’ve tipped off the press about it, to try to keep me in line, remind me what’s at stake. ”
“She would do that?”
He shrugs in defeat. “Like I told you, she’s dangerous. And no one else knows about the arrest. But … that was the second payoff—the second time Love Shack covered for me.” He reaches up, cups my face in his hand, and runs his thumb down my cheek. “There was no one else.”
“Why isn’t this easy?” I murmur, voice blurred with tears.
“What?”
“This,” I say, pointing between us. “That one night in LA, it was just…” I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head. “It was perfect.”
He waits until I open my eyes to respond. “It was perfect because that’s all it was—one night. It wasn’t real life. In real life people make mistakes, mess things up.” He shakes his head. “I can’t mess this up for you.”
Whether he’s talking about Roland or the job he doesn’t know I’m here for, I know he’s right. If Lainey’s on his tail as well as mine, we have to be careful.
He’s already backing away, expecting me to follow.
It feels so wrong to let him leave. Like he’s been fused into my skin then ripped away.
Hugging myself, I jog to catch up to him. We walk through side streets in silence until we get to the car he borrowed from the producers.
I sink down into the leather passenger seat, pressing my palms to my face to stem the tears streaming down my cheeks.
It was only a few minutes, but I can still smell him on my skin.
A light rain starts up, and I slide further down on the soft leather.
The silence between us is impossibly loud until he pulls out into traffic and flips on the radio.
As he slows at a stoplight, brake lights stain the foggy windshield like blood in water.
I don’t want to admit it, but it sinks in that I’ve done the impossible: I’ve fallen a little bit in love on reality TV.
Just not with the right guy.