Chapter 7
Tate
Spending Sunday afternoon and evening hanging out at Summer’s place was amazing. All we did was eat, talk, and fuck—for the most part—and it was the best day I’ve spent outside of music in a long time. She ticks all my boxes and it’s a little scary how much I like her after just one day.
She’s sweet, sexy, and the intimacy between us is off the charts.
We also seem to be able to talk about anything, and I’ve never had an experience like this with someone that’s supposed to be a one-night stand.
And when the guys texted asking if I wanted them to pick me up on the way to Montreal, I told them no even before I talked to Summer.
I didn’t want to leave then, and I don’t want to leave now.
Luckily, we still have another twenty-four hours before I have to worry about going anywhere.
I texted Sasha and asked her to get me a flight, so I’m leaving on an eleven o’clock flight out of Albany in the morning. She’s even sending a car service to pick me up, so I can spend as much time as possible with Summer. I just hope I’m not inconveniencing her.
Not that she’s made me feel like an inconvenience.
Hell, I’ve never had so much fun playing house.
I don’t know if it’s the circumstances or the woman, but I like being with her.
Hearing her laugh. The way it feels when she curls into my chest talking about anything and everything.
She listens. And she truly knows nothing about my life or my lifestyle, which is refreshing.
Today, however, she’s all business.
We fell asleep around eleven last night and I heard her in the bathroom just before eight, so it was a good night’s sleep and now I’m guessing she has plans for the day. I feel bad that she didn’t get her baking or shopping done, but I’ll do my best to make it up to her.
“You up?” she asks, coming out of the bathroom looking more adorable than ever. She has on black shorts with a little ruffle at the bottom, a pink tank top that shows off her ample chest, and her hair is lightly curled around her shoulders.
“I’m awake,” I say, sitting up. “What’s the plan, boss?”
She laughs. “Grocery store, post office, and then back here to get the pies going.”
“Can I amend the schedule just a little?” I ask. “How about I take you to breakfast first, then groceries, then baking.”
She pretends to consider it. “Okay. I’ll let you take me to breakfast.”
“Give me five minutes to wash up and get dressed.”
“Meet you downstairs. Come on, Waylon.”
Waylon looks from her to me and then sashays in my direction.
“Be that way,” Summer yells after him. “Let’s see who gives you breakfast, you little traitor.”
We both laugh.
Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting at a quaint little restaurant in town—I don’t even know the name of it—and there’s a steaming stack of pancakes in front of me.
“These are good,” I tell her. “Normally, I skip breakfast and stick to coffee.”
“Are you usually traveling in the morning?” she asks.
“It depends on the day and the city. If we hadn’t broken down Sunday night, we would have arrived in Montreal around three in the morning, gotten a hotel room and crashed.
So I would have slept through breakfast. Other times, yes, we leave the hotel and hit the road to get to the next city.
I’ve never been a big breakfast eater, though. Not even as a kid.”
“I try not to eat a big breakfast,” she says. “Usually oatmeal or a piece of avocado toast. Something healthy but light. As I inch up toward thirty, I have to watch my figure.”
“Your figure is perfect the way it is,” I say firmly. “And you’re not really thirty, are you?”
“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in January. And I’m noticing my metabolism slowing down. One piece of birthday cake and I’m up two pounds the next day.”
“I guess I sweat so much on stage it hasn’t caught up to me yet,” I admit.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. You got a problem with a younger man?” I tease.
She chuckles. “Not at all. I’ll be your cougar all day long.”
Damn, she’s adorable. Her eyes glitter pure gold and the sunlight coming in from the window glints off her hair.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Just thinking how pretty you are.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” she murmurs. “But if you keep looking at me that way, we’re never going to make it through my errands.”
“Maybe that’s my evil plan,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows lasciviously.
“You had a better chance of convincing me before you did the thing with your eyebrows.” She laughs and it’s a beautiful thing to sit across from her, having breakfast like two normal people.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m normal. It’s my life that’s not normal.
Late nights, a new city every day or so, living out of a suitcase—the life of a rock star.
My dreams are coming true, and I’m grateful for it, but it comes at a cost. Even in the midst of it I’m aware of what I have to give up to be where I am.
After I pay the bill, we walk down the sidewalk toward the post office and I thread my fingers with hers. I honestly can’t remember the last time I held hands with a woman I wasn’t in the middle of having sex with.
“My life must seem pretty boring to you,” she says quietly.
“On the contrary. I was just thinking how nice this is, how different from my daily routine.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“I think a little of both,” I admit. “I love being here with you. Sleeping in, having access to a washing machine, being with a woman I can talk to who isn’t dying for a picture, an autograph, sex…”
“Sex?” She turns to me. “But we did—”
“What we did is different,” I interrupt impatiently. “Yes, it’s sex, but it wasn’t…performative.”
She squints, cocking her head slightly. “Explain that in this context.”
“When I meet a woman after a show, I’m expected to put on a different kind of show. She wants to be…entertained. I’m not sure I’m explaining it right. Yes, obviously I enjoy the sex too. But it’s expected. The whole thing is another part of the show. Most of the time I enjoy it.”
“Most of the time?”
I hesitate. I would never say stuff like this out loud to anyone else, not even my band.
“I love playing music. I get on stage and put on a show, four, five, six nights a week. I love seeing the crowd react, our fans singing along to words I created in my head—it’s magical.
One of the coolest things ever. But when the music part is over, I have to keep performing.
The rock star persona. The image. Drinking and partying and having fun.
Even when I’d rather be in bed watching a movie or getting my laundry done. ”
“Do you always have to do it? Can’t you just say no autographs tonight or whatever?”
“I can, and once in a while, I do, but there are journalists, radio personalities, industry executives—you never know who’s backstage and this is our first album, first tour.
There are expectations. That’s the only way I can describe it.
My life right now is full of expectations, twenty-four-seven.
So it’s been nice being with someone who doesn’t expect anything.
We met at a restaurant, you had no idea who I was, and we clicked.
We waited out the storm helping you at the diner, getting to know each other on a different level.
The sex wasn’t a given. Hell, I was a little surprised you asked me to go home with you. ”
She smiles. “I never bring anyone home. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy dating and sex—but I usually go to their place. My house is…sacred. Where I go to relax and unwind. I don’t bring a hookup home with me.”
“So there are expectations in your life too. You bring a guy to your house and he expects…something. It may not be as obvious as it is for me, but I get it. That need to protect your space. My problem is that I don’t have any.”
“Well, you can have all the space you need while you’re with me,” she says softly, and I understand that’s not some passive-aggressive statement where she’s hinting that I’m free to go and expecting me to say I don’t want to.
She’s simply reiterating that she’s happy to give me whatever it is I need while we’re together.
I slide my arm around her shoulders. “I really like you, Summer.”
“I like you too.”