CHAPTER 27
TYLER
Tyler and Cary arrived at his building, pausing just long enough to say hi to the concierge. Rory wagged his tail at Arjun, despite the tragic lack of cookies.
They stepped into the elevator, and as the doors slid shut, “Love in an Elevator” started playing in her head.
Of course it did.
When they reached his penthouse, he opened the door, spun her around, and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, his jaw grazing upward as her body pulsed with longing. Then his lips found hers—full, insistent, and breathless—and she melted into his warmth, her chin tilting up to meet him.
“Cary,” she gasped between kisses.
He didn’t answer, just deepened the kiss, his tongue coaxing hers while her nipples ached with need. God, she’d missed this—missed him—and she clung to the moment like it might vanish.
“Cary . . .” She pulled back an inch from his lips. She didn’t want to stop but had to get something off her chest.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Do you mind if we talk?”
“You said I was all talk, so I’m showing action,” he teased, trailing his fingers between her thighs, pressing fabric against heat.
Her head fell back as a moan slipped out. “Fuck.”
“I want you.” His fingers grazed the seam of her jeans, slow, deliberate. “Badly.”
She exhaled, pulse unsteady. “Can we maybe talk first? I want to tell you something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come sit.” She motioned toward the couch where Rory was already sleeping like the dead. “I want to explain why I acted like that. I owe you more than an apology.”
He shook his head, adjusting the bulge in his jeans. “I should’ve known better.”
“It’s my ex.” She sat on the couch and unlaced her old, worn-out Dayton boots.
“He cheated on me the whole time we were together and now I have major trust issues.” She hated Dave for making her feel like this.
When she found out about his cheating, she was more angry than upset.
She hated how he’d taken advantage of her kindness and free rent.
He sat beside her and held her hand. “How long were you together?”
She met his gaze and cringed. “Five years—just over.”
His eyes turned dark. “What an asshole. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s more.” She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “He strung me along and promised we’d have a baby, and like an idiot, I waited. I have to tell you, Cary, I’m batting zero with musicians.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not with him. I can’t speak for all musicians, just this one. I love you.” He squeezed her hand. “My tour ends in August.”
“I know when your tour ends.”
He laughed. “I guess you do. How about we try then?”
She flashed open her eyes. “Seriously?”
“I’m not getting any younger.” He smiled, nudging his head toward the bedroom. “Want to practice?”
”I am a perfectionist.”
Still holding his hand, she followed him into his bedroom and shut the door. Privacy please, Rory. Who was she kidding? That dog wasn’t waking up for anything.
She lay on top of the duvet and reached for the button on her jeans, but his hand covered hers. “Let me,” he said.
She lifted her hips, and he slid her jeans down, tugging them off at the ankles before peeling off her socks. His hand traced a slow path up her thigh until it reached the cotton triangle between her legs. His fingertips were rough, the calluses brushing her in a way that made her shudder.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered, making the situation worse.
Forget flood warning—this was a full-scale evacuation. Possibly a rescue mission.
“Get these off of me!”
He laughed, hooking a finger into the elastic of her panties and sliding them down to her feet. Her bottom lip trembled as his tongue met her heat, fingers curling into the duvet. Tension built, unfurling like the slow burn of a “Kashmir” guitar riff. His tongue traced along her flesh until . . .
“Fuck,” she said, her hips convulsing on the bed. An earthquake warning was now in effect.
“I love how you taste,” he murmured as he climbed over her, his hair brushing her face. “I could do that all day.”
One by one, he undid the buttons of her shirt until only her bra remained.
She unhooked the front clasp—an ingenious little trap for most men—and her breasts spilled free, nipples tight with arousal.
His hands skimmed over them, shaping them with reverence before his mouth claimed one, then the other, sucking until they flushed a deep, heated red.
“My turn,” she said, her hand slipping between his legs.
She traced the outline of his erection through his jeans, her fingertip dragging a slow, deliberate path.
His head fell back, a groan escaping—low, guttural—before he let out a string of curses, each one rougher than the last. She smirked.
She liked him like this—undone, unraveling beneath her touch.
“Really?” she asked, eyebrows raised, using both hands to unbutton his jeans.
He laughed. “Button fly—go figure.”
A metallic jingle echoed as his jeans hit the floor, and she slid her hands inside his boxer briefs. His already impressive length thickened, pulsing as she wrapped her mouth around him.
Opening wide, she devoured him with deliberate hunger. A ragged groan ripped from his throat. “I’m going to come.”
She stopped for a second. “That’s kind of the point.”
“No way, not yet.” He flipped her onto her back and pulled the loose elastic from her topknot, then combed her hair with his fingers. His gaze penetrated her soul as she widened her legs, and he grabbed his girth, slowly entering her. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” she gasped, her breath hitching with every inch he filled her—inch after relentless inch. By the time he was fully seated inside her, she was trembling. “Holy fuck.” Her fists clenched the sheets, a lifeline to keep from blacking out.
“There’s nothing holy about this.” He breathed into her ear and sucked on her neck before biting it.
They rocked every inch of his bed, the sheets damp beneath her skin. He pulled out with a shuddering breath, his muscles tight with restraint. She watched, aching, as he stroked himself slowly, his control hanging by a thread.
“I don’t want to come yet,” he rasped.
She nodded, guiding him back inside her. As he moved, she cupped her breasts, pressing them together, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
“Fuck!” he groaned, his body tensing as warmth surged deep inside her.
Then he collapsed beside her, breathless, spent, and utterly undone.
She giggled. “I thought you didn’t want to come yet?”
He opened one eye. “That was just practice, remember?”
After Tyler and Cary showered, they ordered Indian food from Vij’s and turned on the hockey game. The Winnipeg Jets scored early in the game and led 1–0.
“They waved off icing.” Tyler pointed to the screen. “See, he could’ve played the puck.” She continued to watch the game while she ate. “This food is delicious!”
“You’ve lived here for how long and never had Vij’s?” He shook his head. “How’s that even possible?”
“I don’t eat out much unless I’m with Sebastien. He hates Indian food. Indian anything, really.” She darted her gaze back to the game. “Goal! That dummy scored on his own net. I wish they’d make it two points like a safety in football.”
He laughed. “Any other suggestions?”
“Oh, this is spicy.” She took a gulp of water. “I think if you score a shorty—when the other team has a power play—your guy should get out of the penalty box.”
Her phone vibrated. It was an email from Sebastien. She laughed as she read the message.
Your band is in. You’re welcome.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m laughing at Sebastien’s deal. You for my band. It’s like a prisoner exchange.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Why do you hate awards so much?” She put her plate on the coffee table and crossed her legs over his lap.
He paused. “I don’t have a problem with awards based on merit. Record sales or number of streams—I’ve got a problem with voting on the best song or artist. It turns into a popularity contest, and the person with the most likes wins.”
“How do you feel about your Lifetime Achievement award?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not even forty.”
“What am I missing here?”
“They’re for old people.” His shoulders rounded as he cringed. “I don’t want to be a legacy act like Jamespoke. I play a lot of new songs in my set.”
“You’ve had twenty years of hits,” she reminded him. “Jamespoke had one hit, and another group made it famous. Plus, Brad’s a colossal idiot.”
He tilted his head. “My last number one was five years ago.”
Had it been that long?
“The song Yestown recorded is a banger,” she reminded him.
“I was talking about a new song.” He sighed. “As much as I hate to say it, a Cary Kingston song.”
What had she done? She’d practically forced him to accept his award in person.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m pulling Yestown and you won’t have to do it.”
“I’m not backing out, babe. I committed.”
Why did he think he had something to prove? He’d been a best-selling artist for two decades. Maybe he was just like Prince’s mother: never satisfied.
“High stick!” she shouted at the TV. “His stick was higher than the crossbar.”
“You sure know a lot about hockey.”
“I’m surprised you don’t know more, being a Manitoban.” She tapped her lips. “You’re on the road too much.” She scooched behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “You don’t have enough downtime to write.”
“I’ve got plenty of downtime,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s called hurry up and wait.”
“I don’t push my artists to write on the road. Writing and performing are two different things.”
“You know, you really understand musicians. And I’m not just saying that. I think we both know I’m not all talk by now.”
“I can’t help it.” She shrugged. “I was raised by one.”
“Maybe you should go out on your own?” Cary suggested. “I know you’re unhappy at SDM, or at least with Sebastien.”
She stopped mid-rub and rested her chin on his shoulder. “If I went out on my own I’d want to work with Kim and Allie—make it a full-service operation.”
“So, do it!”
“Have you met Sebastien?”
“I know he’s a little rough around the edges.” Rough around the edges? A hand saw was smoother than Sebastien. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.”
“No, you won’t,” she said firmly. “I’m not ready to leave yet.” He glanced back at her. “Cary?”
“I promise.” He crossed his heart.
She stared at the ceiling. “I could sign that girl band I was telling you about. And Nadie when she’s done school. But I’d want to take Yestown with me. I found them myself.”
“You should talk to Bob Shaw about setting up your business.”
She burst out laughing. “Yeah, right. And Bob Shaw won’t tell Sebastien?”
“Trust me.” His look turned dead serious. “He won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He manages my finances outside of SDM. I hired him after he got sober.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, he’s keeping it on the down-low from SDM.”
It was the first intermission when Tyler’s phone vibrated. Dylan called on FaceTime, knowing they were in between periods. Like the rest of the Robertsons, her sister was a die-hard Jets fan.
Cary glanced at her screen. “Is your sister upset with me?”
“No, she’s cool,” Tyler said. “She didn’t think you were cheating—I mean, with someone else. She’s doing her Valentine’s Day check-in.”
Tyler answered the call. “Happy Valentine’s Day! Rory says Happy Valentine’s Day, too.” She waved Rory’s paw into the phone.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Cary said, moving his face into view.
“Cary?” Dylan’s eyes widened.
“Are you surprised?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess. But I’m glad you’re there,” Dylan said, her voice warm with sincerity.
Tyler blinked, a little thrown. She’d expected a smug I told you so—Dylan had been insistent that Cary hadn’t cheated. But there was no gloating, just quiet support.
“Best Valentine’s ever,” Tyler said. “Indian food and a hockey game.”
“I think I can make it better.” Dylan thinned her lips into a smirk. “I’m pregnant!”
Tyler covered her mouth. “Shut the fuck up!”
“You shut the fuck up,” Dylan laughed.
“Oh my god!” she cried. “Congratulations! When are you due?”
Dylan could hardly spit out the words. “September. I’m only six weeks along. I got pregnant around New Year’s. Good thing I quit drinking on Christmas.”
“You didn’t quit drinking. You had an extended hangover, if memory serves.” Her voice became concerned. “How do you feel?”
“I’m nervous, but I feel pretty good.” Dylan paused. “Any chance you can be here for the birth?”
“I can guarantee it,” she confirmed.
As soon as the game ended—of course Winnipeg won—Cary zipped up his jacket. Tyler had insisted on driving him to the airport; she’d promised Kim she would.
“Ready to go?” he asked, jingling her key fob in the air.
“Sure,” she said, though the word barely made it past her lips. She didn’t move from the couch.
“Babe?” He stepped closer. When she dropped her head into her hands, he crouched in front of her. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, swiping at her cheeks with the cuff of her shirt.
Cary handed her a tissue. “Are those happy tears for Dylan or . . . ?”
“They are.” She heaved, drying her eyes as she strained to focus. “But I’ve missed so much of Nadie’s and my nephews’ lives. I want to go home.”
“For good?”
“Eventually.” She nodded, blowing her nose. “I don’t have any work there, but—”
“We’ll figure it out,” he promised, wrapping his arms around her like a security blanket.
She buried her face into his jacket. “I won’t see you for a whole month.”
Who was she turning into? Some needy chick? Gross.
“It’s less than a month,” he said. “And if it’s too much I’ll fly back for a day or fly you to wherever. I’ll do anything to make this work.”
“I feel silly.” She dabbed her eyes with the crumpled tissue.
“I’m just a phone call away,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “And if you can’t reach me, text Vegas. He’ll know where I am.”
She sat up straighter. “Vegas knows?”
Cary smiled. “He figured it out at the hockey game.”
“I had no idea.” She paused, then added, “You probably shouldn’t play poker with him.”
Maybe that’s how Vegas got his nickname.