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CHAPTER EIGHT
TANNER
The clock on my office wall reads three-twenty-three, but the little bar at the bottom of my laptop claims it’s three-eighteen.
The difference shouldn’t matter, but it does, because every minute that passes is one minute closer to seeing Star again, and time is currently moving at the pace of a sedated sloth.
I flip my pen end over end, watching it blur. I bounce my knee under the desk, check the time on my phone, then check the clock again, as if one of them is going to change drastically.
No such luck. The screen flickers, and Hudson’s face appears, taking up eighty percent of the monitor in glorious 4K.
My oldest brother has the resting face of a military drill sergeant and the haircut to match.
When he says my name in that low, “don’t bullshit me” tone, I have the urge to fuck with him just for fun.
“Evenin’, gentlemen,” Hudson says, and even though it’s just the three of us, he’s got that same edge he uses for boardrooms and congressional fundraisers.
Silas appears next, a beat later, with his screen set up at a weird angle so I mostly see the ceiling fan whirring over his head. He looks like he’s somewhere between a nap and a hangover, with a T-shirt I gave him for Christmas and hair that says, “I didn’t try, but I still look better than you.”
“Hey, losers,” Silas says. “Let’s make this quick. I got a date with whiskey and a ball game.”
Hudson ignores him and lasers in on me. “Tanner, we’re waiting on your report from the vendor walk-through. Did you find out if Morales BBQ can handle the extra headcount for the rodeo, or do we need to bring in back-up?”
I should have an answer, but all I can think about is the feeling of holding Star’s curvy body against mine last night. Every time my mind cycles back to that, my cock turns to stone in my goddamn sweatpants.
I scramble, opening the spreadsheet I haven’t touched since this morning. “Yeah, Morales says he can do up to two thousand, but he wants a fifteen percent bump on the catering fee.”
I recite the details from my screen like I’m reading a foreign language, my brain still fuzzy from last night. Every time I blink, I see Star’s name written across my skin in invisible ink, making it impossible to focus on vendor contracts or catering head counts.
Hudson’s eyes narrow, just a little. “Fine. Tell him he gets the bump, but it’s capped at fifteen percent, and he’s out for next year if he misses delivery by more than thirty minutes. Silas, what’s the deal with the main stage setup?”
Silas picks at a cuticle and mumbles, “Band is confirmed. I got all the permits for amplified sound until midnight. Security’s a non-issue, but the city council wants an extra insurance rider for the mechanical bull. Again.”
“They’re still stuck on that?” I say, only half-paying attention because I just got a text from Star.
“Apparently, some drunk dipshit fell off the bull at Oktoberfest in Midnight Falls and sued, so now the town council is worried,” Silas says, lips twitching. “Should I get the extra insurance or cancel the bull?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy opening Star’s text.
Goddess
What should I wear?
I type out “You don’t have to wear anything,” then I think better of it and erase that.
Me
Something casual.
Goddess
See you later
Fuck yes, she will. I’m counting the goddamn seconds.
Hudson clears his throat, all business, but there’s an edge in his voice. “You paying attention over there, Tanner? Or you got somewhere better to be?”
I don’t even pretend. “I’m here.”
Silas lets out a low snort. “Yeah, but your brain isn’t. Dude’s got a woman on his mind.”
Across the screen, Cole leans forward like a damn gossip columnist sniffing out a scoop. “You holding out on us, Si? Spill. Who is she?”
Silas grins, all teeth and trouble. “A little bird, AKA my twin, told me someone’s been sweating it out at yoga class for a certain blonde instructor.”
Hudson’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Good God. Now I have to deal with another one of you assholes acting like a pussy-whipped moron.”
I don’t have the time or patience to deal with these assholes. “Fuck off.”
Silas howls loud enough to rattle the speakers. “So touchy, Tannie Poo.”
Hudson’s lips flatten, his gaze sharpening like a blade honed on irritation. “Pull your shit together and focus on this call,” he snaps, every word a controlled detonation. “Then you can do whatever you want on your own time.”
I bite back a curse, my voice coming out low and rough, all frayed edges. “Fine,” I grind out. “Let’s get this shit done. I have things to do.” My words vibrate with impatience, every syllable tight with the urge to bolt, to be anywhere but here.
I grit my teeth and power through, but it’s agony. Every time Silas opens his mouth, I want to throttle him. The minutes crawl by, but I manage to keep my shit together.
Hudson’s voice is a wall of command. “We need your final answer on the vendor layout by Tuesday.” He’s relentless, and I am so fucking done.
“Fine. You’ll have it.” My body is locked so tight I might snap something.
Silas launches into a spiel on all the last-minute shit we need to get done.
I tune him out, stare at the clock, and fantasize about Star’s hands, Star’s mouth, Star’s body moving on top of mine.
I’m hard as a damn rock just thinking about her, and I have to shift in my seat so my sweatpants don’t cut off blood supply to my goddamn cock.
Twenty excruciating minutes later, the meeting comes to an end, and I hang up without saying goodbye.
Freedom.
I practically sprint to the bathroom. I need to shower and get ready for my date.
The master bath is easily the nicest room in my house, and also the one I use the most. White marble stretches from the floor to the counters and halfway up the walls, broken only by navy blue cabinets and the heavy, gleaming fixtures my sister insisted on during the remodel.
The glass-walled shower is big enough for a football team, and there’s a rain head, side jets, and a shelf stocked with body wash and shampoo.
I flip the water on and wait for it to hit optimal scald. My shirt and jeans hit the floor, along with my boxers.
The second the hot water hits my back, I let out a groan that echoes around the marble and glass. My muscles loosen in increments, a millimeter at a time. I roll my neck, tilt my face into the spray, and just let the water pound the tension out.
I close my eyes and she’s there. Her voice, soft but wicked, saying, “You can do whatever you want. I’m all yours.
” The memory of her hands on my body is so fresh it might as well be happening right now.
Her light touch on my back, a brush of fingers on my thigh, her mouth inches from my ear as she corrected my form.
Jesus Christ. My fucking brain is turning a yoga session into foreplay.
My cock is hard before I even finish lathering, straining up at me, ready for whatever’s next.
I try to focus on something else. Anything else. Vendor lists. Bull insurance. Even Hudson’s spreadsheet of doom. But every thought boomerangs back to her—her bare feet, her green eyes, the way her yoga pants clung to her stunning curves.
I brace one hand against the slick glass, eyes closed, water streaming down my neck and over my shoulders.
My other hand wraps around my cock, and for a second, I’m embarrassed at how desperate I am.
But I can’t stop. All I can see is Star—kneeling behind me in yoga, guiding me into place, her hair brushing my arm, her mouth parted just so.
I stroke myself, slow at first, then faster, every jerk sending another jolt of heat down my spine. I imagine her there, on her knees in front of me, eyes locked on mine, her voice a whisper: “You want this, Tanner?” My breath hitches, and I answer aloud, “Fuck yes, Star. I want you.”
Steam fogs up the entire enclosure, blurring the edges of everything, and I let my head fall back, groaning her name under my breath.
I picture her straddling me, hands in my hair, nails down my back, her body grinding against mine until neither of us can hold it together.
My hips buck, and I’m a split-second from losing it when I picture her coming apart in my arms, her voice saying my name like it’s a prayer and a curse.
I come so goddamn hard my knees nearly buckle. The sound that rips out of my chest booms through the large bathroom. My entire body goes loose, jelly-like, and for a long minute, I just stand there, forehead pressed to the glass, water pelting my shoulders, breathing hard.
Eventually, I rinse myself and shut off the water. The marble is slick under my feet as I step out, reaching for a towel—the biggest one, soft as clouds, monogrammed with my initials. I rub myself dry, every nerve ending singing. Fuck. My cock is still hard as a rock.
I drape the towel over my hips and lean against the counter, letting the cool stone bleed some of the heat out of me. I check the time and see it’s only forty-five minutes until I see her again. About fucking time.