“Might be, yeah,” he admitted hoarsely.
Obviously startled by his confession, she paused mid-chew, swallowing with visible difficulty. Taking a moment to recover while they stared at each other over the counter. “That’s okay,” she said quietly. “That’s good.”
He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to go lay his head down in her lap. To surrender his will, which was thinning by the moment, and let her do with him what she would. He’d woken up with the intention of staying strong, committed to remembering all the reasons that being one half of a couple with Hannah was not in the cards. They’d almost escaped this visit unscathed. Hannah, most importantly. Less than a week to go—and he would be fishing for most of it. Giving her false hope now could lead to her being hurt and he would rather tie an anchor to his foot and jump overboard.
His resolve was already weakening, though.
The what-ifs were becoming more and more frequent.
There was still a stubborn voice in the back of Fox’s head, telling him she deserved better than some responsibility-free tramp who had been bed hopping since he was in high school. But it was growing more and more subdued in the face of her . . . commitment to him. Is that what it was? All his cards were on the table. He’d taken off a layer of skin last night and exposed himself. Yet here she sat, not budging. Just being there. Right alongside of him. Permanent. And he was starting to realize the commitment already ran both ways. He’d formed it long before now. For Hannah, hadn’t he? Somewhere along the line, he’d started thinking of Hannah as his. Not just his friend or girlfriend or sexual fantasy. His . . . everything.
And as soon as he admitted that to himself he . . . burned another pancake. But most importantly, the sense that she belonged to him—that they belonged to each other—took root.
Which explained why, a few hours later when they walked into the recording studio and several band members looked Hannah over with interest, Fox wrapped an arm around her shoulders and almost growled, Back off, she’s taken.
This man was fully overboard.
* * *
Hannah’s girl-crush on Alana Wilder was instantaneous.
The lead singer of the Unreliables was in the recording booth when they entered Reflection Studio, the sound of her throaty purr electrifying the air and holding Hannah in thrall. She approached the glass as if hypnotized, skin prickling with excitement, already imagining Henry’s words belted out to the masses from the curvy redhead’s throat.
Before she could lift a hand to the glass, as if to touch the music, Fox’s warmth surrounded her, his palm rubbing up and down her bare arm. Tingles speared down to her toes, hair follicles sighing in contentment. Oh dear. She’d been wrong before. Traveling to grunge heaven to record a demo wasn’t overstimulating.
This was.
With awareness coiling in her belly, Hannah tilted her head back to look at Fox questioningly and found his irritated gaze focused on something besides the woman belting out lyrics like she was born into magic.
Hannah followed his line of sight and found a couch occupied by three musicians, one holding a guitar, the second with a bass resting sideways in his lap, the third with a fiddle that looked like it had seen better days.
“Are you the girl from the production company?” asked the fiddle player.
“Yes.” She extended a hand and walked toward the trio, finding herself moving in tandem with Fox, whose touch now rested on the small of her back. “Er . . . I’m Hannah Bellinger. Nice to meet you.”
She shook hands with the guitar and bass players, noting they looked kind of amused by the fact that Fox was towering behind her like a bodyguard.
“Wow,” Hannah breathed, tipping her head at the recording booth. “She’s incredible.”
“Isn’t she?” This from the bass player, whose voice held a hint of the Caribbean. “We’re just here for decoration.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” She laughed.
“We’ll lose that job, too, now that you’re here.” The fiddle player stood, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re definitely easier on the eyes than us ugly bastards.”
Fox’s comically forced laughter lasted five seconds longer than the rest of theirs.
Hannah turned and raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder.
What is wrong with you?
Seeming to realize the spectacle he was making of himself, he coughed into a fist and crossed his arms, but remained close. Was he jealous?
If she wasn’t so shocked, she might have been . . . thrilled? Last night, she’d done a lot more than work on the grunge playlist to end all grunge playlists. While selecting songs, her determination to fight to change Fox’s mind about himself had only built. She wasn’t going back to Los Angeles without him knowing he could be more than some beautiful joke. A man who everyone expected to fulfill some bullshit destiny simply because he could. Not happening.
And maybe the fact that he could feel jealous was an indirect sign of progress? Maybe being jealous over her would prove to him he could want to get serious with . . . someone else someday?
If, for instance, he and Hannah weren’t meant to be.
Hannah ignored the horrible burning in her breast and turned back around. “Have you had a chance to look at the songs I sent over last night?”
“We have. Been burning the midnight oil working on arrangements.”
“You’ll be happy with them,” the bass player said, definitively, a musician’s arrogance on full display. “No question.”
The fiddle player gave her a look that was half chagrin, half apology for his bandmate. “Soon as Alana is done in there, we’ll run through the shanties, make sure it all works for you.”
She smiled. “That would be great, thank you.”
The trio went back to their conversation, and Hannah returned to the glass to watch Alana, Fox coming up beside her. “What was that?” she whispered at him.
“What was what?”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m being helpful. They were looking at you like a ten-tier birthday cake just walked in the door.” He wasn’t quite succeeding in pulling off a casual tone, an agitated hand lifting to scrub at the bristle on his jaw. “Musicians are bad news—everyone knows that. Now they’ll leave you alone. You’re welcome.”
Hannah nodded, pretending to take him seriously. “I see.” A few seconds of silence passed. “Thanks for the consideration, but no thanks. I don’t need you running interference. If one of them is interested, I’ll deal with it myself.”
Now his eye ticced. “Deal with it how?”
“By deciding yes or no. I’m capable of doing that on my own.”
Fox studied her as if through a microscope. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Hannah exhaled a laugh. “Doing what? Calling your bluff?” His jaw looked ready to shatter, his eyes revealing a hint of misery. “If you’re jealous, Fox,” she said quietly, “just say you’re jealous.”
Conflicting emotions waged a war on his face. Caution. Frustration. And then he visibly gave up the battle, standing in front of her naked with honesty. “I’m jealous as fuck.” He seemed to be having a hard time getting breath into his lungs. “You’re . . . my Hannah, you know?”