She nodded. Breathed, “They’re going to use the songs. In the film.”
“Aw, Hannah.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, and he had to rub at the center of his sternum, the rush of feeling there was so intense. “Damn. Damn, that’s amazing. You did it.”
Her eyes sparkled up at him, communicating a million things. Her nerves, her excitement, her pleasure to be sharing the news with him. Fox sucked it down like a glass of cool water placed in front of a thirsty man.
“Yes . . .” Christian swirled his drink lazily, his attention moving back and forth between Hannah and Fox with unabashed interest. “Now she’s off to go discover more new bands and plug them into indie soundtracks. Hannah Bellinger, music broker. She’s going to be too good for me soon.”
She placed a solemn hand on the actor’s shoulder. “I’m already too good for you.”
The guy tossed back his head and laughed.
The caveman part of Fox’s brain relaxed.
There was nothing to be jealous over here. Hannah and Christian were obviously just friends. But there was still a lot to worry about. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Hannah quit her job on the heels of them discussing potential logistics of a relationship, right? Had she made the move in anticipation of them trying?
Despite his worry over that, he wanted to hear more about this new job. Music broker. What did that mean exactly? Would she be traveling a lot? Was it Seattle-based? How excited was she on a scale from one to ten?
“You’ve definitely made a lot of decisions since I left,” he said, keeping his questions to himself. Very soon, they wouldn’t be any of his business.
Hannah studied his face. “Looks like you’ve made a lot of decisions, too.”
“Lord, the undercurrents are a-flowing,” Christian muttered, regarding them. “I’m going to go make fun of the interns. You folks have fun working this out.”
Silence landed hard as soon as they were alone.
His brain repeated the speech he’d practiced on the walk through town. I’m sorry. You are amazing. My best friend. But I can’t ask you to move here. I can’t make this work.
His mouth said, “You look incredible.”
“Thanks.” She forced a smile, a fake one, and he wanted to kiss it right off her mouth. You don’t fake anything with me. “Are you going to break up with me here or somewhere a little more private?”
“Hannah.” Shock made her name sound ravaged, and he tuned his face away, unable to look at her. “Don’t say ‘break up.’ I don’t like how that sounds.”
“Why?”
“It sounds like I’m . . .”
Pushing you away. Severing our connection.
Oh God, he couldn’t do that. Might as well ram an ice pick into his heart.
“Can we mutually agree on this, please?” Fox asked, his lower body coiling tight when someone in the crowd nudged her closer, bringing the tips of her breasts up against his chest. Momentarily, he lost his train of thought. Was she even wearing a bra with that dress?
What had he been saying?
“If we both agree on this”—he swallowed the word “breakup”—“change of status, then we can stay friends. I need to stay friends with you, Hannah.”
“Mmmm.” The hurt she was trying so desperately to hide—chin lifted, gaze unwavering—gutted him slowly. “So when I come to Westport for a visit, we’ll hang out like nothing ever happened. Maybe listen to my Fleetwood Mac album?”
It took him a moment to speak. To form a response. Because what could he say to that? He’d confessed the truth to her at the Sound Garden.
I had it bad for you. If the convention didn’t make it obvious, I thought for sure the Fleetwood Mac album would do it. I’ve got it so bad for you, Hannah.
Really . . . really bad.
Was she remembering those words, too? Is that why she raised her chin another notch and delivered yet another blow to his resolve? “Look, I’m not going to fight you on this, Fox.” She rolled a delicate shoulder. “You’re ending whatever this was developing into and that’s fine. It’s your right.”
He watched helplessly and miserably as she wet her lips.
What happened now? They just walked away from each other?
Was he really strong enough to do that?
“Could you do one last thing for me?” she asked, brushing their fingertips together ever so slightly.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his temples beginning to pound.
Hannah tilted her head, and he eagerly memorized the curve of her neck.
“I want a good-bye kiss.”
Fox’s eyes flew to Hannah’s, lust racking him, along with . . . panic. Flat-out panic. No way he could kiss her and leave it at that. Was she aware of how difficult that would be? How impossible? Was that her game? Her expression was so innocent, it didn’t seem possible. Nor was it possible to deny her request. To deny her anything.
He’d kiss her here. In public, where it was safe.
Right.
Like anything about touching her was safe when he was on the verge of breaking. Shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.
Fox licked his lips and stepped closer to Hannah, his hand settling on her hip as if magnetized. His thumb encountered a very slight shape, almost like a . . . tiny strap, and he looked down, watching his fingers feel it out. “What panties are these?”
“I don’t see how that matters. This is just a kiss.”
It’s a G-string. I know it’s a fucking G-string.
Jesus, she’d look so hot in it.
“Right.” He exhaled, pulse hammering at the base of his neck. “A good-bye kiss.”
“That’s right.” She blinked at him slowly. “For closure.”
Closure.
Case closed.
That was what he’d decided. That was what needed to happen.
She’d thank him someday.
Her mouth was so soft-looking, lips parted just a touch, waiting for him to place his own on top of them. One kiss. No tongue. No tasting or he’d be a goner, because no one on the planet had her perfect flavor, and he needed the memory of it to fade, not grow stronger.
Nice try.
The memory of her is never, ever going to fade.
Fox, apparently self-destructive, lowered his head anyway, desperate to get his fill of her one last time—
A bell started ringing behind the bar, Piper yelling, “Last call. Pay up and hit the bricks, kiddies.”
Hannah tugged out of his arms, shrugging. “Oh well.”
His mind struggled to play catch-up, the fly of his jeans infinitely tighter than it had been upon walking into the bar. “Wait. What?”
Despite her flushed complexion, her tone was casual. “Bad timing, I guess.”
“Hannah,” he growled, stepping into her space, twisting his hands in the sides of her dress. “You’re getting the kiss.”
She made a wishy-washy sound. “I mean, I guess I need to grab my bag from your apartment, anyway. The bus leaves at seven in the morning.”
His head swam, stomach bottoming out, crashing straight down through the floorboards of Cross and Daughters. He’d known the bus would eventually depart, but somehow he’d blocked out that information. No staving it off now. She was going. Leaving. Her decision had been hinging on him, and they both knew he’d made it.