Zack grins. “Pretty much, but it put things in perspective for me. It’s not something to worry about or a bridge to cross before we reach it. If it happens, I trust we’ll be grown-ups and put the baby’s needs first, no matter what’s going on between us personally.”
“No doubt,” I assure him, brushing wet hair from his forehead with a smile. “I know you might have heard differently from Fernando, but I’m very easy to get along with.”
Zack’s eyes darken. “Fernando is an idiot. No doubt in my mind about that now.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“He let you get away,” he says in a soft but intense voice that sends more shivers—and a hint of foreboding—prickling across my skin. “Now, I have a serious question for you, Colette.”
I hold his gaze. “Yes, Zack?”
“How do you like your eggs? I take mine over easy, and I like to dip my toast in the runny parts. My last girlfriend thought that was disgusting, but I’m not about to change. Not for her or anyone else.”
Biting back a smile, I nod. “Nor should you. A man should be free to eat his eggs any way he sees fit. Even if it is disgusting.”
Zack curses beneath his breath. “You, too? Why is everyone so against over easy?”
“Because runny yolks look like diseased clown sperm and probably taste even worse? I don’t have any experience with clown sperm, but…”
“That’s disgusting,” Zack says, but he’s fighting a smile as he sets me down and reaches for the soap. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s not me,” I say, laughing. “It’s the eggs!”
“I should wash your mouth out with this.” He holds up the tiny bar between us. “But I’m going to want to kiss you later, so you’re safe. For now.”
I wipe a hand across my forehead and flick water against the wall. “Whew. Close one.”
We continue to tease and kiss and laugh as we take turns in the spray, and by the time Zack steps out to dry off while I rinse the conditioner from my hair, I’ve almost forgotten about the flicker of fear.
But the sight of my bare ring finger—the one Fernando wanted so badly to tag as his own—banishes the smile from my face.
I love how possessive and bossy Zack is in bed, but the last thing I need is another controlling man in my life. I try to tell myself I’m reading too much into an innocent comment, but Zack’s tone when he said, “he let you get away,” keeps echoing in my head.
He didn’t sound like he was teasing or offering a lighthearted compliment. He seemed like a man who refuses to let the things—or people—he wants slip through his fingers.
Well, do you really want to slip through his fingers? Because as far as I can tell, his fingers are the best fingers. Best ever. If he wants to be more than friends, why not give it a try?
Because he’s a rock star who’s on tour most of the year, I remind the inner voice, and I want a partner who sleeps next to me more nights than not. It would be doomed from the start.
It’s not doomed. It’s too hot to be doomed. You just need to have more sex and stop worrying so much.
I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing I need, but that doesn’t stop me from sneaking up behind Zack while he’s putting gel in his hair or tugging the towel from his hips. And when he returns the favor, I don’t try to cover myself back up.
I run a hand down my belly, between my legs, while holding his gaze, and that’s all it takes.
Before I can think about anything, I’m flat on my back on the towel I just tugged to the ground and Zack is inside me, getting me off so hard I scream loud enough to trigger irritated pounding on the ceiling from the person in the room above ours.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, writhing beneath him. “Don’t ever stop.”
“Never,” he promises, hitching my knee higher and finding that perfect angle, making it impossible for worry or fear to find a foothold in the pleasure washing over me, carrying every ugly thing out of sight and out of mind.
Chapter Nine
Zack
There’s music rushing through my head.
All through breakfast and the drive Upstate.
I pull over twice to jot down lyrics, and just twenty miles from the retreat, I have to roll into the parking lot of a scenic overlook and fetch my guitar from its case in the trunk.
“Sorry,” I tell Colette as I grab my Gibson, leaving the case open in the back seat. “I’ll be five minutes. Maybe ten. I just need to get this recorded before I forget it. Choruses stick in my head, but if I’m not careful, I’ll lose the bridge every time.”
“No worries at all!” Colette shuts the passenger’s door, clapping her hands as she bounces up on tiptoe. “This is exciting! I’m so glad your creative juices are flowing. I’ll stretch my legs and give you some privacy. Take as much time as you need.”
“Are you sure? You can stay if you want,” I say even though I would secretly prefer to be alone with the bridge.
I know it’s superstitious, but until I’m sure the muse is going to trust me with the entire song, I like to keep it to myself.
Colette waves a breezy hand as she slides her sunglasses on. “No, you do your thing. I’m going to go soak in the sun and the view.” She pulls in a deep breath that makes her gorgeous—and still bra-less—breasts strain the front of the strapless top she’s wearing today. “It’s beautiful up here. Glad I brought my hiking shoes for later.” Blowing me a kiss, she says, “Good luck,” and wanders away toward the trailhead at the edge of the parking lot, looking so happy and relaxed, I can’t help but feel proud of myself.
I fucked that happy smile onto her face, and I intend to do it again as soon as possible.
A no doubt goofy grin on my own mug, I give my Gibson—Quinn, named after my first crush, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman—a quick tune and launch into the notes that have been skipping through my head since we turned off the highway. In a few minutes, I have the bridge solid enough to hit the record button on my phone and capture it for later.
I’ll inevitably end up tweaking it as the rest of the song comes together, but it feels good to have it locked and loaded. Catching songs is the only thing as much fun as catching fish, something my granddad taught me to love at a young age. Sitting beside him on the boat, I’d dangle my line in the ocean next to his and wait for the magic to happen.
Speaking of magic…
Tucking Quinn back in her case and locking the car, I go in search of Colette.
As I step onto the trail, the temperature drops by at least ten degrees. It’s hot in the mountains of Upstate New York this time of the year—a hell of a lot hotter than coastal Maine, even during the heat wave that gripped my hometown in the days before we left—but it’s beautiful in the shade. Perfect hiking weather, making me wish we had time to go for a real walk. But the caretakers are expecting us to check in between noon and two, and it’s already one thirty.
I find Colette about a half mile down the winding path, standing at the edge, looking out across the lake-dotted valley and the mountains on the other side. With the sun turning her hair platinum and illuminating her silhouette through her top and flowing skirt, she’s so stunning my first thought is that someone should paint her.