Which, I mean, good for him. Kinda sucks to be the practice kid, though.
Maybe that’s why marriage-as-a-business-transaction doesn’t bother me too much. I never had a very positive view of marriage in general to begin with.
Despite not seeing each other, Colt and I have kept in contact quite a bit since our first meeting—texting daily and video chatting at least once a week. He’s funny, charming, sweet. He works his ass off, I can tell. He’s always tired, telling me about all the things he does for his brother. And his plate has been even more full, since he’s been training his replacement.
When I’d admitted to feeling guilty about that, he gave me a reassuring smile. “Don’t,” he said. “This was my idea, remember? Besides, soon enough, I’ll be working with you. And since you won’t be on tour for a while yet, I can catch up on my sleep then.”
I still get warm fuzzies remembering that conversation. Which is sad. Because it’s not like he’s excited to see me. He’s excited to have a more relaxed schedule. And he’s excited for the prospect of moving forward as an artist. Not because he and I have a normal romantic relationship. It’s all business. I need to remember that and not get swept away by his charm and good looks.
The doorbell pulls me out of my reverie, and with one more deep breath and a forced smile, I pull open the door. Because even though we’ve been talking and everything is working out, I’m still nervous about seeing him again. And about looking like a couple in public.
Sure, yeah, we kissed at that party. And we definitely had sparks. Even the internet comments pointed that out.
But I can do this. I can keep sex—not even sex, just kissing, really fantastic kissing, but kissing all the same—and my emotions separate. This will help move my career forward, and that’s what matters.
He looks delicious, standing there in designer jeans that show off his muscular thighs, a faded T-shirt and a black sport coat. The perfect combination of casual rock star and ready for a night out. A sexy smile stretches across his face as his eyes scan my body. “You look terrific. Edible.” I take the hand that he holds out, and he raises it above my head, inviting me to turn.
Unable to repress my own smile, I do a little spin while he makes appreciative noises in his throat. “Damn, Alexis. This is an even better welcome than I dared hope for.”
My smile grows wider at the sincere appreciation in his words. It’s a balm to my hypercritical brain. Most of the guys I’ve been around recently either straight up tell me I need to lose weight, like the male label execs, or only hand out backhanded compliments, thinking that negging me will make me desperate for their approval or some bullshit like that.
But not Colt. Colt’s only given me genuine compliments since I met him.
“Thank you.” I drag my eyes over him again. “You look pretty fantastic yourself.”
His smile turns lopsided and he smooths a hand down his shirt. “This old thing?”
We both laugh, because we both know that he spent time and effort to look this casual and put together. That’s the way things work in our world.
“You ready to go?” he asks, releasing my hand.
“Just let me put on my shoes.” I step into the nude pumps sitting next to the door, grab my clutch, and drop my phone and lipstick inside. “Alright. Ready.”
We step outside, where I close and lock my door. He offers me his elbow, and with a laugh, a giggle really—this boy has reduced me to giggling, and I’m not a giggler—I place my hand inside his arm and let him escort me to the car. He opens the back door for me, then slides in next to me, giving the driver directions for the restaurant Delores picked for our first date.
Once the car pulls away from the curb, he smiles over at me, that charming, boyish smile that’s barely changed since he was a teeny-bopper sensation. I googled him—Brash, actually—and found the old pictures. His face has changed a bit—older, more mature, a stronger jaw, and stubble to hide the roundness of his cheeks and disguise the babyface he hasn’t quite managed to outgrow. And while I’m sure he probably hates it, it adds to his charm. No, he’s not the rugged, hyper-sexual bad boy. He’s the guy you take home to meet your mom, though, and that has its own appeal for sure.
Eyes wide, an involuntary gasp escapes me.
Colt reaches for my hand, concern stamped on his face. “Alexis? Are you alright? Did you forget something?”
Shaking my head, I wave my free hand, trying to dismiss his concern. “No, no. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just realized I’ll need to tell my mom. About this.” I lift our joined hands.
He nods, his expression more distant now. “Right. Yeah. Me too. I’m not sure … well, I’m not sure exactly what or how much to tell her. I dodged all her calls about that picture, and avoided the question when I did finally talk to her. But I won’t be able to do that forever.” His mouth open, he hesitates and scratches the back of his neck, adorably unsure of himself, which is endearing since he’s usually confident with his assertions and answers. Bordering on know-it-all territory, but not quite crossing the line into obnoxiousness.
Dropping his hand, he closes his mouth and swallows. “Well, I wasn’t sure what exactly to tell her. This is …” His eyes dart to the driver, and he seems to amend whatever he was going to say. “This thing between us is different than anything I’ve experienced before.”
I let out a soft huff of laughter. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Chapter Seven
Colt
Dinner with Alexis goes off without a hitch. She’s easy to talk to, witty and engaging, which makes it even easier to sell us as a couple who’ve been together for a while. Our weeks of talking before now help on that front too, but since this is only the second time we’ve been face to face, I’d halfway expected some kind of awkwardness.
Partly I’d wondered if I’d romanticized our chemistry in my memory. Built it up to be more than it really was.
But now, here, face-to-face with her again, it’s possible that in my attempt to not make it more than it was, I downplayed it.
Every time I touch her, sparks zip over my skin. And once again, I can’t tear my eyes away from those lush red lips with the lipstick that doesn’t quit.
Our table is in easy view of both the large windows and the entryway where paparazzi crowd in a cordoned off area. This restaurant is frequented by celebrities, and the fact that we even got a table is proof of Alexis’s agent’s determination to see her succeed.
That can only work in both of our favor. Her agent is already working the angles in the press, leaning heavily on my position as the former frontman for Brash, rather than my most recent position as Johnny B’s PA.
When I asked Alexis about it, she said her agent told her dating a PA wouldn’t elevate her reputation. But a boyband star who’d dabbled in living life as a “normal” would play better.
And she thought she wouldn’t be able to help me. She’s unwittingly helping me out already.
As we’re finishing up our dinner—a petite filet for me and a grilled chicken Caesar salad with dressing on the side that she barely dips the tips of her fork in before taking a bite—our waitress offers us the dessert menu. I take it, scanning the options before meeting Alexis’s eyes. “Want to split something? There’s a coconut creme brûlée. Or a flourless chocolate torte served with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce. Both sound great to me.”