Page 11 of Maybe This Time (About Time 0.5)
So much better than stairs.
I grip the bar behind me, wishing I didn’t suffer from a case of lusting after my employee, my bodyguard, the guy who’s surely straight.
Probably straight.
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration surging through me, annoyed that I can’t say what I want, ask the questions I’m dying to know. Put myself out of my misery. But I’m his boss. I can’t ask if he’s gay or pan or bi like me. And even if I knew he was, even if he was, would that change anything?
He works for me.
I can’t be into him.
I just can’t.
As the elevator slows near the bottom floor, I toss him a glance, unable to resist some harmless flirting. “So . . . stairs or elevator? What’s your pick?”
His lips twitch in a grin. As he steps out before me, scanning the lobby, then gently sets his arm on mine, he says, “Elevators aren’t so bad.”
My arm heats from his touch, electricity flaring on my skin.
I go back to my hotel room, wishing I didn’t have a wild crush on my bodyguard.7StoneIt’s official.
Three months into the job and Jackson Pearce is the best bodyguard I’ve ever had.
He’s alert, he’s focused, he misses nothing.
And the dude just keeps me on my toes.
Case in point.
We’re back in the States, and as I’m weaving my way backstage in Miami before a show, I smack my forehead, remembering something I needed to do.
“Let me guess. You just remembered you forgot to send a message to your mom,” he says before I can even speak.
I blink, stop in my tracks, and grab his hard, firm-AF arm. “Dude, how do you do that?”
“Read you? Know you?”
“Yes. That. Are you a mind reader?”
He laughs. “I pay attention. It’s my job. You usually text your mom before your shows.”
“Nothing at all, nothing in the whole damn world, gets past you, man,” I say with an appreciative whistle. I wiggle my fingers. “Serve it up. You’ve got my phone.”
His face is impassive. “I don’t know if I should let you have it.”
“Am I in phone jail?”
“You’re spending a lot of time on it. Last night after the show, you were tapping on your phone the whole time.”
“I was texting my brother,” I say, a little indignant.
“Are you sure?” he asks with a stern arch of his brow that’s too damn sexy for words.
Like him. With his close-cropped hair and his carved cheekbones and his full lips, he is the sexiest hands down.
Natch, humor is my defense in the face of all this hotness. “What, did you think I was on Tinder? Grindr?”
He nearly barks out a cough. “No. I didn’t think that at all.”
I park my hands on my hips. “I don’t use Tinder. Or Grindr.”
“I don’t know what you do,” he says, almost like he’s maybe, possibly curious about my habits.
Hell, I am rabidly curious about his. But I can’t tease him about that. Can’t say a word.
“So what are you trying to say? That I’m getting into all sorts of trouble on my phone? What kind of trouble would I be getting into?”
We reach my dressing room, and he stands outside the door. “I don’t know. Lately I’ve been worried that you might be addicted to Candy Crush,” he says, intensely serious. “Or maybe those farm games.”
I give him a look, parking my hands on my hips. “Really? You think I spend my time playing Candy Crush?”
“So you admit you spend time on those farm games?”
“I admit you are driving me crazy,” I say, and damn, it feels good to speak the truth, even if it’s veiled.
He cracks up, reaching into his pocket, since he holds my phone before, during, and after shows, keeping it safe.
“It’s hilarious to see you get worked up,” he says, then presses my cell into my palm. For a split second, our hands touch, and I inhale sharply. A red-hot spark runs through my body. His eyes darken.
Holy shit.
Did he feel that too?
He draws a quick breath.
Screw me sideways. Bang me relentlessly. Is he . . .?
Nope. That’s wishful thing.
There was no spark, no fuse, no fire, and no flame.
That was just . . . handing off a phone.
That is all.
Especially since his expression is inscrutable once more. “You know I’m just messing with you, right?”
I give him a smirk, sticking to the playful routine, since it’s easier to navigate. “And why do you love to do that so much, J-man?”
He gives a quick shrug of his muscular shoulder. “You’re an easy target. And it’s amusing.”
“I’m so glad I can be your target practice. Anyway, yes, you were right. I am sending a text to my mom. I want to say hi to her before the show.”
He smiles, and this time it’s genuine, not a smirk, nothing sly about it. “It’s good that you do that. Good that you keep in touch with her.”
