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CHAPTER TWELVE

Jade

One cabin.

How do I get myself into these messes?

I should know better.

I don’t know if I believe it was a mistake—people like Royal don’t have assistants who make mistakes—but there are two bedrooms. And the lock on the door seems to work. Not that I’m afraid of him. Not physically anyway.

I look around the room, where I’ve unpacked my toiletries and pajamas and a few things I’ll need to be comfortable in the next couple of days. It’s beautiful. High-end rustic with large windows and warm furnishings.

In a way, it reminds me of my farmhouse in Tennessee. I’ve done all the renovations, updating and upgrading, making it a veritable paradise without losing the original charm. Yes, there are stainless steel appliances in the kitchen now—sorry, grandma, but that green 1970s look was unbearable—and granite countertops, along with a shower in my bathroom I could hold a party in.

I’ve made it mine and I miss it when I’m away, but being here reminds me of home.

Except, I’m not home and I have things to do.

With a sigh, I gather my courage and every drop of professionalism I can muster up, and head into the main room. It’s expansive, with two-story ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling fireplace that would be perfect to cuddle in front of.

Ugh.

Stop it, Jade.

There will be no cuddling. None. Zero. Zip. Nada.

I repeat it until I kinda sorta believe it.

Then I step into the living room, and my resolve melts almost as fast as my panties the night of the award show.

Because Royal is the kind of man any red-blooded woman would want to cuddle with.

And I’m sure he has. Many, many times.

The devil on my shoulder is a jerk, and I take a breath before pasting a fake smile on my face. “Hey. Is there food?”

“Sure.” He turns slowly, his eyes zeroing in on me like he’s undressing me.

Is that what he’s doing?

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest and walk toward the kitchen.

“What do you feel like?” he asks, following me.

“Just a snack to tide me over until dinner.”

“I’ve got a chef coming to cook every night.”

“Yes, I saw the menu you sent. Everything sounds delicious.” I open the fridge, anxious for something to keep my hands busy.

Grapes.

Easy. Fast. I can just pop some in my mouth, which gives me something to do other than worry about how much I want him to touch me.

“So, do you have thoughts on what you want to work on?”

“I do,” I admit, releasing an internalized breath I’ve been holding.

Music is safe territory.

“I’ve got some things I’ve been playing with that the record company wouldn’t let me pursue, but now that I hold more power, I’m going to go with it. Do you, uh, want to hear?” I’m suddenly nervous.

This is Royal Ewing.

Yes, I’m a star, but I’m known for my voice, not my songwriting.

He was at least a co-writer for every single one of Midnight Sun’s hits, so that’s a little intimidating.

“Of course. That’s why we’re here.” He plucks a grape off the bunch and pops it in his mouth, leaning a hip against the island. Why is he infuriatingly sexy? So much so that I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but the body I know is hidden beneath his jeans and long-sleeve Henley.

“Hang on.” I hurry into the bedroom and grab my acoustic guitar.

How the hell am I going to play it in front of one of the premier guitar virtuoso’s of our generation? He may not be able to play anymore but that doesn’t negate who he is—was?—or his skill and musical IQ.

But I’m no slouch.

I’m a star too.

I remind myself of that as I walk back into the room where Royal is waiting on the couch, the bowl of grapes on the coffee table in front of him.

I lean on the edge of a nearby armchair and rest the guitar in my lap. “I call this one ‘Remembering Never.’ I don’t have a chorus yet, just the first stanza, but the opening melody makes me happy.”

I move my hands into position and slowly strum the opening bars. The strings are worn and comfortable against the pads of my fingers, like an old friend. I’ve had it since I was thirteen. It’s the first guitar I ever owned and it’s the only one I use when I’m writing. It’s like working with an old friend.

You were never gonna love me

We were never gonna steal

Kisses in the night and the things that lovers feel.

You were never gonna take me

Or make me someone’s wife

We were never gonna make it in this thing we call life.

I stop abruptly, since I haven’t gotten much further. “I know, it’s rough.”

“It’s not.” He gives a small shake of his head. “Play the first part again.”

I start over but before I start to sing, he stops me.

“A minor seventh there,” he instructs. “And maybe this.” He comes to stand behind me, covering my left hand with his, showing me the chords he has in mind.

And of course, it’s brilliant.

Exactly what the song needs.

He’s so good.

We play around with lyrics and melody for the next hour, with him guiding me on the guitar as I find the soul of the song.

Why is it so easy with him?

It’s like he breathes the music. It’s part of him, and despite my ongoing irritation with how he walked out on me, my heart breaks a little too. The weight of what he lost is never as tangible as it is in this room, right now, and I just want to hug him. Kiss him. Somehow make it all better.

I know I can’t.

Nothing can.

But I desperately want to.

And it’s reflected in the lyrics we write, even if neither of us wants to acknowledge it.

Stolen moments, cold as sin

Remember to never do this again.

Heartbreaking aura, skin on skin,

This is all we have

Remember baby—never again.

“I like this,” he murmurs.

His tone is gruff, heavy, almost the same voice he used when was inside of me.

Good gracious, what am I doing?

I feel a little flushed with him leaning over me, his left hand covering mine and occasionally taking over the fret work. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s so close, the scruff of his beard occasionally brushing against my cheek. Having him this close is intoxicating, no matter how many times I tell my traitorous body he’s bad news.

My body only remembers the good things. The orgasms. The kisses that rocked my world. The caresses that made me feel more alive than anything other than being on stage.

I’m so lost in my memories of our night together that my fingers fumble over the chords, I can’t remember the lyrics we just added, and I stop abruptly.

“Sugar biscuits,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I don’t know what…I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” His tone is as gentle as the hand resting on my shoulder. “We can start over.”

“I just…” I lift my gaze to find his mouth inches from mine.

And the world stops.

I’m momentarily…mesmerized.

Oh no.

This is bad .

“I want…uh, I don’t think…” Why can’t I form a sentence?

Probably because those gorgeous blue eyes are filled with raw, unadulterated desire.

No-no-no .

We have a deal.

This is just work.

“It’s really good,” he says softly, that darn hand still resting on my shoulder, bringing warmth to regions much farther south. “We’re close.”

Yes. Yes, we are.

“We, uh, work well together,” I say instead.

“We do. Our musical styles mesh.”

“I like working with you,” I whisper. I know I shouldn’t have, but it slips out before I can stop it. Professionally speaking, there’s no reason to lie. The problem is I’m talking about more than work and we both know it.

“It feels easy,” he agrees. “Like we’ve done it before.”

Like something else we’ve done before.

That was easy too.

Until it wasn’t.

“I’ve never co-written a song with anyone,” I say. “I thought it would be…harder.” If there’s innuendo in there, he doesn’t react.

He just keeps watching me with those gorgeous blue eyes.

I distinctly remember what it was like having those eyes burning into mine while he moved inside of me. As he kissed and nipped and caressed every inch of me. But it’s the moment just before he came, his body covering mine, that I think of most. The way he looked at me, as if I was his everything.

No one has ever looked at me like that.

It wasn’t real, though.

Nothing but a stolen moment in time.

Oh good grief, is that where that lyric came from?

My memories of our lovemaking?

Crap on a cracker.

This is going to be a disaster.

And yet, his face is still dangerously close to mine.

His lips…

He hasn’t moved away.

And someone has to.

Before we do something stupid.

He leans closer and panic wells up inside of me.

I cannot do this again.

I want to so much, but I know better.

“Royal…no. We can’t—” I stand up abruptly, almost dropping my guitar as I run toward the front door.

“Jade!” I hear him call my name, but I can’t stop moving until I’m as far away from him as possible.

Until I can breathe again.

Being in the same room as Royal Ewing is suffocating. He’s the kind of guy who can hurt me.

And I plan to avoid that at all costs.

Even if the cost is my heart.