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CHAPTER THREE

Royal

I don’t like the hungry way her assistant is looking at me as we hurry down the hall, the sparkles from Jade’s dress scattering rainbow-filled reflections on the walls as we move.

But I just ignore it as we push out into the night air and quickly move into her car.

My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen as they shut the door behind us.

Rosie says something I can’t discern to Jade, but I don’t try to eavesdrop as I respond to Briar’s message.

Briar: You found someone to fuck when I left you alone for three minutes?

Royal: I’m socializing. Which you wanted. So fuck off.

Royal: And give Tater Tot a hug for me. You know she misses her favorite uncle.

Briar: You’re lucky I love you, you giant pain in my ass.

Briar: And, just so you know, I’m telling Frankie you’ve promised SIX books and just as many songs the next time you put her to bed.

My lips twitch, but I just thumb back a response.

Royal: Make sure Quentin gets you home safe and text me once you’re inside and the alarm is set.

Briar: Overprotective, much?

Royal: Dash—or any of the guys—would have my ass if I wasn’t.

Briar: *scowly face emoji*

Briar: Try to at least have some fun tonight.

I don’t bother to reply to that because fun and Royal Ewing don’t go together.

Not any longer, anyway.

My life is brooding, hiding from gossipy assholes, and teaching a three-year-old to play Old MacDonald Has a Farm on a tiny guitar.

If the world could see me now…

The car door opens, and I blink against the flashes of light, shoving my body back into the leather seat, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Sorry,” Jade says a moment later as the door slams closed. “I just needed to let Rosie out so she can head home for the night.”

I nod.

The limo moves forward again, inching up and stopping and then repeating the process many times over as we navigate away from the venue and out onto the city streets.

But it’s not until we’ve hit a good clip on the highway that I realize I should say something.

She’s shifting on her seat, gaze pointed out the window as she fusses with that ridiculously large skirt.

“When did you decide you wanted to be a musician?” I ask.

Her eyes—deep gray like thunderstorms—come to mine. “My mom used to say I started singing and dancing in the womb.” Her mouth kicks up, and she shifts again. “She teased that I never let her sleep before I was born. Or after,” she adds, smile widening, “because I was always learning some instrument or humming a melody or practicing a dance number.”

“What did you like to sing?”

Her brows flick up, as though surprised by the question, but then she softens. “Anything, really.”

I snort.

She shifts in her seat, one hand on the leather, the other fussing with her skirt. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“No, seriously.” She shifts again. “What?”

There’s a thread of steel in her tone, of annoyance, and I find that intriguing. Definitely intriguing enough to needle at it, just a little bit. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You were obsessed with boy bands.”

Her eyes flick up but she doesn’t back down, and I know in an instant that she’ll make it, that she’ll survive the sharks in this industry, that she’ll keep that special brand of magical lightning bottled up inside her instead of allowing it to fade away like so many others have.

“I liked boy bands—or like ,” she corrects. “But I also love The Beatles and the Stones and Nirvana and Dolly and Lady Gaga and Loretta. I’m obsessed with all things Taylor and P!nk and can belt out a Journey or Bon Jovi rock anthem. Maren Morris is incredible and I couldn’t have survived my teenage years without Reba or Faith or LeAnn or Alanis. But I’m just as likely to blast Sabrina or Chappell or Beyoncé as I am to sing along with Bonnie Raitt or Janis Joplin or Joan Jett or Stevie Nicks.” She smiles and I see the sparks of joy in her eyes, hear the passion in her words. “And don’t even get me started on Tina or Prince or Janet or Lauren Hill or—” Her cheeks color as her gaze catches mine, and she wriggles in her seat again. “I just love music,” she whispers. “Beethoven to whatever’s hot on the charts to—” A shrug. “I’m blabbering.”

“You’re beautiful ,” I murmur back.

Wide gray eyes, those cheeks turning bright pink. “It’s all makeup and tailoring.” Her mouth curves, and her smile is rueful. “And a metric ton of shapewear. I meant to change before I left the theater, but I got distracted and—” She winces now, pulling at her skirt.

“That’s why you’re squirming like you’ve got ants in your pants?”

Pink turns to red. “I?—”

I lean over and touch her cheek, running my fingertips over the flush. “Like I said, you’re beautiful, ants in your pants or not. And it’s not makeup or shapewear or tailoring.”

Her lips part, protest welling up in those storm gray eyes.

But I’m still talking…however ill-advised my next words are. “Do you want me to help you?”

She frowns. “With what?”

“Getting more comfortable.”

Her brows shoot up now, almost to her hairline. “I…um, what?”

“That’s what the bag is for, right?” I ask, nodding at the garment bag hanging from the handle on the far side of the limo, at the duffle from an expensive name brand sitting on the seat beneath it.

“I—” She turns and looks. “Yes, that’s my change of clothes. I—” A shake of her head, her befuddled eyes coming back to mine. “But?—”

Fuck, she’s cute with those wide eyes and bright cheeks. “I’ll undo your zipper and then turn around,” I explain. “Give you some privacy while you put on something more comfortable.”

A blink.

Another.

Then, “Really?”

I nod. “Can’t have you suffering in that metric ton of shapewear.”

She nibbles at her bottom lip then nods. “If you don’t mind helping me, that would be great.”

Don’t mind?

Touching this beautiful woman? Getting close enough to inhale the scent of her perfume? To snag a glimpse of the curves that dress and all that shapewear are hiding and I can only guess at?

In answer, I shift closer.

Wide gray eyes.

Pretty pink lips.

I wonder if she’s as pink between her legs, if she’ll glisten as prettily as she does in the dress.

“Turn around,” I order and if my voice is more rasp than command, Jade doesn’t call me on it. She just…

Shifts carefully, sweeping her blond curls forward and over her shoulder, and gives me her back.

She has a small tattoo on her nape, and I find myself leaning in to see what it is.

“A bee?” I ask quietly.

Her shoulders hitch up slightly and then she’s turning her head, eyes coming to mine. Her mouth is so close that our lips are almost aligned. I can lean forward a mere inch and taste her.

My cock twitches and I almost do just that.

But then she exhales quietly. “My ranch outside of Nashville is where I grew up. We had all sorts of animals—horses, sheep, cows, pigs, and bees.” Her eyes close and her expression is a combination of sad and soft. “After my dad passed, my mom threw her whole life into the farm. And one of those things she obsessively took care of—besides me—was the bees. She used to have hives and they were her babies as much as our horses, Bandit and Gunner.” She sighs. “The honey…it was some of the best I ever tasted. She sold it at farmer’s markets and online and…she used it to fund the studio time when I recorded my first album.”

Fuck, that’s sweet.

Enough to make my cold dead heart squeeze.

“After she died, though, I wasn’t able to keep it going. I was busy and traveling, trying to make it in the music world and I could never find the right person to take care of them like she did. It’s like they knew I wasn’t her and—” A shake of her head. “Ignore me.”

Never.

“So, the bee’s for her?”

Jade nods. “What about your family?”

“Both my parents are gone too.”

Her smile is small but filled with empathy. “Then you get it.”

What it’s like to lose my parents? Yes.

But what it’s like to speak of them with the love Jade has in her voice? No. That wasn’t my life.

“I’m sorry you lost them.”

Her fingers find my hand—the wrong hand—and she squeezes lightly.

Wrong and right.

Dulled and sharp.

I slip my fingers free, motion to her to turn around again so I can unzip her. “How long are you in town?”

She doesn’t comment on my obvious change in subject, just faces toward the windows again. “Just a few days,” she says. “But I’m back and forth between L.A. and elsewhere often.” One delicate shoulder lifts as I find the tab of the zipper and start drawing it down.

It parts effortlessly, the twin halves of material revealing creamy skin and a faint smattering of freckles, and…

“You weren’t kidding about the shapewear.”

She freezes then giggles, holding the front of her dress as I draw the zipper down, down, down. “I told you,” she said. “It’s all magic tricks and Spandex.”

I grin. “Do you have some doves hiding in there?” I tease. “A scarf that changes color?”

Another giggle. “No.”

I release the metal tag and slide back into the other seat, barely resisting the urge to slip my hands into the parted material, to peel away the fabric, to get her naked and see how pink and slick I can make her.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder, and I make a show of turning away. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t look.”

Her mouth hitches up. “A good man in Hollywood?”

“I wouldn’t admit to being good,” I say to the sound of rustling, of the garment bag being unzipped. “In fact, I’d say I’m far from it.”

Mostly because I’m watching her in the reflection of the window.

Watching as she releases her arms, allows the gown to drop away from her body, to fall to the floor of the car.

My dick does more than twitch when I catch a glimpse of those delicate curves, the ass that screams for a spanking as she squirms out of the shapewear.

And then she’s reaching forward, slipping another dress from its hanger in the garment bag, tugging it up her body, covering the temptation of her in pale blue fabric.

“Okay,” she says softly.

I turn around. “Want me to do that one up?” I ask gruffly.

Her head tilts to the side, curls fanning out behind her. “What’d you say about not being good again?” A quiet question, but no less pointed. “Because I think there’s a nice guy hidden in there.”

“You don’t know me.”

Now her chin comes up.

“Then show me.”