I bite my lip and shake my head, but I don’t pull back. “What about your reputation? It’s your label,” I whisper.

  “And he’s my son. If I don’t give a fuck, then why should you?” And then his lips are on mine and he’s pulling me as close as he can get me. Our tongues tangle and our breaths mingle. My mind whirls with all the potential stories, all the comments and articles that’ll paint me in a negative light. But he’s right. The media does that already. Now, at least, they’ll be true, and I’ll have a fucking good time while they talk.

  10

  LAKE

  CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

  Normally, walking out of a hotel feels like a secret mission. Men talking into headsets finding the safest route. Heads bowed, smiles hidden and absolutely no talking or stopping to sign an autograph.

  Ford is a different animal. The man stalks out, chin high, proud as a peacock, smiling at me like what we’re doing doesn’t have the potential to tank his label or piss off his son. Like even if it did, he doesn’t give a fuck.

  And I’m beginning to believe he truly doesn’t. He wasn’t giving me lip service to appease me. When he speaks, he doesn’t just string letters of the alphabet together like so many people do. He puts thought into what he says, makes calculated decisions, and takes risks.

  I haven’t taken a risk since I launched my career. Since the moment I had the audacity to send tapes to every person even remotely related to the music industry, hoping that one of them would actually listen and be blown away by my rendition of “Kiss Me” by Six Pence None the Richer.

  In the end, what got me onto Music Row in Nashville was singing in a tiny café on open mic night every week, without fail. And waitressing in said café so that I knew precisely when record execs would be there.

  Somehow the girl who left home at sixteen to follow her dreams went soft. Or maybe I’d just frozen. My star rose too quickly. All the critics had strong opinions. Whether good or bad, I couldn’t get their words out of my head.

  So much so that the words that mattered most, my own, had dried up.

  Too concerned with upsetting someone with a lyric or being laughed at when I poured my heart out, I allowed others to guide my decisions. First with my wardrobe, then with my music. It’s only now that I’m realizing I no longer make even the smallest decisions without the approval of someone at the label.

  Until today when Ford said fuck it. Even now, am I using his approval as my guide?

  I shrug away that uncomfortable thought, because that’s not how this feels. For once, I’m not stifled by someone else’s opinion. He’s giving me space to choose.

  Ford rests a hand on the small of my back as he ushers me down the sidewalk, and that’s when I spot the first camera. Used to forcing a smile, I do just that, but as I go into people-pleaser mode, Ford tenses beside me.

  I knew it was going to bother him. It isn’t easy being photographed at all times. Being forced to always be on.

  People who crave the limelight, who only want to spend time with me for the attention they’ll get out of it, love the constant spotlight. But people who are more concerned with living genuine lives, who appreciate me for me? Time and time again, this has been the deal-breaker.

  Ford grasps my hip and pulls me closer as the photographer calls out to us. “Lake, what’s going on?”

  And with that, the vultures appear, circling their prey, one squawks, and suddenly more surface.

  Another photographer shouts, “Have you heard from Paul?”

  “Wait, isn’t that his father?” One mutters loud enough to make the others do a double take.

  In moments, we’re being followed down the street as question after question is lobbed our way.

  “What’s going on here?”

  At the audacity behind those words, I stop in my tracks and whirl around to face the short, pudgy man who asked.

  Ford circles my waist and brings his head close to mine. “What are you doing?”

  Without breaking my smile, I reply, “Giving them something to talk about.”

  His breath tickles my ear, but he doesn’t object, so I take that as his consent.

  “We’re headed to breakfast. I’ll probably walk on the wild side this morning. Have a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich with home fries, since I had a few cocktails last night.”

  When I wink, the paps eat it up, laughing together.

  “With your ex-boyfriend’s father?” the guy who aptly pointed it out before asks, his tone full of judgment.

  I let my jaw drop in an exaggerated shocked expression, then clap a hand over my mouth and, wide-eyed, turn to Ford. “Oh my God, is that who you are?”

  With a shake of his head, Ford chuckles, clearly enjoying my impromptu show. He pulls me closer and growls in my ear. “You’re in so much trouble, Red.” But his eyes dance in delight.

  I tap one finger to my lips. “I did think he looked familiar.” Then, throwing a thumb in his direction, I tease, “He is elderly, though, so he might have forgotten who I am.”

  Ford squeezes my ass. “I’ll fucking show you elderly.” His breath is hot on my neck, and the rumble of his voice sends a pulse of desire through me. Then, affecting a bored expression, he looks at the guys. “Anything else?”

  “Are you two dating now?” Both men look from Ford to me and back again, eyes wide and mouths agape.

  I never answer questions. Even if I did, I don’t have an answer for that one.

  Ford grins wickedly. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.” He turns to me, cups my cheek, and whispers, “But no one has ever called me a gentleman.” Then his lips are locked with mine and his tongue slides inside my mouth. He’s making it clear to the entire world that he’s a man of his word. He doesn’t give a fuck.

  After breakfast, we head back to the hotel, where we watch hours of television, order in dinner, and talk late into the night. Naked, of course. With lots of kissing and touching and orgasms for us both. My next show isn’t for two weeks, and I have no concrete plans. Paul and I were supposed to go home to LA to recharge, but the last thing I want to do is surround myself with reminders of him. So when Ford asks me to spend another night, I let the girl who used to take risks answer.

  Why not hide away and get lost in one another for a little longer?

  Only, he has other plans. The following day, he gets us both packed up and ushers me to the car. We’re halfway there before I realize he’s taking me to his home. By the time we pull into the driveway, the weight pressing against my chest makes it hard to breathe. The last time I walked into this house, I was celebrating Christmas with Ford and his son. The man that, until a few days ago, was my boyfriend. The man I’ve yet to hear from since I caught him with his lips wrapped around my tour manager’s dick.

  I’m afraid to ask Ford if he’s heard from him. His other children have called, though he hasn’t hinted at how they reacted to the news of their father kissing their brother’s ex-girlfriend. It’s all sort of a mess.

  Mel was obviously thrilled. My mother and father, not so much. I didn’t put nearly enough thought into the fact that everyone in my life would know what we’d done the moment we walked out of the hotel together, but that is precisely what happened, and it’s too late to change it now. I’m just trying to ignore it for the time being. Honestly, the Ford-induced orgasms may have some sort of mind-numbing effect, because I’ve clearly lost any sense of self-preservation and smarts.

  The moments with him outside of the bedroom are equally incredible and confusing, because despite our age difference, he gets me. We laugh over the same jokes, enjoy the same shows, and he has this innate ability to sense what I need before I even realize I need it.

  Like right now. We’re side by side at the table. He’s got his laptop out, reviewing a contract. I’ve got a notepad in front of me, and I’m working out lyrics that have just popped into my head. When I get pulled in like this, I typically make myself a cup of hot tea. But before I even have a chance to get up and go in search of a mug, he’s sliding one in front of me.

  He smiles at my look of surprise. “You didn’t even hear me making it.”

  “Thank you.” I take a sip and allow the warmth to ease my throat. My vocal cords are going to need a rest before the tour picks up again. All these orgasms wreak as much havoc on them as a full set list does.

  Buttons rubs against me, and when I reach down and scratch her head, she purrs in delight.

  “How’s the song coming along?” He juts his chin toward my paper.

  For the first time in maybe ever, I don’t feel the compulsion to hide the words. The label has more influence over my music than I’d like already, so I normally keep this part of my process private. Just for me. I don’t want input on the market or what sounds are popular to influence my songwriting.

  Ford Hall owns the label, yes, but this Ford, the man who is wearing sweats and a white T-shirt and his black-framed glasses, with his hair mussed from our midday romp, doesn’t make me uneasy.

  I’m not sure what we are to one another, no idea what I’d even call it if I was asked, but he makes me comfortable. His eyes create a melody in my head, leaving my body humming along with my lips.

  An ache eases in my chest as the tune swirls around us and fills the room. A tune we’ve been creating together. One he’s nurtured through his sweet, simple nature.

  If Ford is surprised that I’m serenading him with a song about two people engaging in an affair that, to the outside world, is considered taboo, all while feeling so made for one another, so at ease, he doesn’t let it show. The thoughtful smile he wears isn’t one of a man who knows this could be his label’s next hit. It’s the knowing smile of a man who understands the complexity behind my simple lyrics. As if the thoughts that are running through my head—that we fit in a way that makes no sense and yet all the sense in the world—are not one-sided.

  As I finish, he drops his head and gives it a shake, as if he’s coming out of a dream. Like maybe he believes this is all a dream. It very well could be. If dreams leave you sore in the space between your thighs and make your limbs ache for the person right beside you.

  “You give words to the unspoken, Red. Don’t ever stop wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

  There’s something so telling about that statement. He didn’t say the song was perfect—a word I’ve come to hate—he didn’t focus on what the critics will have to say about the song or how it will be received by fans. Ford did what he always does: he saw into my deepest insecurities. He reached in and grabbed Lake, the woman hiding behind them, waiting to be seen, and he spoke to her.

  He spoke to me like my music does daily.

  I’m so screwed.

  The air around us is quiet now that I’ve stopped singing, but his words play on repeat in my mind and hit me like a shot to the heart. Then he goes and smiles, and that beautiful ache suddenly morphs to a lightness I’ve never experienced.

  “C’mere, Red.” He pats his knee.

  I try to hold back my smile. “You want me to sit on your lap?”

  “What I want is to take you over to the couch and have my way with you, but considering I’m an old man and we’ve had sex four times today, I’ll settle for cuddling you instead.”

  With a laugh, I curl up on his lap and nuzzle into the space below his chin. “You’re not that old.”

  His carefree laugh pulls me in further, like quicksand. I’ll never be able to dig myself out. And maybe I don’t want to.

  Perhaps jealous of the cuddles I’m getting from her dad, Buttons jumps up onto my lap and rubs her head against my chest. Ford offers her a little attention, rubbing at her fur.

  “You all done with work for the day?” I ask, closing my eyes.

  He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Just have to send one more e-mail. Why don’t you go put a bathing suit on? We can relax in the hot tub once I’m done.”

  Nibbling on my lip, I pull back. “Don’t have one.”

  His eyes track the way I lick across my lips. “Remember the last time we were in the hot tub, Red?”

  God, that nickname sends a shock of need through me every time. Need almost as strong as the kind that courses through me at the memory he’s conjuring. I nod. “Yeah, Paul ditched me on my birthday, and you scared the shit out of me. I thought I had the house to myself.”

  “You were naked.”

  Memories of that night flood me, along with a wave of liquid heat. I’m not sure why I thought skinny-dipping in Ford’s hot tub was a good idea. Though, to be fair, he was supposed to be out of town, and Paul and I were supposed to have a romantic night at home to celebrate my birthday. I’d been invited to a club—hell, there were parties everywhere in my honor—but I hate stuff like that. A quiet night at home where I could be myself was all I wanted. Paul insisted one of us should make an appearance, so he took off. I stayed home with a bottle of bubbly and my guitar. I didn’t have a suit, but the hot tub looked so inviting. Ford’s house was secluded, with high privacy fences, so I assumed I’d be safe to relax.

  I climbed in wearing white undies and a bra, but the way they clung to my skin when they were wet was gross, so I dumped them by the steps and sank below the surface, leaving nothing between me and the bubbles.

  And then he walked outside…

  “Bought you a suit in case it ever happened again.” His rough voice pulls me out of the past.

  I’d much rather be in the present anyway. Because the way he affects me is no longer a problem. Or at least not as much of a problem as it was when I was naked in Ford’s hot tub while still in a relationship with his son and I saw him without a shirt on for the first time. God, if I hadn’t been so freaked out that he would be angry about me in my birthday suit, I probably would have enjoyed the view.

  But there’s nothing stopping me now.

  “You want me to wear a bathing suit?” I tease.

  Ford pulls his glasses off and sets them on the table purposefully. Then he cups my face, running his fingers against my cheek. “Play along, Red. Bathing suit is on the bed upstairs. Put it on. I’ll leave champagne outside. Go out there. Relax for a bit. Maybe relive that night…though with a different outcome.”

  My mind whirs to life at what he’s suggesting, and heat pools between my legs. I’m in such a hurry to obey I practically tumble out of his lap, and Buttons jumps at the last minute so she doesn’t fall to the ground.

  Ford laughs and grasps my hips, steadying me in front of him. “Dirty girl is already wet just thinking about fucking her boyfriend’s father, isn’t she?”

  Oh my God.

  Before my mind goes into overdrive and stops me from playing a game I am far too eager to engage in, I jump in with both feet. “And you’re the man who can’t stop thinking about fucking your son’s girlfriend.” I run one fingertip from his jawline, down his neck, to the collar of his T-shirt. “Knowing nothing will feel better than my tight cunt.”

  With that, I spin on my heel and scamper up the stairs.

  “Fuck.” His growl echoes in the silent house.

  Damn right. That’s exactly what I intend to do.

  Two scraps of white fabric barely big enough to be considered a bikini await me. Hands shaking, I shuck my clothes and shimmy into it, then blow out a long breath and pull my shoulders back. I need a steady hand to apply my red lipstick. On the duvet beside the indecent bikini is a single hair tie. I consider not using it, only because I love the way Ford takes care of me and the idea of him finding it, sliding it onto his wrist, and then putting it in my hair makes my stomach flip and my skin flush hotter. But in the end, we’re playing a game—one where I look like I did that night—so my hair goes up.

  Guitar in hand, I pad down the stairs to a quiet house. Ford is seemingly MIA, and I can’t help but smile to myself. He’s really set this up to mimic that night.

  When I step outside, the cold hits me immediately. Strings of twinkling lights illuminate the backyard, and two lines of solar lights lead to the already bubbling hot tub. With a deep breath, I brace myself for the cold and grasp the neck of my guitar tight, then take off down the short path.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” The chill that immediately envelops me is impossible to ignore. Halfway there, my toes are going numb. Should have put my shoes back on or snooped around for a pair of slippers.

  Gently, I set my guitar on the edge beside a small stack of towels and dip a toe into the water. I pull back quickly and let out an “Ah!” It’s a lot hotter than I remembered. Probably because my toes are frozen now.

  Letting out a deep breath, I ease into the water. It only takes a moment to adjust to the heat, and when I do, I drop my head back against the headrest in one corner and allow my muscles to relax. It’s been such a long few weeks. If not for the games I’m playing with Ford, I’d probably already be in LA, hiding from the gossip surrounding Paul’s affair.

  It’s strange how little I’ve thought of him—outside of his relation to Ford and the repercussions there. Normally a breakup would send me into a tailspin. I’d write sad songs for weeks and wallow in my misery. But that hasn’t happened. I’m just…content. Or distracted maybe. Because the man I’m sleeping with is one hell of a distraction.

  I stare at my guitar, wondering if I have another song in me. The days after a breakup are sometimes my most inspired, even if the songs revolve around heartbreak and pain. Oddly, the only things that are going through my head are words about comfort and a warmth I didn’t know existed inside me. Lovely lyrics that would make listeners think I’m falling in love rather than exacting a little revenge.

  I spot the champagne and smile to myself. On my birthday, I drank straight from the bottle.

  Apparently he remembered too, because the glasses are missing.

  Feeling wicked, I kneel on the bench seat on the other side of the tub and snag the bottle. It takes a few seconds to work the metal trap and wrapper off, but when I do, I give in to the little devil on my shoulder and give the bottle a good shake before I press on the cork with my thumb. It goes flying, and a fountain of champagne erupts from the bottle. The laugh that escapes me as it coats my upper body is loud and long.