Page 42 of All of You

Amanda’s brow furrowed for a minute, and then she pressed her lips together while Whit said, “Oh! Of course. I’m sorry, we should have talked about all that. Your room’s there.”

She pointed to the doorway to the left, then wandered in the opposite direction, into the other bedroom.

Oh.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Whit

Ben Holder was adorable.

No. Not only adorable.

His surprise at the room he’d have, the fact that he’d be sharing a hotel suite with me? Not something I saw, having walked away just after pointing to his room. But I could feel it, hear his shifting as his jacket moved with his body. Thank goodness he couldn’t see my face because lots of things were happening in me at the moment, and his disarming warmth had me wanting to share them all. With him.

He was just so darn sweet. And open, too—not afraid to share his thoughts. I mean, really, who just comes out and says things like he did, but with nothing to gain?

It also embarrassed me a little that he was forced to share the suite with me and would have to any time we were in hotels, because people loved to sell stories, make a few bucks, and we’d need to make sure no one was selling the story that my devoted boyfriend and I weren’t spending nights together. We’d tip housekeeping handily to keep their end of things quiet, and since I often had a two-bedroom suite even when single, that wouldn’t automatically wave the red flag for nosey guests or employees. Add to that our careful choice of establishments based on their discretion, and we could be reasonably confident in the staff not being the cause of a leak to the press.

Whatever your perspective on all that, in the press, it meant certain doom. So Ben would be stuck with me—on the bus, backstage (especially now that I’d made sure Nikki knew I wanted him with me even when there wasn’t a photographer to catch the moment), and in the hotels.

I hopped into the shower after removing the quarter inch of goop that made up my stage makeup and felt like a new woman upon emerging. Sometimes, I liked going out after a show, but tonight, I just wanted to huddle up with Ben and talk and look at his pretty face and maybe let him trace words into my wrist if he wanted.

Do you hear yourself?

I braided my damp hair—Damon would fix it tomorrow, so I didn’t have to worry about blow-drying—and pulled on soft sweatpants and a slouchy top, then went to find Ben.

He’d left the bedroom door open with the light on, so I peeked in. “Ben?”

“Hey! One sec,” he said from the bathroom.

I heard a few things clinking around on the counter top, and then, out he came. My heart took a moment, stuttering and stopping before it remembered its one job and started beating again.

But really, I couldn’t blame it.

Because there stood sweet, all-American Ben, fingers pulling down the last few inches of his thin T-shirt, belt hanging loose and unsecured around the waist of his jeans until he grabbed it and threaded it together as he spoke.

“Sorry. I showered too—didn’t want to keep smelling the airplane on my clothes.”

He finished looping the belt together, and I swallowed, blinked away now that the blush had undoubtedly crept into my cheeks. He must’ve noticed.

“Everything okay?”

“Absolutely.” My attention remained resolutely on the rest of the room.

Not quite as spacious as mine, but otherwise exactly the same. Huge bed with pristine white linens. Dark, polished wood dresser with a large flat screen, small espresso machine, water bottles. At the far end next to the windows sat a small sitting area with bright yellow chairs and a tiny table.

“I just wanted to see if you were up for hanging out a bit, or if you’re tired.”

He ran a hand over his hair, which looked a little longer than it sometimes did on top but still close-cropped and soldierly on the sides, and then let that hand slide back again, smoothing over the hair and letting his arm drop.

If I’d ever wanted to touch something as bad as I wanted to touch his wet hair, to smooth it down and maybe wipe away the tiny drops that had fluttered onto his forehead and temples, I couldn’t think of what it was. I clasped my hands behind my back to avoid doing something crazy like reaching out and fixing it. With it smashed down to his head in the front, he looked young.

“I’m beat, but I do want to hear how things are going. Living room?” he asked, and we both turned to find spots on the couch one room over.

The suite was unnecessarily big, like they all were, but I couldn’t deny it brought a welcome change from the cramped quarters of the bus. This tour had far more hotel time and far less bus time because it was East Coast only, and things were closer together. We’d also tacked on several of the missed locations to the end of the tour and smashed one or two in at other times so I wasn’t having to move at the pace I normally did, a concert every two days—sometimes it was only a day between, but there were a few where I had more time.

I was thankful for that. This last tour had taken its toll on me by the end, and even though I loved performing, I had been ready for a break. The fall had been nice, but it had taken me all that time just to recover. I hadn’t written much at all until late in the year, and I should have been writing from the minute I’d stepped off the bus in August.

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