Page 52 of All of You

But I couldn’t ignore the fact that being with him, even just talking, lit me up. And funny enough, it made me want to write—it’d had me writing—like I hadn’t since he’d told me his story and hadn’t even known it was me.

Oh, about that.

Yeah. I knew I needed to tell him. I couldn’t quite pin down what was stopping me.

Well, actually, I did know.

I was worried. Ben was so decent, so sweet, with just one thing that he really struggled with. The same thing I’d ultimately shared with the world in the form of a song. The same song that, when I was nominated for a Grammy, he’d toasted me for.

Would he hate me? Would he feel betrayed? Would he even care?

I hoped he wouldn’t. But the longer I went without telling him, the higher the likelihood he’d feel betrayed by me—by a woman he didn’t know, but to whom he’d spilled his rawest feelings after the most traumatic time in his life.

Yeah. I should worry.

That wouldn’t have mattered so much to me a month or so ago. But this tour had forced us together in the most irretrievable way imaginable. I could no longer pretend that my heart didn’t beat faster at the sight of him. I could no longer pretend that when I closed my eyes, he wasn’t the fantasy that populated my mind. I could no longer pretend that all I wanted him for was fulfilling a sham contract to be my fake boyfriend.

I wanted him to be mine, really mine, and I wanted to forget about everything else.

How to get to that place, I had no clue. It’d been three days since I’d kissed him in the car, no audience, and he must have gotten the message that I wanted him for him. Right?

But he’d been friendly, sweet. He’d done everything a dear friend would, but he’d made no move to be close to me or alone with me.

To be fair, it hadn’t been all that possible. That night, Nikki’d left a message for me with a long list of to-dos once I got back from the cocktail party, and Ben had excused himself to lie down. He’d passed out on his bed, and I’d kissed his forehead before I turned in without him ever knowing.

The next day, we’d loaded tour busses, and the madness had resumed. I’d performed that night, then we’d been back on a bus to the next city, this being the window where the shows were closest together.

The day after that, we’d hardly seen each other while I did a photo shoot and packed in a million other marketing events.

But tonight was Christmas Eve, and we didn’t have anything until late tomorrow when we’d hop back on the bus and travel south to Pennsylvania. Tonight we were in New York City, one of my favorite cities, and I didn’t want to do anything but sit and look at Ben and ask him if he liked me.

Maybe I could send him one of the notes like kids supposedly did in grade school. Pull a George Strait and ask him to “Check Yes or No.” He was a George fan—he’d get it if I just played the song, right?

I dragged my hands over my face and wondered what to do. Ben was, most likely, planning to spend the evening with me. Wasn’t he? And then, I realized… what if he was missing home? What if he was missing his family and wishing he was with them in Alabama instead of with me, contractual girlfriend and occasional kissing partner?

I smoothed back the edges of my hair, making sure it was still secured back in the stylish ponytail Damon had done earlier for my visits to the morning shows and then a handful of label events. I was exhausted, but I hadn’t seen Ben all day, or really in what felt like days

I knocked on the door to his bedroom.

“You decent?” I hollered, partly hoping he’d say yes but end up topless at the very least.

No answer, so I knocked again.

“Come in,” his deep voice came through the door.

I slowly opened the door, eager to see him. He sat on his bed, back against the headboard and a pile of pillows cushioning him. He had headphones dangling from one ear, the other side apparently removed—probably why he hadn’t heard my first knock. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest, but still looked comfortable. His hair was messy, and he had what looked to be a three-day beard, which meant he was as scruffy as I’d ever seen him.

In a word: delicious.

His eyes had tracked me moving into the room, a confusing mix of hungry and remote. My stomach had twisted into knots by the time I sat on the edge of his bed next to his feet.

“Hey, Ben,” I said, trying to act all kinds of casual and no-big-deal about how fluttery seeing him relaxing in his natural state made me.

One side of his mouth quirked up into a smile. “Hey, Whit.”

Just hearing him say my name made me smile, but I tried my best to keep it under wraps. “What’re you listening to?”

His gaze flickered to his phone, and he pulled out the headphones so I could hear. The last verse of Waylon Jennings’ “Just to Satisfy You” came on, and I laughed. “You do love Waylon, don’t you?”

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