Page 73 of All of You

But not Whit. And frankly, I’d seen as many men and women tripping on their tongues in front of her to know she had that kind of effect on pretty much everyone she met. It was overwhelming to be sitting there with both of them as they first started playing, almost stifling to be there with their beauty and talent filling up the room.

Until I relaxed, and listened to the songs, and let myself smile at their banter—more ribbing than flirting. In the end, it’d been reassuring, which I still liked to tell myself I didn’t actually need, but knew I probably did. Especially if they were going to go on stage and sing that song together in a little over a month and the resulting fire that would light in the tabloids and gossip blogs because of it, I probably did need the verification that there wasn’t anything between them.

“Really though, how’s it going with your woman?” Thatcher asked.

A small thrill shot through me. Your woman. I liked the sound of that.

The truth was, I didn’t think Whit was my woman. The strange thing about dating someone like her, someone famous and familiar to everyone she meets, was that she wouldn’t ever just be my woman. She was a public figure, and everyone wanted a piece of her.

But I had the biggest piece. Didn’t I? I knew she cared about me, knew she liked being around me, but I just wasn’t sure where we’d go.

I’d always been someone who had a sense of where he was going. Things lined up, I had a plan, I worked hard, and voilà. College. ROTC. Commission. Army. Tada.

But now that was coming to an end, and fast. I’d have to drop my packet soon, or the Army would force my hand by putting me on orders to career course, and if I did that, I’d be sucked in for another few years. I’d gone past the point of debating with myself about that. I was done here—just knew it.

The thought hadn’t fully formed, or maybe I hadn’t let it form yet. But I was beginning to feel the inklings of an idea for what came next. I hadn’t told anyone—wouldn’t, until after looking into it more. But the first sprouts of hope for what came next in that regard had started germinating.

And then, there was Whit. Looking at what came next with her was completely opaque. I had no idea where we were headed, and the more time we spent together, the closer we got, the more shared experiences and intimacy we built, the more I realized I might want everything with her.

“She’s amazing. Super busy with awards season coming up. She’s got Grammys next week, and Oscars end of February, and a few other things I’m not even sure about. I barely see her right now, but when I do…”

The cheesy grin on my face must have looked obnoxious, especially to someone essentially in agony over a woman he thought he wasn’t allowed to be with.

But Thatcher was the best kind of man. He grabbed me around the neck, hugged me to him with one of his massive arms, and said, “Nobody deserves happiness more than you, my brother.”

He shoved me away roughly, and that action helped me swallow the lump in my throat. Same goes for you, I should have said.

I would say, and soon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Ben

Nikki, once again, opened Whit’s door when I knocked later that weekend on Sunday afternoon. Whit’d been swamped all weekend, then I’d been busy with plans I’d made thinking she’d be busy, and now, here I stood, taking whatever scraps were available.

Fine, that sounded a little poor me. But the weekend without her had made me realize I didn’t like being without her. And that reality had me confronting the awful truth that I would almost always be without her if we were together, if we continued dating and let our relationship progress. She’d always be this busy, touring, living life at a clip I could hardly imagine.

“Ben, good to see you. I need just a minute of your time,” Nikki said, not actually looking at me, but focusing on the phone in her hand, her fingers a blur over the screen.

“Sure. Everything okay?”

“Perfectly fine, just want to update some documents and debrief a bit.”

She turned and walked abruptly into the dining room, so I took that as a sign to follow her.

While she spoke—something about the tour going well and being pleased with the latest buzz—I checked my watch, mentally counting the hours I’d steal with Whit before she needed to sleep and I’d have to go.

“So just sign there and on the next page, and we’re good.”

I scribbled my signature where Nikki indicated, and she gave me a nod which signaled the conversation was over. Relief flooded as I nodded back despite knowing she wouldn’t see and began the hunt through the house to find Whit.

I knocked on her door, and she answered a moment later, long hair wet and dripping over one shoulder.

Oh, and in a towel.

My gaze ran over her—the wet hair combed away from her face, the little droplets lingering at the dip in her collar bone, the towel tucked in on itself at her chest and ending mid-thigh, leaving the miles of her legs exposed.

I swallowed, looked back to her eyes, expecting to see an amused smile, or maybe even some frustration with my so clearly objectifying her. But none of that was there. No.

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