Page 67 of Out of the Shadow

“Hey, Jerry.” He waves to the man behind the desk, who salutes him. King presses the call button and we wait for the cab to arrive.

The doors open and we walk in together. He puts his arm around me and I slide in closer to his body heat. As the doors start to shut, someone yells, “Hold the door!” I automatically press the “Doors Open” button.

A blonde woman, about my age or a couple of years older, sails into the cab. “Oh, King, hi,” she coos.

“Callie,” he replies, his tone friendly.

I keep my head up, a big smile on my face. Even though King and I are not in a relationship, I’m damn proud to have this man on my arm. I peruse the woman’s skinny body, taking in her toned legs and feet encased in those shoes with the red soles. My confidence is shaken for a moment, but he’s sleeping withmetonight.

She continues, “How have you been? Missed you Thursday night.”

“We were filming.”

“Oh.” She nods.

The door pings and the three of us exit the elevator. I guess she lives on his floor. When she stops at a door and takes out her key, she catches my eye. “I’m sure you’re going to have a good time tonight.”

Hasshe already been there, done that? I have no reason to be surprised, and I’m not, I guess. I might be a tad uncomfortable, but I’m not about to show it. Shoving my hair off my face, I reply, “Counting on it.”

Her eyes widen, then she nods and enters her apartment. We walk down a few more doors before he stops and opens his door for me.

“Sorry about that.”

I enter his apartment. “No need to apologize.” If I’d needed any proof that casual is his M.O., here it is.No strings, Angie.

He tosses his keys onto a side table, rubs his hands on his legs, and heads to the kitchen. If I hadn’t known better, I’d take the hand rubbing thing for nerves. His apartment looks much the same as when I scouted it out, at Blaine’s request. Other than some fruit on the kitchen table, I wouldn’t know someone lives here.

“Care for a drink?”

Liquid courage. Good idea. “Yes, please. What do you have?” He holds up bottles of Pappy Van Winkle and Baileys. This must be the “Pappy” he referred to when I offered him Jim Beam. No thanks. “I love Baileys with chocolate vodka.” He probably doesn’t have the latter—he’s not exactly a chocolate vodka kind of guy—but there’s no harm in asking.

He ducks down into the cabinet and produces another bottle. “Look good?”

“Oh, I love you!” Wait, what? What did I just say? No, no, no! “I mean, I’m surprised you have the vodka.”

He chuckles. “I noticed you drinking this the other night and wanted to be prepared.”

My body swoons a little, but I tamp down my reaction. He’s simply observant. “Such a Boy Scout.”

King pours both of us some of the delicious drink over ice and holds up his glass to mine. “To an unforgettable evening.”

“To celebrating your success.” I bring my glass to his and clink. The liquid slides down my throat like a smooth closing—all high notes with nothing standing in the way. “That’s good.”

“Not bad, although bourbon still rules.”

I walk around the apartment, checking out the minor touches he has made to it besides the fruit and liquor. A couple of framed photos sit on the mantle. One of them is of a kid with a woman I don’t recognize. The kid is undeniably a young King, which tugs on my heartstrings, so that must mean… “Your mother?”

He walks up to me. “Yeah. Not sure why I have it, though.”

“Because she’s your mom.” I put down the frame and pick up the one beside it. A much younger Braxton holds King as a boy. Both are smiling from ear to ear. My heart jumps at the sight of the two of them, so happy together.

“That was taken at my eighth birthday party in my backyard. Hunte performed. That was before he married Sara, back when I still thought the sun rose and set on his shoulders.”

“Oh yeah. Most of the kids on my block had international rockstars serenading them for their birthdays, too. No biggie.” He laughs as I return the frame to the mantle.

The fact that he has a picture of both of them up in this apartment, this temporary home, makes me wonder if maybe family means something more to him than he would like. Maybe he wants a family, only he’s never had the chance.

But that train of thought has no place in now. This is supposed to be a casual fling. I turn around and run smack into his chest. I reach out and trail my fingernail over one large pec. Lifting my chin all the way up, I murmur, “Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating?”

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