Page 41 of If Not for My Baby
“We’re both consenting adults. You aren’t the first guy in his thirties that I’ve kissed.”
The new look on his face could dent steel. “Is that so.”
I dip my chin in an admission of guilt and his tense sighblows across my mouth. I tug him down to me, to feel those breaths against my lips, but he stays put like a mighty oak.
“I’m your employer.”
I shake my head. “Jen is my employer.”
“But there’s a power imbalance. I want to be conscious of it,” he says quietly, lacing his fingers through my hair and brushing the strands from my face. “I’d never want to put you in a—”
“Hey,” I interrupt. “I’m a big girl, don’t worry.”
A sobering understanding contorts his face at that, and it does something funny to my stomach.
“All right. I suppose you don’t mind if we keep…this just between us, then?”
Only now do the first alarm bells blare inside my head. Not because he’s asking me to keep the kiss a secret—I know better than most how private Halloran is.
No, the panic button has been pressed because of what he’s implying withthis.As if our kiss is the first chapter of a longer story. As if we’re at a precipice of some kind.
“I’m not sure there’s anything to tell,” I say, releasing his neck. “It was just a kiss.” I am the queen of casual. But also my knees are shaking.
He must sense the tension coiling in my limbs because his gaze shutters and he looks frustrated with himself. “Right.”
Despite whatever is storming in his eyes, his finger grazes my chin once more and the simple act sends shivers through me. My eyes might even roll back in my head. Every single touch feels so good—better than all other feelings combined.More alarms peal, one after another. When his fingers laze across my neck I hum involuntarily. If he notices, he’s too much of a gentleman to say anything.
“Just a kiss,” he repeats, releasing me as he steps back. “Understood.”
Fourteen
“No, that won’t do.” Indytuts, furrowing her brow.
She’s right, the baby doll dress probably looks mouthwatering on her since she’s 90 percent leg, but I just look like an actual baby’s doll—perhaps Kit from American Girl. I glower darkly at my reflection in the warped bathroom mirror. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mope,” she says, face already in her suitcase, which is balanced on the toilet seat. “I have another idea.”
We’ve been in here far longer than I care to spend in the tour bus bathroom, but I can’t deny the reprieve from that front lounge is relieving. Halloran and I kissed three nights ago, which means for the past seventy-two hours the memory of his lips on mine has distracted me from every single thing I’ve attempted to do. I’m amazed I can successfully put one foot in front of the other, let alone sing“I’m sheltered by the warmth of my baby’s breath, hot and quiet on my neck”to him before a rabid audience of thousands. If this is having a crush,I want no part of it. I need a receipt. Returning for a full refund, please and thank you.
It’s not that he hasn’t tried to speak to me—I’ve just had my hands full with Agatha Christie and Conor’sMario Karttutelage and playing theOncesoundtrack on repeat…
I am painfully aware that hiding from him isn’t mature, and also isn’t a sustainable long-term plan, but it’s the best I’ve got since I can’t exactly ask Indy or Molly for advice, nor can I bring myself to call Everly and admit what a terrific mistake I’ve made.
The only person I’d ever share any of this with is my mom, whom I haven’t called in a week. Not after I almost told her all the selfish things I’d been feeling. How conflicted I was about missing home and Mike and all I’ve given up to care for her. At this point I’m bottling up so many unpleasant feelings I’m going to need a wine cellar to store them.
“It’s just one party,” I say to Indy, yanking the dress overhead and nearly suffocating on all the fabric. “Can’t I wear that miniskirt I wore in Atlantic City?”
“It’s not just one party—it’s your first-everrecord labelparty. And at Rhett Barber’s house no less. I promise, you’ve never seen anything like this.” She puts her hands on her hips as she appraises me in my underwear. “So, no, you can’t.”
She has a point: When will I get another chance to attend a party at a country music star’s personal home? My mom would annihilate me if she knew I’d skipped it. Plus, I’ve never seen such a bossy side of Indy. Like a no-nonsense chipmunk. I think I love it.
“Fine,” I lament. “What next?”
Indy digs deeper through her suitcase. I catch a flying silk top before it lands on the floor.
“Nice save,” she breathes. “I don’t even want to think about the last time this bathroom was cleaned.”
Images of a wasted Conor attempting to pee and missing by a mile flood my mind. My toes curl in Indy’s borrowed pink stilettos. “Good point. Can we wrap this up?”
