Page 47 of Until You Say Stay
It’s at this spectacularly inconvenient moment that my brain decides to supply me with an extremely detailed image of him walking me backwards until we slam against the counter, his mouth on my neck, those hands sliding up under my shirt, grazing my nipples before dropping down past my belly button, hooking beneath the edge of my panties?—
ABORT. ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY.
I drop back down to the ground so fast I nearly twist my ankle, practically leaping away from him like he’s suddenly radioactive. My face is on fire. Like I-just-had-an-extremely-pornographic-thought-about-my-fake-boyfriend fire.
“Sorry!” The word comes out too loud, too frantic. “Got excited. About the email. The news.” I’m gesturing wildly at nothing. “You know how it is.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, grinning. “It’s exciting. What exactly did they say?”
I shove my phone into his hand, desperate for literally any distraction from the fact that I just had a very detailed fantasy about him in the middle of celebrating my career breakthrough. “Here. Read it yourself. I’m too scattered to explain properly.”
He reads it, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Lark, this is huge. Getting invited to a label party this early? That’s a really good sign.”
“I know!” The excitement is bubbling up again, temporarily overriding my mortification at my complete loss of self-control. “And it’s Friday, so that’s soon, which means they’re serious about this, right?”
“Definitely,” he says, handing my phone back. “You should go. We both should.”
“You can make it?” I ask, surprised by how much I want him there.
“Of course,” he says easily. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”
We spend the next couple hours talking about everything. The label party, what I should expect, how to navigate industry conversations. Jack tells me stories about racing events, about dealing with press and sponsors, giving me advice that’s actually helpful. I talk about my music, about the songs I’ve been writing, about what I hope happens with Tidal. We finish the wine, order pizza, and laugh until my sides hurt. It’s comfortable in a way that scares me. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
“Well, sorry to keep you so long,” he says eventually, standing up and stretching. “I should go. I have an early gym session with Theo and Alex tomorrow.”
“You haven’t been keeping me,” I say. “It was nice having someone to talk to about all this.”
I walk him to the door, that strange tension from the gazebo returning as we navigate the small space of my entryway.
“Congratulations again,” he says at the door, his hand on the knob. “You deserve this, Lark. All of it.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “For everything.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, his mouth opening slightly, but then he just smiles. “I’ll text you tomorrow about Friday.”
“Sounds good,” I manage.
Then he’s gone.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a long breath. The fake relationship was supposed to be simple, but there’s nothing simple about the way my heart races when Jack looks at me. Nothing easy about how right he feels in my space, how much I wanted him to stay, how hard it’s getting to remember that none of this is real.
This is dangerous territory. I need to remember what I’m actually after here—my career. My music. Not a relationship that’ll inevitably crash and burn when reality sets in and he remembers he dates models and actresses, not bartenders from small towns who write sad songs.
Even if that bartender really, really wants to climb him like a tree.
The next morning I wake up gasping, my thighs clenched together and my heart racing. The dream is still vivid. Jack and I were on stage at some venue, and we were lying on some fancy velvet couch, with him fucking me while I sang to the crowd.
Where the hell did that come from?
I press my palms against my face, feeling the heat radiating off my cheeks. I’ve had maybe three sex dreams in my entire adult life, and none of them involved public performance venues or anyone I actually know. Definitely none that felt that mortifyingly good.
I drag myself out of bed, gulping down water like it might somehow wash away the lingering heat between my legs. Thishasto stop. I cannot be having dreams like that about him. That’s a recipe for disaster, for blurred lines, for getting my heart broken. I mean, he doesn’t even live on this continent, for crying out loud.
My workout clothes are already laid out on the dresser from the night before, a habit I developed years ago to make early mornings easier. I need to burn off this energy, and Dominic’s 8 AM boxing class is exactly what I need right now.
But Midnight Gym means the possibility of Jack, and I’m not sure I can handle seeing him right now. Not when my body is still thrumming with desire. The idea of running into him while I’m already this wound up seems like asking for trouble.
I pull into the parking lot, scanning for Jack’s motorcycle. No sleek black bike in sight. I feel an odd mix of relief and disappointment as I grab my gym bag and head inside, annoyed at myself for both reactions.
