“I know.” He leans down and brushes his nose against mine.
I swallow, afraid to ask this question but needing to know. “Is this just about a release?”
“No.” But then he sighs. “At least, I don’t think so.”
He flops back on his side of the bed and covers his face with his arm while I try to catch my breath. When he stays quiet, I nudge him. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Trust me when I say you don’t want to know what’s in my head right now.”
“Maybe I do.”
He glances at me, a question in his eyes. “When this tour is over, we’re both going our separate ways, right? You’re gonna look for a job, and I’m… well, I don’t know where I’ll be. That’skinda the point here. I don’t know. So I can’t promise anything. I can’t offer you a relationship.”
I’m not sure why, but his words strike a chord. “Did I ask you for a relationship?” This conversation is stupid. We’re already married, for Pete’s sake. In name, at least. But not in a way that matters.
“No, but…” He pauses to press his palms into his eyes. “For the things I wanna do with you, I’d be an asshole to suggest them without also offering to date you.”
Is he saying he wants to have sex with me? My whole body lights up again. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden that bicycle. I’m not sure I remember how to do it,” I joke, not knowing what else to say.
“This is why Rhett suggested rules,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just… I’m dumb.”
Reality settles in.
No, I’m the dumb one for feeling tempted. Because I won’t be the one to help him break his sex fast. What if he goes off the rails? I don’t want that responsibility. “We’re not going to do this. I’m not your type, remember?” How could I have forgotten what he said last winter?
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just reminiscing about what you told Vance Kozlov at your brother’s wedding.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are we talking about that jackass?”
“I thought… I thought you two were friends?”
“No. He shows up to all of our gigs and expects to get in free. He crashed Mav’s wedding for the food. What kind of dickhead does that?”
Huh. Did I misunderstand that conversation? “When Vance asked you about me, you told him, and I quote, ‘She’s not mytype.’ And then Vance called me a dog, and you stayed silent.” It’s all coming back to me now.
His frown deepens. “I’d never let a man talk about a woman like that. I must not have heard him.” But that still doesn’t explain—“As for the ‘not my type’ accusation, I’ve been saying that for months about everyone. So my friends would stop trying to set me up.”
Hmm. That makes sense.
And now I’m annoyed with myself for bringing it up. He tugs on my hand, and I bat it away. “I’m sorry I assumed the worst.”
He chuckles and laces our fingers together. “Come here.”
I shake my hand free. “You’re just horny. Go do push-ups.” Because this can’t really be about me. He’s hyped on the rush of his show and meeting executives from his label.
“I already did a hundred.”
I glance at him and laugh at the annoyed expression on his face. But then it occurs to me this might be about a beautiful redhead. “Did you see Marlowe again tonight?”
He nods slowly. “We all hung out and took pics. Signed autographs. Did a couple of shots.”
“And? Did you fall at her feet in supplication?”