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Ten minutes later, he’s gone, and I’m alone in my bedroom wondering how an argument about music turned into the best mistake I’ve made in a very long time.
I shower, drink a glass of water, and remake the bed because the sheets are twisted beyond recognition. By the time I sit down on the couch, I’ve decided the matter is settled.
It happened. It was hot. It was a mistake, and it will not happen again.
Ten minutes later, three quiet guitar notes drift through the wall.
I freeze.
There’s a short pause, then he plays the same smug little riff again.
I grab my boot off the floor and throw it directly at the wall. “Asshole.”
His laughter comes through faintly from the other side, and I hate that I’m smiling.
Chapter seven
ZANDER
I wake up thinking about Ruby.
More specifically, I wake up thinking about Ruby riding me last night, which seems like an important distinction.
This isn’t some emotional revelation. We had sex. Really good sex. The kind that tends to replay itself the next morning whether a guy asks for the memory or not. There’s nothing unusual about that.
At least, that’s what I tell myself while I lie there staring at the ceiling and think about the way she hooked a hand behind my neck and dragged my mouth back to hers.
I drag a hand over my face and sit up.
The duplex is quiet. No cabinet doors closing, no footsteps, and no boot thudding against the wall in response to last night’s victory riff.
She either left early or she’s ignoring me.
Probably ignoring me.
We agreed it was a mistake, which means the smart move is to let it be exactly that. We’re neighbors. She already thinks I’m too loud, too cocky, and surrounded by too many women. Having sex with her added a whole new problem to a situation that already had plenty.
Great sex, though.
I get out of bed before my brain can offer any more helpful observations.
By ten, I’m at rehearsal with Hollow North, which should solve the problem. Music has always been the easiest way to clear everything else out of my head, but today even that isn’t working.
We’re halfway through a new song when I miss the change into the second chorus. Not by much, but enough that our drummer stops playing and looks at me over the cymbals.
“You planning on joining us?”
“I’m here.”
“Physically, sure.”
Our bassist laughs as he adjusts the strap across his shoulder. “You’ve been off since you walked in.”
“I’m fine. I missed one change.”
“Twice,” the drummer corrects.
I look down at my guitar, then back at both of them. “Do either of you want to keep your jobs?”
