“You! You’re constantly putting other people ahead of yourself. First Drake and then your clients and your family! Even me! I can’t let you do this anymore.”
At once, I feel light-headed. “Let me do what exactly? Record your music? Make your albums? Or is this about the sex?”
“I never said anything about the sex,” she huffs, and I want to strangle something. Instead, I walk her back until she’s against the door. I put my hands on either side of her, close, but not touching. I lean forward until her lips are centimeters from my own.
“Of course not. Because this.” I flex my hips against her, knowing I’m hard as a rock, despite the acrobatic motorcycle sex only a half hour ago. Her breath hitches and I do my best to look unaffected. “This is casual, right? Just fuck buddies. So if I’m understanding this right, you don’t think I should produce you, but I can fuck you whenever I want.” The words taste bitter and crass on my tongue. It’s not like that. For me, it’s never been like that, but maybe for her it has been?
“I’m saying your reputation will suffer by being seen with me.”
My voice strangles in my throat. It’s like she doesn’t even know me. “How many different ways do I have to tell you I don’t care?”
Lorelai’s fingers trace delicate patterns into my collarbone beneath my T-shirt. “You should care.”
I can’t help it. I’m fucking hurt. I knew this was casual to her and I went along with it, but I thought she at least knew where I stood in our friendship. I thought she knew I wasn’t like Drake. That I didn’t care about the same stupid shallow bullshit. That I love her.
I know I haven’t said it, but hell. It’s written all over my face and every fucking thing I do.
I step back and Lorelai’s hand remains extended between us. This time she’s grasping for air.
“I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I thought I could, but it turns out, I’m not built for casual.”
Her fine dark brows draw together. “I understand, but…”—she steps into my space and presses her body to mine—“that doesn’t mean this can’t…”
“You’re not hearing me. I’m talking about this.” I gesture between our bodies, my straining erection, her flushed skin. “I can’t do casual between us. I’ll still produce you. You’re incredible and it kills me that you don’t see what I see. Your potential. Your gift.” I release a harsh breath, putting another step between us, my heavy boots thudding in the silent house. “You better be at the studio bright and early tomorrow. But the sex. It has to stop.”
“But it’s been so good. I know I’m not alone in this, Huck. We’re perfect together.”
I reach for the door and nod, feeling like a sap, running out before I change my mind and rip her clothes off, throw her on the bed, and make her come on my tongue.
I lift a shoulder and speak at the wood grain in front of me. “I know we are. I’ll see you tomorrow. We can do this, Jones. We’ve slept together and gone back to being friends before. It’ll be just like last time.”
And then I walk out the door and get on my bike and ride away, because there’s no way I can stay under the same roof as her right now.
* * *
Two days later, and Lorelai hasn’t shown up in the studio. I know she’s in town. Her car is out in front of our place, and as far as I can tell, it hasn’t moved. I heard her shower kick on last night.
So she’s avoiding me.
I let it go yesterday because honestly, we both needed the space and I needed a day to lick my wounds. I know it’s ultimately my own damn fault. Doesn’t mean I’m not mad about it.
But she didn’t turn up today, either, and that won’t do. I’m not about to let what happened between us derail her comeback. We can be professionals. I can be a professional.
When I get home, I don’t even bother with my place. I knock on her door. I wait, listening. Nothing. I knock again, louder this time.
“Lorelai,” I say loudly. “Answer your door, Jones.”
No answer. I dial her number. It rings, but I don’t hear her pick up.
Fear turns my blood to ice. What if something happened? What if she didn’t lock her door and someone came in and …
The door swings open.
“Thank God … Shit, are you okay?”
Lorelai doesn’t answer, just leaves the door open behind her and shuffles listlessly toward her couch, where she collapses on the cushions, curling on her side. I follow her, closing the door and taking in the scene. The TV is on some vampire movie, but it’s on mute and she’s buried herself under the oversize comforter from her bed. The window shades are pulled, and it’s dim as night in here.
Oh no.
“The Nashville chicken?”
She nods. “Must have been. Or the fryer. I checked the website when I got home. It said GF, but the fine print was ‘gluten friendly,’ not ‘gluten free.’”
I move to squat in front of her. “What the fuck? I’m gonna call them.”
She winces and I lower my voice. “Sorry.” Up close I can see the dark circles under her eyes and the gray pallor of her skin. Her brows are drawn tight, a clear sign that she’s in pain, and I sigh.
Lorelai was diagnosed celiac about six months ago, and her doctors told her the longer and more strictly she avoided gluten and dairy, the more sensitive she would be to contamination. Gluten friendly wouldn’t be enough. Not for her. This is my fault. I read the site ahead of time, but I didn’t read carefully enough.
“Hell, Lore. This is my fault.”
Her expression is dazed, but she manages to roll her eyes.
“Okay,” I whisper, standing and removing my jacket, hanging it over by the door and rolling up my sleeves. “First things first.” I walk into her kitchen and fill a kettle with water, setting it on the stove to boil. I grab over-the-counter pain meds from the cabinet and a bottle of water from her fridge and make my way back to her.
“Migraine?”
She nods and I shake out two pills.
“How about your back?”
“On fire,” she croaks.
I shake out a third and pass them to her along with the water bottle. “Start with these.”
She takes them and puts the water bottle on the floor before slipping down onto the couch.
“When was the last time you ate?”
She shakes her head. “Can’t keep anything in me.”
The kettle screeches and I rush to turn off the flame. I pull out a little plastic bag of peppermint tea Lorelai got for her migraines and pour the boiling water over it to steep. After a few minutes, I nudge her.
“You need more fluids. This will help. I’m gonna run out, and by the time I get back, you need to drink this whole cup.”
She blinks but doesn’t argue, and I stifle the guilt roiling in my gut before leaving her alone on the couch. Once I get outside and clear of the door, I curse, swinging uselessly at a low-hanging tree branch and startling a neighbor. I ignore her tsks and fling open the garage door with a loud bang before climbing on my bike and revving the engine louder than necessary.
You fucking idiot. Thinking you were giving her space because she was upset over you cutting her off and instead she’s in incredible pain. Such an asshole. God.