Forget (10 page)

And the sexy look she’s sporting doesn’t help the cause, either.

We’re sitting at the bar, sharing a drink, and I can’t stop looking at her. I swear I feel a smack to the face every time her long lashes swipe down in a blink. And her mess of untamed curls has me itching to run my fingers through her hair. She looks like she just got out of bed after a night of wild sex.

And her legs, the best damn pair of stems I’ve ever laid eyes on. Long legs spill out from her shorts, and her beautiful curves are covered by a shirt that reminds me of Woodstock. She’s a modern-day version of a hippie. Unless she was naked, in
my
bed, and begging for
my
cock, she couldn’t be any sexier right now.

“How long are you in Paris?” I ask, watching her lips wrap around the straw inside her drink. Those lips give me ideas. Bloody brilliant ideas.

She shrugs. “A few more weeks.”

A few more weeks? I can handle that. Sure, it’s not months or years or forever, but a few more weeks is more than enough time to pursue her.

“Are you with anyone?” It’s a question that’s been bugging me since five days had passed without a word from her.

“I’m with Lindsay.”

I laugh at her misinterpretation.

She tilts her head, confused. Her cheeks are ingrained with a faint, rosy blush. I’m not sure if it’s from the multiple drinks she’s had or my presence, but I’m going with the latter of the two.

“I meant, are you with anyone, not here with anyone. Like a boyfriend? Fiancé? Unless, Lindsay is your . . .”

“
Oh!”
Her gorgeous brown eyes turn wide. “Oh my God, no!” she exclaims. “Not that there’s anything wrong with women being into other women . . . or guys liking other guys for that matter . . . but I don’t swing that way. Purely heterosexual woman right here.” She points to herself.

Did I mention that tipsy Brooke is really fucking cute?

“Did I just say heterosexual?”

“Yes, you did, and honestly, I’m beyond happy about that, but you still didn’t answer my question.”

She doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever.

Eventually, a pained smile crosses her face as she answers, “No, I’m not with anyone.”

Maybe she’s not feeling well? I’m pretty sure she’s drank well out of her weight class tonight. “You okay?”

“Perfect,” Brooke nods. “I’m really happy I’m here, but also kind of sad about the reason I’m here. It’s kind of bittersweet, ya know?”

Slightly confused by her words, I question their meaning. “What brought you to Paris?”

“Let’s not get into it.” Her small hand grips my bicep, and even though her fingers are cool from her iced up vodka and Sprite, my skin warms to her touch. “Let’s focus on the fact that I’m really happy I’m here right now.
Here with you.
”

I’m quite enjoying where this conversation is heading. It leaves a world of possibilities, all of which I plan to explore. “I’d love to focus on that.”

“You’re beautiful. Did you know that? I’ve never thought a guy was beautiful before, but you are. And when you were on stage I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” She leans in closer to me. Her sweet breath brushes past my face.

God, she has no idea. “I could easily say the same, love.” The restrained look is lost from her eyes. Something far better has replaced it. “I found it quite difficult to perform with you sitting beside me.” I cup her cheek, moving closer until our noses are mere centimeters from touching. “You’re quite the distraction. Did you know that? I couldn’t think about anything besides these gorgeous lips of yours.” I brush my thumb across her mouth, feeling her quick intake of breath. “And when that sexy voice of yours was filling my ears, I’m shocked I could remember the chorus to that terrible song.”

She giggles. “Don’t hate on Mariah.”

“I’m not hating. I’d sing Mariah covers all day, every day, if it made you happy.”

“You’re crazy.”

Brushing my lips across hers, I whisper, “Tell me you feel it too, Brooke.”

She doesn’t answer, but her hooded eyes and parted lips are response enough.

I run both hands into her hair. My fingers grip the soft curls, fully intent on pulling her lips to mine, but a hand on my shoulder and a feminine voice purring
“Dylan”
stops me in my tracks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucie beside me. She’s a woman I’ve known for years, one who often enjoys a careless fuck in the bathroom. Lucie’s love for occasional sex used to be something I indulged in, but it’s been over a year since I’ve touched her.

In my mind, she’s inconsequential. She’s old news, doesn’t mean a bloody thing.

Annoyed and fully intent on brushing Lucie off, I glance back at Brooke when I feel her pull away. She sits back on her bar stool, arms crossed, and the woman who was all too ready to kiss me is long gone. Her hooded gaze is now replaced by scrutinizing curiosity.

Bloody hell.

I knew the pursuit of Brooke was going to be one hell of a challenge, but something tells me that Lucie’s flirtatious voice and tits spilling out of her shirt just made it ten times harder.

Dear Journal? Dear Me? Dear whoever?

Where’s the gun? Because holy hell, I drank my weight in alcohol last night.

I can’t believe that I
was
the live music last night. I sang,
on stage
, in front of a room full of people, and it felt amazing.

Millie, if you’re reading this, I hope you enjoyed the show.

I’m shocked Lindsay and I were out of bed before noon. We didn’t leave Pop In until well after 1:30 a.m., when the bartenders started shouting for last call. I planned on going back to my hotel, but the guys insisted we follow them to another joint a few blocks away. My best friend did her typical routine. She spent the last few hours of the night dry humping Jesse on a makeshift dance floor.

Whereas I found myself in a quiet corner chatting with Dylan over drinks and a few more shots. I think it was three more rounds to be exact. To say it had been a while since I’d put away that much liquor is an understatement, and holy hell, English men can drink. It was a lost cause trying to keep up with Dylan’s pace. By the end of the night, I was far past tipsy, probably slurring my words and stumbling around in my boots, but he still looked composed. His only signs of being drunk were a thicker English accent and an adorable lazy grin.

Dylan. Holy hell, that man.

He’s pretty much everything I thought he would be, but multiply it by about a million. Ridiculously charming, and has the best sense of humor—the perfect amount of dryness and deadpan-ness. He kept me laughing with the most ridiculous stories, but somehow managed a straight-face while he told them. It kind of reminded me of Lindsay, but better. He’d toss out one-liners, not the corny kind, but the kind that stick with you for hours.

And when Jesse and Dylan were together, telling funny stories and bantering back-and-forth, it was my own personal comedy show.

I’ve never been so taken by a man.

Being someone who’s worked with a lot of musicians, I’ve become well acquainted with his type of magic. Sure, he’s human, but Dylan has this intangible quality about him. He could be a backup singer on stage, and every single person in the crowd would track
him
, watch
him
. It’s more than charm or good looks. It’s not even charisma, which he has in spades.

It’s something else entirely . . .

Magnetism
! That’s exactly what Dylan has, and I’m starting to realize I never stood a chance.

I’m not the only one who comprehends his appeal. The whole night, women eye-fucked him, flashing that cliché come-hither look. There were quite a few who seemed positively, for lack of a better word, swoony over him. Some of those bitches had no choice, because it was obvious it was their first time in his presence, but others appeared more than fans, more than acquaintances, and one, in particular, knew him pretty fucking well.

I’m wondering just how freely he enjoys the single life. Is he the type of guy who literally spreads his love around? I’m praying that’s not the case.

Swooning over a guy has never been my style. I honestly can’t remember a time in my life where I was really interested in a man. That’s crazy, right? I mean, I’m 26, I should be able to name at least one guy that made me swoon, even just a little bit.

Is it because it’s not part of my personality or did my childhood fuck me up more than I realize? Or does it have more to do with the actual guy inciting that type of reaction from me?

Love at first sight. Serendipity. Meet-cutes.

Those are not part my real-life vocabulary.

And I refuse to admit, on some subconscious level, Dylan makes those words pop into my head. He makes me feel a little . . . swoony. Just writing that word in this journal makes me feel anxious.

The way he makes me feel is far too surreal to face at the moment.

Millie, on the other hand, was quite the opposite of me. She was completely smitten with the idea of loving one person for the rest of your life. The idea of giving so much of
myself
to
one person
is practically abhorrent. I’ve never wanted anyone to have that much power over me.

Millie tried her damnedest to get me on board with her dreamy ideas of love, but she never scratched the surface of the steel walls I have built.

I blame shitty parenting and negligent adults for most of my walls and baggage.

By the time I was ten and moving into Millie’s home, the damage was already done. To make a long story short, the first ten years of my childhood were not so great, and the last year and half of those ten years was pretty fucking terrible.

And since I’m refusing, to delve into that part of my past, it’s time to end this entry.

Until next time,

-B

“So, do you think we could get out of here at some point today?” Lindsay is leaning towards the bathroom mirror, watching her reflection while she applies lip gloss.

I’m staring off into space; the blow dryer pointed up towards the ceiling. I turn it off and proceed to put the finishing touches on my hair. “Sorry, I guess I was a little lost in my thoughts for a minute there.” Which I was. That damn journal Millie wanted me to use is making me do the opposite of my normal coping mechanisms. Instead of bottling shit up, I’m thinking about
everything.

“Did those thoughts have anything to do with a certain musician with panty-dropping good looks and a hot British accent?” She grins at me through the mirror.

“Shut up.” I laugh, rolling my eyes at her.

“Hey, no need to get shy with me, Brookie. I can totally see why a man like that would be starring in all of your dirty fantasies. Hell, if you need to go rub one out before we leave, I’ll understand.”

I drop my hairbrush and bump her ass with my hip as I walk by, forcing her to smear lip gloss across her cheek.

“You’re so Goddamn stubborn,” she mumbles as I walk out of the bathroom.

“You’re so Goddamn pushy
and
horny,” I call over my shoulder.

Lindsay cackles in response.

Fifteen minutes later, and still within breakfast hours, we made our way down to Le Jardin Français, one of the hotel’s fancy-schmancy dining options. A smartly dressed doorman greets us at the restaurant’s entrance. The interior is gorgeous, a pretty floral sitting room accented by polished marble, blooming flowers, and magnificent chandeliers.

Although the interior is beyond anything I’ve ever laid eyes on, I’m wishing we could just sit outside and enjoy the fresh air. “Is there any way we could . . . manger dans la cour?”
Eat in the courtyard.

“Bien sûr.”
Of course.
The waiter leads us outside.

We’re seated at a table within the peaceful courtyard gardens. A large umbrella shades the sunlight from our eyes. The view is even more decadent outside, all lush gardens and statuesque vases overflowing with freshly blooming flowers.