Ian

" I — um — what?"

Dez — I mean, Daisy — who is she even kidding with that utterly adorable name? — looks like a startled rabbit. It's the first time I've seen her flummoxed since she showed up on my doorstep.

I hold out my hand to her. Her eyebrows reach up like they're doing calisthenics.

"What do you mean?" she asks, looking nervous. "The only magic that's happening is Marta with her camera."

I grab her hand and pull her over to the area where Marta's set up a few bottles of the wine on pedestals of varying heights.

"I've been thinking about your concept," I explain. "It's good. I like it. But there shouldn't just be my hands in there. I can probably scrounge up Shredrick and the other guys next time they're in town. But for now, there should be a soft, girly pair of hands, too."

"I think you mean feminine?" she automatically corrects. She's not so flabbergasted by my suggestion that she participate in the shoot that she can't catch my weird slips of the tongue. I appreciate her being a stickler for detail. I think that means's she's gonna do it.

"Wait — you can get Shred to do this with you?" Daisy's voice goes up about three octaves higher than dogs can hear. "You're still in touch?"

An irrational spike of jealousy smacks me in the gut. I breathe it out, leaning into my years of doing yoga. I can't seriously be jealous that she's into Shredrick (AKA Frederick Jones III). Our bassist was and is a fucking genius. If Prince and John Paul Jones somehow had a love child, it would've been Shred.

Every Courage fan on the planet either wanted to do him or to be him. Correction: Do and/or be. Sometimes they wanted to do both.

The worst thing about it is he's so fucking nice, the wanker. You can't even hate him. I made it my mission to piss off every human we came across, like the spoiled little fucker I always knew I could be, but Shred, man... he was something else. Totally Zen. After a while I stopped being an arsehole because I couldn't get a rise out of the guy. I'd try something fierce, but no matter what, he'd just give me this disappointed face. The guilt nagged at me, so I quit.

"Yeah," I say. "We're all still on good terms."

"That's great. It's really great. It would be cool to have him come —"

She stops herself, but not before that sweet blush rises along her cheeks. It's fucking precious to watch her inner fangirl peek out. I didn't expect Dez to be anything less than the ball buster she started off being. This softer side of her is appealing in ways I shouldn't think about.

"I mean, there was that six month period where we hired someone else to sit in on the sessions because Shreddie ran off to New Zealand to find himself. But even then, we worked it out."

"What'd you do?" Marta asks. She carefully positions my hands on a bottle of Rockstar Noir.

"We brought in a session guy," I reply. Dez frowns. It's the same thing every fan does whenever that year comes up. If we ever end up making that documentary about Courage, the time we let someone else into the band will be the dark night of the soul for sure.

To be fair, that's not surprising. It was a very tense time. When Shred left, I voted for the band to break up. But Kyle and JB decided they weren't ready to give up the rock stardom quite yet, so we hired a sub.

"The guy was decent," I continue. "Really, really decent."

Marta snorts in a knowing way. "Is that cocky bastard code for he was good and I felt threatened? "

"Nah. He was a bassist. I play lead. It wasn't like that."

One of Marta's assistants comes over and gently coaxes Dez into the shot. Her deep red manicure is perfect. Her nails gleam against the smoky glass of the bottle.

We're all silent for a while as Marta takes about ninety photos of our hands in various positions. I never knew there were so many micromovements and subtle adjustments to be made.

"Hold hands for me, won't you?" Dez blinks at Marta's command, but she reaches for me at the same time I reach for her. We almost knock over the display. Fortunately, one assistant catches the bottle before it tips over and resets the display.

"This is a little trickier than I thought." Dez smiles up at me. "You made it look so easy."

I nod. "It's work. But after almost thirty years of this, I can say this is the most fun I've ever had at one of these shoots."

"Really?"

"Excuse me," the soft-spoken girl says. "I just need you two to get closer. It'll help avoid another reset."

Dez and I murmur our agreement. The PA gently pushes our bodies toward one another, so that we're standing toe to toe. Then she guides our hands together, carefully placing each finger just so in a careful puzzle.

Dez lets a tiny sigh slip from her lips before she straightens her posture and looks up at me with a dazzling smile. Fuck me. If I weren't already halfway hard from the look she's giving me, the press of her breasts against my chest as we interlock our fingers around this bottle would get me there.

The faint scratch of the paper label almost doesn't register. I am hyperaware of the smoothness of her skin against mine. I don't know what kind of magic is in that hand cream she used on me, but my skin is sleeker than a seal's arse. That goop smells expensive as fuck, but I'll have Daphne reach out to the company. If I have to do a freaking makeup ad for them, so be it. I need a bucket of that.

Not that I'm fantasizing about rubbing it all over a certain someone's lovely long legs or anything. But if the opportunity arises, I'll be ready.

"Good, good…" Marta sounds distracted. "Now I need you to stack your hands on the bottle. Start with hers, like so…"

She demonstrates, and I ought to be embarrassed by the filthy image that goes through my head at the sight. But I am shamelessly picturing Dez' two hands stacked on top of each other, gliding up and down my —

"You might need to turn your back to him, Dez," the assistant suggests. "Then scooch in real tight." the woman makes a gesture with her hands, indicating just how close we need to be.

Daisy does as they ask, pressing her ass right up against my cock. Fuck me. The semi I was hiding is now full mast. I'm sure Daisy can tell — the tense stiffness in her body gives her away — but thankfully, she doesn't say a word. The back of my neck blazes with heat.

Damn. I hate that she's probably miserable. I've been having the filthiest dreams of her since she showed up, but honestly, I'm all talk. It's been ages since I've been with anyone, and Dez… I don't know if she's into me like that.

I try to calm myself by thinking about the new song I started when she got here. Something neutral that I can focus on. But my cock is what it wants. And it very much wants Daisy.

After an excruciating million minutes more, Marta makes a satisfied sort of grunt I've heard before. I smile to myself. That means she's got a picture she knows is excellent. She brings the camera toward us, showing what she's done.

"You like?" Marta asks. We both nod, speechless. The images tell a story of courtship. As if our hands have started with a tentative meeting, moved to a comfortable closeness, and ended up an intimate, passionate love affair.

When Marta releases us from our poses, Daisy is off like a shot. She beelines over to the fridge, pulling out bottles of water and offering them to Marta and her team before cracking one open for herself. I can't take my eyes away from the golden column of her throat as she swallows. When she licks her lips, I fight back a groan.

Somehow Dez senses my gaze on her. I gesture towards the bottle. She gives me a quick smile before grabbing one from the fridge and bringing it to me. She hands it over without meeting my gaze.

"Thanks." The snap of the cap coming undone seems especially loud. "I could use a drink."

"I noticed that you seemed a little heated before." That same tiny smile flutters around her mouth.

"Daisy," I say. Already, I love the sound of her real name on my lips. "I want to apologize about before. I couldn't help, um, that is, I couldn't quite control my reaction to?—"

"It's fine." That smile turns wicked. "I do have a magnificent ass."

I sputter as the water I drank goes down the wrong pipe. Daisy's face is half amusement and half alarm. She moves to pat me on the back, but I hold up a hand to let her know I don't need the assist. It takes a couple of minutes for my cough to settle down and for me to regain my equilibrium.

I gather my courage, feeling utterly ridiculous. Just six little words have got me wondering if the attraction here isn't one-sided after all. I might have an ego the size of a train, but I'm not thick. Women are occasionally attracted to me. And right now, I'd bet money that Daisy is one of those women.

"Listen," I give her my most sincere look. "This is awkward. I know you work for my partners, and it's unorthodox to consider mixing business and pleasure. Don't shit where you eat, and all that."

She huffs out a laugh before she can censor herself, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. That's got to be a good sign. Hasn't it?

"I want to be respectful, and not blow up your spot, or whatever the kids say these days."

Daisy makes a face. "I don't think a kid has said that phrase since the nineties."

"Fair enough. I don't actually know any children."

"I do, and I can confirm. It's all about rizz or whatever now."

"What the hell is that?"

"No idea. My little cousin said it to me. I had to use the private window on my search engine so she wouldn't see me look it up."

"Anyway, I suspect there's something between us, Dez. Or there could be."

I lick my lips. The way her eyes track the movement of my tongue gives me the courage to keep going.

"Please, tell me if I'm misreading the situation here. Because if not, when this is over, I would very much like to take you out to dinner."

"..."

"We're packing up now," Marta announces. Daisy straightens her face and walks over to Marta. Whatever she was about to say is lost in the face of her professional smile and manner. She consults with the photographer and assistants, presumably about the best way to get back into the city. I try not to sulk about the distraction.

We're in the same house, I remind myself. Dez and I have all the time in the world. I shouldn't be in such a damned hurry. After all, my job is making this wine business a success. Not wooing gorgeous public relations people who've been dropped at my doorstep.

"So what happened?" Marta's question pulls my focus back from the too close, too tempting woman in front of me.

"What's that? What happened to whom?"

"What did your band do with the substitute guy?" She hands her SLR to one of the young women, who applies its lens cap, and carries it reverently over to a foam lined case. I'm impressed that Marta trusts her enough to hand the thing off.

Dez jumps in before I can answer. "Nothing. The temp lasted for six months. Then Shred returned from his retreat. The guy stayed for another month until Shred got up to speed with the new songs, and the band released him."

Her jaw is tense and her eyes stormy. I'm shocked. Who knew felt so strongly about it, or was so deep into the band's history?

"What she said." The temporary guy — what the hell was his name, anyway? — really was an excellent bassist. He did a fine job filling in. But he wasn't Shred. He knew it, the band knew it, and the fans definitely knew it. We wished him well, paid him a generous bonus, and sent him on his way. I'm pretty sure that was the last time any of us thought of him.

Marta and her staff leave, trailing their massive trolleys of equipment behind them. Dez and I see them out, waving as they drive off like a couple of parents sending their kids off to college.

I've never been so grateful to see the back of anyone in my life. My nerves are stretched taut. I need to hear Daisy's answer.

We walk over to the golf cart. I open the door for Dez. She looks up at me, and her expression is so cool that I nearly shiver.

"Thank you, but no thanks. I'm going to ride back over to the house." She gestures toward the row of ten speeds we've got lined up outside the property. "I could use the exercise."

"Okay." I'm thrown off kilter by the chill in her tone.

"And I..." she pauses for the briefest moment before plunging on. "I appreciate the thought, , and I'm flattered. But… I don't think it's a good idea to blur those lines."

"Of course." My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out. "Thank you for letting me down so gently."

"When I get back, I'll arrange for a ride back into the city and get out of your hair."

"What? Why?" The intensity in my voice surprises even me. "There's no need for that."

Confusion makes her frown. "I assumed you'd want me out of the house…?"

"It's easier for us to work together if you're here, right? Rather than commuting every day?" She hesitates. We both know it is.

"If you want to go, then by all means, do. But if this is about my ego, then please don't worry. I've got enough of that for me and several other blokes."

As I hoped, she laughs. The tightness around her eyes eases.

"If you don't want to be alone with me, I can have Daphne and her wife come stay here, too, if you'd be more comfortable? They're here often enough that they've got their own guest room."

"You're sure you want me here?"

"I would very much like you to stay. You're good company. Though it pains me to admit it, but you even made those annoying modules entertaining. Or at least less dreadful."

"Then I accept your invitation to stay. See you back at the house." She straps on the helmet, cinching it up tight, and straddles the bike. Dez gives a little wave before riding off into the sunset.

I stare after her, confused. Feels like I misread those signals. Hard.

Except I don't think I did. Not at all. Something changed after our talk, and I'm unsure of what.

But I'm determined to find out.