18. Waylon

Chapter Eighteen

WAYLON

" I f you don't get your ass back here, I'm going to send this doggie to you. I'm sure FedEx will do it for me," Jenny says, and I laugh.

"No, they won't. And just admit you love him already."

"No," she says stubbornly. "Are you coming home?"

"Justin starts recording tomorrow. We need to figure out promo and maybe a couple of low-key appearances. Then I'll come home."

"You're fucking him, aren't you?" She says it less like a question, even though she tries to phrase it that way.

"It doesn't matter."

"Jesus Christ, Waylon. We don't fuck the clients. Mostly because they're exhausting and like literal children. But you know professional code and all that."

"It's not like that, and he's not a child."

She huffs, annoyed. "Yes. He is. He didn't like his comfy little fame, and he ran away from home. Throwing a tantrum."

"Watch it," I snap before I can stop myself.

She's quiet for way too long, and I start to squirm a little. "Oh no." She's quiet again, and I cringe. "You fell for him."

"No," I argue weakly, but just then, I hear and see Justin coming through the cabin door—his cabin, since I haven't been in mine in weeks—with food from the café and a curious smile on his way too pretty face when he sees I'm on the phone.

My heart kicks up a little faster when I see him smile. That grin does stupid things to my heart.

Uh-oh.

"I should go," I say into the phone. "Justin is back with the food."

"You should leave. Feelings are dangerous, Waylon." I know. We both feel that way. Choosing to put our careers above everything. It's something we have in common. Something I've always prided myself on.

"I'll call soon."

"You idiot," she says softly and pretty damn lovingly for Jenny.

We hang up, and Justin puts the food down on the coffee table before brushing his lips over mine sweetly. My heart kicks again. "Hi."

"Hi," I say softly, my voice not wanting to work. This is so not like me. I'm never out of things to say. "Thank you for getting lunch."

"No problem. You catch up on work?"

I snort at that thought. "No. Not even close. But it's fine. They'll all live."

He frowns now, sitting back against the couch. "They probably aren't too happy with you being MIA for so long."

"Dalton is handling it just fine," I say, and I think he really is. Not that I haven't been checking in.

"You sure?" he asks like he doesn't want me to answer, and I get it. Damn, this is really bad.

"Yeah. I am. I was thinking about your next gig..."

"Yeah?" He's intrigued now, and I notice he doesn't seem as tense as he was even a couple of weeks ago about the next performance.

He trusts me, I realize.

Hell, that's heady.

"How about a little bit bigger bar in downtown Nashville? We tell them who you are, and we hire extra security."

I can feel his curious eyes on me, feel the worry there, but he doesn't immediately argue.

"It's not touring all over the world. It's not a huge obligation, but it will be a decent-sized crowd where you can play what you want to," I continue to try to sell it a little. If I didn't think he was ready for it, I wouldn't have, but I can see the excitement on his face now.

"Let's do this," he says, and I'm beaming brightly now. Proud of myself because I made him smile.

Lord, I have it bad.

It'll pass though.

I'm going to get him set up, and then I'm going to leave this behind. I'm an adult with a lot of responsibilities. I need to remember that. Keep it on repeat in my head.

T he crowd is insane. The bar is well-known, and even though they only had a week to prepare for Justin's concert, it's packed. But the security is good, and people aren't getting in without a ticket.

Tickets that were priced low because Justin insisted, and he's donating the profits to charity. Kind of cool. So cool, I donated my 10 percent cut too. But they sold out within minutes, and I don't think one of those tickets went unused.

There are people gathered outside the bar too, but there's a car waiting to take Justin out of here, as well as security guards waiting to escort us out.

He doesn't look nervous in the slightest. Not hesitant at all. He was born for this. He starts playing, and the entire bar goes quiet. Listening intently to his brand-new songs. Songs he wrote himself.

Songs Daisy was happy to produce. The album isn't live yet. They're hearing these songs for the first time right now.

And they are captivated.

We all are.

My heart pangs with a sudden sharp pain because I know that it's really not necessary for me to drive him back to the cabins. Not really. He doesn't need me any more than my other clients now.

We could meet up for contracts and planning, but I don't need to stay.

He sings into the microphone and plays his guitar, singing his heart out, but I can feel his eyes on me.

No. I can't stay. I really, really shouldn't.

I'm smarter than this, damn it.