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Bailey refuses to speak on the way back to the winery. I pray she’ll give me the opportunity to explain who I really am. When I held her after she came and she sighed my brother’s name it felt like taking a bullet to my heart. She believes I’m the rock star playboy.
My mind roars with the words I never believed I’d say to my brother. Fuck you, Marcus. All the times I’ve pretended to be you have been just games to you, haven’t they? Through our childhood and teen years I played along. When you needed me to disappear into the background, I did. Willingly. The spotlight holds no allure for me.
But you continually call me back from my anonymity. Still need me to play the game to keep your good name. No more. I will no longer be a participant in your game. Because this time, my life, my future, hell possibly even my ability to write your damn music might be gone. Ruined because the woman I love believes I am you.
The woman I love believes I am you.
Fuck.
I shift focus. How do I explain this to Bailey? Make her understand and believe I’m not just giving her some line.
We could have done more at the pond. My body was—is—thrumming with need. I can’t, won’t make love with her unless she knows I’m Archer. Until it’s my name she sighs when I sink deep into her body. My name she screams when I make her come again and again. My name. Me. Archer.
I am so fucked.
At the winery she’s out of the ATV almost before the engine shuts down and reaching in the back for the plums. I scramble to grab the handles first. “Let me.”
She shrugs and walks toward the building and I follow like a lost puppy begging for scraps. I will beg if I need to. Whatever it takes to explain.
Inside I set the plums on one of the work tables and stand in her way. “Bailey, please. Won’t you listen?”
Fisting her hands at her waist, she glares at me. “To what? Obviously you had some fun and, before you ask, yes, it was an amazing orgasm. You can add a notch for me to your bedpost.”
Her misunderstanding is probably accurate for Mars, but not for me. “No notches. No bedpost. I need to tell you something.”
One of her feet actually starts tapping against the tile floor. This might be funny, if our happiness didn’t depend on it.
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Not here. Upstairs? This needs to be a private conversation.”
Her eyebrows arch then lower as she studies me through narrowed eyes. After huffing out a breath, her hands fall to her sides. I wish I knew her thoughts. I’m pretty sure I understand the anger, but there’s an underlying sadness I need to address. “Fine.”
In her apartment she sits at one end of the couch, crosses her legs and her arms, effectively closing herself off. I sit on the middle cushion, brace my elbows on my knees and lean my face into my hands. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Then let me ask a question. Why did you stop? Why wouldn’t you allow me to give you pleasure? Is having me touch your cock that abhorrent?”
Dear god, is that what she thinks?
“Beautiful—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Bailey, I would like nothing more to than to receive your touch. Feel pleasure at your hands. In your body. But there’s something you need to know first.”
“You have a disease?”
“What? Oh hell, no. I’m clean. I’m careful.”
“There’s something wrong with your dick? I know you can get it up. Are you too quick in bed?”
“Bailey, please. Just let me talk.”
“Fine. Talk your way out of this one. If you can,” she finishes under her breath.
“I’m not Marcus Kane.”
“Give me a break, Mars. I’m not an idiot.”
