Page 33 of After Midnight

I force the words out before I can be a chicken shit.

“How about the week after next?” I ask.

We’re back in the studio next week, doing more work on our new album, but as soon as I’m free of those obligations, I want to get back here as quickly as I can.

Assuming she wants to see me again.

Her blue eyes widen in the light blasting down on us from the hotel. The surprise makes me worry that I’m pushing too hard, too fast. And I’m just about to tell her it’s fine, I’ll just catch up with her later, when she says, “You’re willing to fly back here again?”

Willing? Damn. She clearly doesn’t realize how into her I am. I’d catch a flight every day if it meant I could see her at night, have dinner with her, maybe kiss her again.

Trying to play it cool, I shrug one shoulder and say, “Yeah. That pizza’s definitely worth the flight.”

Her smile twists up on one side. “So, it’s all about the pizza, huh?”

I laugh. “Maybe. The company’s pretty good too though.”

She shakes her head once, silver hoop earrings catching the light. And before I can stop myself, I reach out to touch her cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flash to mine, and her breath catches as I lean across the center console to kiss her.

I don’t want to fly back to LA without one last brush of her mouth across mine.

Her lips are soft and warm. She parts them slightly, just enough to deepen the kiss. She tastes like lemon and Vegas and laughter—like the perfect night. Like a night I wish didn’t have to end.

Quickly, I pull away and push the door open, stepping out of the Jeep before I can do something crazy, like try to pull her into my lap or ask her to come up to my room with me. The very idea of it makes my heart beat faster.

Standing on the sidewalk now, I lean slightly through the open door and say, “Night, Rem.”

There her eyes go, widening again, blinking rapidly. And before she can say anything, I close the door, then back away from the curb, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket and watching as she slowly pulls away. I stand there looking after her until the Jeep’s red taillights disappear around the corner of the hotel.

Then I heave a huge sigh. “Fuck,” I mumble.

That was definitely the best first date I’ve ever had. And now all I want to do is see her again. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through two whole weeks back home without being able to see her, laugh with her, touch her.

Shaking my head, I turn and walk into the hotel, where the front-desk attendant greets me with a nod.

“Good evening, Mr. Harris.”

I smile at him, then take the elevator up to my suite, moving on autopilot. Only when I’m in my room with the door closed, standing in the silence, do I finally feel the night settle over me.

Remi’s kiss. The sound she made when I bit her lip. The heat I felt between her legs when she pressed herself to my thigh.

I don’t know how I managed to restrain myself. Remi was driving me fucking mad on that rooftop, yet I somehow didn’t make a gigantic ass out of myself.

After kicking off my sneakers, I walk deeper into the suite. It has a full wall of windows overlooking the Strip, and as I step up to the glass, my gaze goes down to the cars below, and I wonder if one of them is Remi, making her way home. I don’t know where she lives, but I imagine it’s someplace nice and clean and orderly, with a place for everything and everything in its place. My house would probably feel like chaos to her, with sand on the hardwood floors and surfboards cluttering my garage.

I take my hat off and toss it onto the low table in the living room, then reach into my back pocket and pull out my cell. As the screen lights up, a text message blinks up at me.

It’s from my mom.

My stomach turns in anticipation. I had the ringer on my phone turned off, so I didn’t realize when the message came through a couple hours ago. I hit it with my thumb.

Thanks for helping us out again, sweetheart. I know you work so hard. Call me tomorrow? Love you.

The message pulls a sigh out of me. At least Dad didn’t call. That gives me some small measure of relief.

I put the phone down on the table, then sink into one of the armchairs. And as I sit there in the quiet, I remember Remi’s taste, her hands curled into the fabric of my hoodie, the way her hair smelled as it danced in the warm breeze on that rooftop.

And I decide I’m never going to wash this hoodie again. Because I want it to hold on to her smell for as long as possible.