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His thumbs rub at my wrists. “No. It’s your job to help me launch my album and schedule my tour dates.”
“PR is a part of it,” I insist.
He doesn’t immediately reply, and I glance up at him, my jaw clenching. Maybe it would be best if we ended things now, before we get even closer and it’s even harder to step away. But the thought of no longer beingwithLuke, of not being able to touch him or kiss him whenever I want, sends a shaft of sharp pain through my gut. I can’t handle it.
His normally bright gaze darkens in hurt. “Please don’t do this.”
I swallow. I’ve never seen him like this, his voice tortured, his face stark with impending grief. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt myself. But I definitely can’t be the one to put those shadows in his eyes.
“Don’t build up walls between us.” He releases my wrists and cups my face in both of his warm hands. “Please. You mean more to me than any fallout from the press. I will stand with you, no matter what. Whatever happens, we can get through it together. Don’t push me out. Let me walk beside you.”
I should say no. I should walk away and save him from the potential damage to both of us. Save myself from future pain. But it’s already too late. I’ve fallen for Luke, harder than I ever thought possible. Worry that it won’t work out clashes with the hope that it will.
I don’t want to deny Luke’s request, especially when it’s what I want, too, more than anything. He won’t cut and run on me, not like Blake. If Duncan won’t sign with my label because of my relationship with Luke . . . I’m not sure I want an artist like that on my roster.
The thought of going back, of returning to a purely platonic professional relationship, is like an ax in the chest.
And with that, the decision settles over me, clicking into place with therightnessof it. Something inside me releases, relaxing the tension in my limbs.
“Okay.”
Relief blankets his face, the tension in his expression draining away. “Really?”
“Really. We’re in this together. No matter what happens. But you’re going to regret it. Maybe I should put it in the contract: You’re officially stuck with my bullshit, and I cannot be held liable for any impact it has on your career.”
He laughs. “Good. I love your bullshit.”
My heart dips and dives, and I don’t have a chance to evaluate his verb choice because his lips press against mine. And then my mouth opens, and the world goes fuzzy.
Wrapped in Luke’s arms, secure and warm, it’s easy to believe that everything will work out just fine.
But as I’ve learned, anything that can go wrong probably will.
ChapterThirty
Luke
“If I’m your date, does that mean we can make out up in the loft?” Mindy inclines her head toward the stairs, keeping her voice low in the crowded room.
We’re at an art gallery in SoHo to support the unveiling of Piper’s latest piece.
I lean into her, whispering into her ear. “We can make out wherever you want. Right here is just as good.”
We returned to the city last week, and we’ve been staying in Oliver’s building—for now. Christmas is in a couple of weeks, and then my tour starts next month, after New Year’s.
She fights a smile. “I wouldn’t want to take the attention away from Piper’s moment.”
“Her work is truly incredible.”
We both turn toward the sculpture in the center of the room. It’s swarmed with people and only partially visible from where we’re standing, but we already got an up-close view of it before the show started.
It’s a sculpture within a sculpture. The outer piece is made of some kind of metal grating forming the shape of a person sitting down with their head in their hands. Inside is a bronze statue of a child holding a kite, the string in their outstretched hand arching toward the sky, their legs stretched out mid-run. The figure gazes up at the kite with a wide grin.
It’s called The Inner Child.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Mindy says. “I like how they all have the same theme.” She gestures to the painting hanging on the wall in front of us, a black-and-white sketch of a child playing jacks, the bright knucklebones being tossed onto the ground are the only splash of color.
I rest my fingers on her lower back, craving the touch even if it’s through the fabric of her slinky black dress and despite the fact that a lot of the past week has been spent in bed in between work.
