Ah, yes, and that’s the other thing. The job would be in LA. All the way across the country. It isn’t as though the guys don’t have homes scattered around the world. Hell, Scottie has more houses than any of us. He’s a hoarder that way. But I’m always here, steadfast and loyal in New York. And completely out of sorts.
A lump fills my throat, and I swallow it down.
“No pressure,” Marshall says. “I swear. We’ll just give you the nickel tour, throw money at you, and beg.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me. “No pressure, huh?”
“None whatsoever. You can meet the team, see how we operate. Spend a few days in the sun and find out if it’s a good fit.”
There’s no harm in one visit. It doesn’t mean anything.
I tell myself this, and yet my fingers feel like ice when I finally say, “All right. When would you like to do this?”
His smile lights up his face. “Next week?”
“Wow, you’re fast.”
“I have to be if I want to snare you.”
Smooth. But then he is at the top of his game for a reason.
“Good answer. All right, give me the details, and I’ll make some arrangements.”
“Bren?”
The sound of Rye’s voice behind me has my entire body seizing up like I’ve been caught skipping school. Heart thundering in my chest, I turn to find him behind me. Dressed in black track pants and a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt molded over his broad chest, he’s damp with sweat and clearly out for a run. He’d come upon Marshall and me without either of us noticing. Sweet mercy, how much had he heard?
By the pinched look on his face, enough.
“Rye,” I get out. “Hey. I didn’t see you…”
The cutting glare he gives me all but screams, Yeah, no shit, Brenna. He turns his attention to Marshall and gives him a bland smile. “Faulkner, right?”
“Call me Marshall.” He extends a hand for Rye to shake.
I almost want to shout a warning not to do it, because the not-so-hidden glint in Rye’s eyes says he’d gladly crush Marshall’s bones if he could. But he simply does a brief handshake and then lets go before leveling me with another look.
“You’re going to LA?”
Not subtle. The very fact that he’s asking sends another wash of guilt over my skin. I shove it down. “I am.”
Oh, he doesn’t like that answer. Not at all. And though I feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, the fact that he’s here, standing before me in the sunlight, makes my heart beat faster. I drink him in, wanting to step close, wrap myself around him and hold on. He’s clearly pissed, and I should be wary because I don’t know how to explain Marshall’s offer, but he’s also a familiar comfort. One I suddenly need very badly.
I turn a fake, too wide “please don’t say anything else about this now” smile on Marshall. “Can I call you later?”
Marshall might be a talent manager, but he’s clearly adept enough in public relations to read me well. “Sure thing.” His smile is tinged with an apology as if to say he’s sorry for any awkwardness he caused. And because it’s my job to read people too, I know he’s just figured out who I’m seeing.
My cheeks heat again.
“I have a meeting to get to in about twenty minutes,” Marshall tells us. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Rye grunts. I say goodbye in some stilted fashion, but I’m not fully paying attention anymore. Blood rushes through my ears, and my limbs buzz with unaccustomed anxiety.
The second Marshall is out of sight, Rye and I round on each other.
“Rye…”
“You’re going to visit that guy in LA?” Rye says at the same time. “What the fuck, Bren?”
He’s too close, smelling of hot skin and fresh sweat. And, damn it, that scent is forever associated with fucking him. My body reacts accordingly, pulling tight and achy. I ignore it because what Rye said finally registers.
“Hold the phone,” I say. “Are you implying that I’m hooking up with Marshall?”
His brows lower, the muscles along his shoulders bunching. “What am I supposed to think when I hear him talk about snaring you, and you’re…giggling like some smitten kitten!”
The last part booms out, startling a pigeon into flight.
I cast a hasty glance around, noting the people watching—and God help us if anyone recognizes Rye and starts recording—then turn and walk away. If Rye wants to follow, he will. If not, screw him.
He follows, easily keeping up with my quick steps.
“I was not giggling,” I grind out. “But that’s beside the point. Why don’t we start with why you think it’s okay to have a go at me like some irate, neanderthal boyfriend. Because that is bullshit, Rye.”
“What, am I supposed to grin and bear it? Because that is bullshit.” He flushes red. “Are you fucking him?