I try not to think about why they didn’t knock on the wall five minutes ago as I steady myself and tiptoe over to my pants.
I bring my jeans back with me over to the bed and drop them on the floor after I pluck my iPhone out of them. As I deactivate the alarm, I pause, my gaze zeroing in on the reminder that I attached to it in all caps: CHECK ON LUCAS’S ATL FLIGHT!
Last night, just as Heidi and I were leaving our hotel room to go out, I realized that I never confirmed today’s flight with Sienna. It was too late to call her, so I had tipsily left a message for myself. It was a stupid move on my part because it’s something that should have been taken care of immediately.
“Go on vacation and still doing work,” I say, climbing back into Wyatt’s bed. I shouldn’t complain. Making sure my brother’s trip to Atlanta goes smoothly was my responsibility, what he pays me for, and it’s something I shouldn’t have left on a To Do list for my replacement just because I was in a hurry to get the hell away from Wyatt.
I log into both of Lucas’s email accounts and search through the last six days of messages three times, even going back to well before I left Nashville to come to New Orleans, before I give up and send Sienna a text message.
6:32 AM: Hey, babe, what email address did you send Luke’s confirmation for the flight to Atlanta to? Don’t see it in the regular email and was worried.
A few more texts and a thirteen-minute phone call (where I fib and tell her I’m just checking up on her because I had a bad dream that today’s flight went horribly) later, I’m frantically scouring every travel website in existence for a couple of tickets.
“You’re sexy when you make that face,” Wyatt says, flipping over on his side. He traces his fingers in lazy circles across my kneecap, finally pressing the end of his thumb and middle finger into the sensitive spots that make my muscles jump.
He did the same thing, and more, the entire time I was on the phone with Sienna, driving me to distraction.
“Concentration is—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“If you pull a f**king Lucas and say it’s my friend, I swear I’ll lay you down right here and show you how easy it is to forget being an assistant.”
“No protection, babe. Remember?” And I refuse to go down that road with him.
He snorts. “Ky?” I glance up from Travelocity.com and the roaming gnome’s creepy face to raise an eyebrow. “My tongue doesn’t need a condom.”
Remembering precisely where his tongue had been before I started frantically searching for plane tickets makes my mouth go dry. “Don’t you have a song to write or, I don’t know, a guitar to strum while I do this?”
“Guitar is in there.” He jerks his thumb toward the hotel closet, which is closed. Laying his head on my lap, he blows on my belly button. “Besides, I’m resting. Me and Cal are road-tripping it starting tomorrow.”
I clench my phone, but manage to keep my brown eyes focused on the screen. So he really is leaving tomorrow morning. “Really? What for?”
“Last minute guest thing for another band.”
Now he’s got my full attention. My search for the flight momentarily forgotten, I place my phone down beside of me and frown. “A guest gig? That’s not really your type of thing, Wyatt. Is everything alright?” When he nods, I narrow my dark eyes suspiciously. “Are they paying you in booze and vag?”
“God, you’re so eloquent some times.” He reaches up to my face to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. When he moves his hand, I readjust the same lock of hair, and he flashes his teeth at me. “But no, it’s for Cal’s cousin. They’re transitioning members but had some prior commitments. It’s only a few shows.”
This is not the Wyatt McCrae that I know. My Wyatt would tell Cal’s cousin to go f**k himself.
“Is everything alright with YTS? You and Lucas aren’t ending your bromance, are you?” My tone is playful and yet slightly serious.
He gives me a swift nod. “Everything’s fine.”
I tighten my shoulders so I won’t drop them in relief. Your Toxic Sequel is like my family, and I’d take their breakup as badly as I would my own parents. I pick up my phone, but can’t resist staring at him over the edge. “You and Cal are doing bar shows?”
“You know it,” he says. He doesn’t miss how my features go taut. He curls his long fingers around my hand and brings it down to rest on his chest. “What’s that look for?”
“Can’t find a flight,” I say sharply.
“You don’t want me to do bar shows.” He’s using the voice, the one that’s an octave higher than how he usually speaks. It’s tender and laced with a healthy dose of surprise.
“Babe, you can do whatever it is you want.” I jab at the keypad of my phone with the hand he’s not holding. “I just want to find Luca—” But Wyatt stops me mid-sentence by plucking my phone out of my grasp. “What are you doing?” I ask in a heated voice.
Sitting up, he punches a number in before tossing the iPhone into my lap. “Helping you work out Lucas’s bullshit again.” His incredible blue eyes are full of amusement as he rolls over to the other side of the mattress. I stare at his chest, specifically at the tattoo on his rib that says Worse At What I Do Best, for a long time before I climb out of bed. When I turn my back to him and drop my gaze to my phone and the number Wyatt has saved as PRIVATE JET, he says, “How the hell do you think I got here from Nashville so fast last night?”