Page 98 of Forbidden Lyrics

He laughs. “Is that a problem?”

“If I do…”

“He’ll know we hooked up. He’s gonna know anyway when we tour together,” he reminds me.

Good point.

Ignoring the way my hands tremble, I answer the phone, push the little speaker button so Gibson can hear, and set it back on the counter face-up.

“Hey, Fen,” I greet him, my tone light.

“Dovey?”

“Yes. Hi. Sorry, Gibson is”––I watch him flip a pancake like a sexy chef––“a little busy at the moment.”

Fender’s laugh crackles through the speakers as he pieces together the situation, finding way too much hilarity in our conversation for this early in the morning. I cover my face and try to hide my embarrassment, but it’s no use. Cheeks flaming, I join in and laugh too.

Oh my gosh. He totally knows I had sex with his brother last night.

But it feels good. To not take the moment so seriously. To be present without stressing about the future and how much it’s going to hurt when my whatever-this-is with Gibson doesn’t work out. For now, it’s pretty awesome. Heck, I even get blueberry pancakes and toe-curling orgasms out of the deal.

Yes, please.

“Stop laughing, asshole,” Gibson yells, making sure he’s heard over his brother’s roaring amusement. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes. He’s not sorry. “It’s priceless.” He laughs even harder before trying to catch his breath. “Hey, Dovey?”

“Yes?” I groan.

“He treat you right? Make it good for ya?”

“Fender!” I screech.

More laughter. “Trisha’s gonna ask me, Dove! I gotta get the details!”

My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and I rub at them in tiny circles as I try to get a handle on myself, but it feels impossible. This is the most insane conversation I’ve ever had.

Who the heck asks someone this?

I look up at Gibbs and motion to the phone while silently mouthing, “What am I supposed to say?”

Spatula in hand, a curious Gibson crosses his arms and gives me a pointed stare. Refusing to come to my rescue. And anxiously waiting for my response.

Jerk face.

“You boys are ridiculous,” I tell them.

“Scale of one to ten. Give it to me on a scale of one to ten,” Fen suggests.

Gibson quirks his brow. “Yeah, Dovey. How was it on a scale of one to ten?” His eyes shine with mirth, daring me to lie. To tell him it wasn’t absolutely panty-melting, and mind-blowing, and every other positive adjective in the world. My heart melts, and a fresh wave of butterflies attacks my stomach.

And he thinks he’s the bard.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, mirroring his stance. “If I tell you, will you guys stop badgering me and get on with the reason why you called?”

Gibson’s sexy smirk taunts me as Fender’s voice echoes through the speakers. “Yes, Dove. I promise I’ll get to the point of why I called if you answer the question.”

“Scout’s honor?” I press.

---