Page 90 of The Bridges I've Burned

He grinned. “Yes,” he answered. “Especially when there’s something I want.”

“And what do you want?” I asked, my mouth mere inches from his.

“You, Louie,” he breathed out. “I want you.”

And then he stepped out of the dressing room, leaving me with one single question.

But for how long?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Istood in the kitchen the next morning, staring at the coffeepot, willing it to hurry up.

I was fucking exhausted.

After that make-out session in the bridal shop, I’d slept with one eye open and a semi all fucking night, just hoping I’d hear the telltale sounds of creaking floorboards as Elena snuck into my room.

But she hadn’t.

And now, I was bleary-eyed, exhausted, confused, and horny as fuck.

The two of us had gotten into Ocracoke late last night, barely catching the last ferry of the day. Elena had fallen asleep in the car, and I lost track of the number of times I had to stop myself from sneaking a glance at her while she slept. By the time we got home and I woke her up, her eyes fluttering open in confusion, I knew it was time to call it a night. I helped her into the house, and she gave me a sleepy good night at her bedroom door. I went to my own door and tried not to overthink everything that had happened that day.

That obviously didn’t happen.

I’d replayed every damn minute—from the drive to the shop and the fucking dressing room.

It had all started off as a game.

But when it came to Elena Mendez, I was quickly starting to realize that this game had no rules and the stakes were high.

When I told myself she was off-limits, I only wanted her more. When I tried to convince myself she was just another hookup, I’d picture her in that damn wedding dress, and my heart started to race.

I wanted to run away from her and hold her tight at the exact same time.

Nothing in my life was normal anymore. The moment I’d said yes to Manic, I had given up any semblance of normal, and I knew this time in Ocracoke was merely a countdown before the madness started. It was wrong to start something with her when I was forced to lie. And yet I still couldn’t walk away.

I blew out a breath as I grabbed a mug from the cupboard, just as my phone started to buzz. I turned to grab it off the counter, hoping it was Hendrix.

It wasn’t.

I swallowed nervously and looked down the hallway. Finally, I picked it up.

“Hey, Ash,” I answered.

“Z,” he greeted in that familiar Scottish brogue that had made him a household name. It had that rough quality that all rock stars possessed, but the deep, sophisticated timbre of someone who’d been classically trained. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Me?” I chuckled. “You’re the one on West Coast time.” I looked at the clock on the coffee machine. It was around five in the morning in Los Angeles.

“I like to get my day started early,” he confessed.

“That’s not very rock and roll of you,” I goaded him, peaking down the hallway. Still clear.

“Yeah, well, I’ve always had to be the grown-up of the lot. Even more so lately.” I could hear the pain in his voice still.

Manic at Midnight had always been a tight group. They’d formed the band young and grown up together. They were the kind of success stories people fell in love with. Losing Mitch hadn’t just been personal; it had been devastating and nearly destroyed them.

It was a choice they’d had to make, but it hadn’t come easy.

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