Page 14 of Veiled

“You’re really going to lecture me about there being more to life than things?” The man loves the finer things in life. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, honestly, but I don’t need his hypocrisy right now.

He grins at me, his eyes lighting up with mirth. “You’ll be bored. You need to keep busy. I know you do.”

I look out the main window of the cabin and out into the great nothingness of the woods surrounding it. “There’s plenty to do here.”

He studies me carefully and then stands up, his crotch in my face, and it takes all my strength to look away from the bulge there in his tight briefs. He walks toward the kitchen, and I can’t stop myself from watching the firm globes of his ass move while he walks. He puts the mug in the sink and then comes back into the room, his arms folded—but not trying to cover himself.

“I’m staying until I feel like you’re settled. So if you want me to leave, that’s up to you.”

“You hate it here,” I say, standing up to look him in the eyes. “Just leave. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Oh, how I wish that were true,” he says, not missing a beat, and I realize there is no making him leave. He’s beyond stubborn.

“I just want to write songs, okay?” There’s a hard edge to my tone, but he doesn’t flinch. “I want to write songs that mean something. I don’t want to write the next “Shake it Off.”

“Hey, don’t throw shade at Taylor. There’s nothing wrong with making the world shake their ass and have fun.”

I frown at that but have to stop myself from smiling. “Sorry I insulted your queen.”

He gives me a half-smile. “You should be. Besides she writes her own songs and has a lot more than shaking to her lyrics.”

“Maybe that was a bad example,” I say, trying not to get lost in the conversation. I need to focus. I need to figure out how to make him leave. “I just want to write my own songs. I want soul in them. I want them to mean something.”

I expect him to mock me, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. “Okay. And you’re going to do that here.” It’s not said like a question, but I hear it anyway.

I nod in answer. “Yes. I want to.”

“And what about performing these songs?”

I watch his body as he stands there, just questioning me, getting lost in the sleek lines of all that tanned skin. I can’t think straight. “Look, can we talk about this later? When you have some damn clothes on?”

His cocky grin grows on that handsome face of his. He knows the effect he has on me. The son of a bitch. I kept it hidden for so long, but now that he knows how my body responds to his, there’s no going back.

He walks over to me, stopping only a foot away, letting his finger drag down my chest over the cotton of my shirt. “I thought you hated my suits.”

“I do,” I say instantly because I hate seeing him so buttoned up all the time. Waylon may think he’s in control, but the truth is, he’s just as shackled to the fame and life of celebrities as I was. That suit doesn’t scream freedom to me—it’s a tell of how damn restrained he is. “But this is not working for me.”

My eyes drag over his bare skin, and he grins at me, dropping his hand from my chest and shrugging. “Fine. I’ll go shower and put on a suit. But we are going to discuss this.”

“Good luck with that water pressure. It’s nothing like what you’re used to, I guarantee it.”

He curses and grumbles all the way to the door before he yanks it open and leaves my cabin.

Yeah, no way he won’t crack soon. Waylon won’t last long here, and then I can get back to getting some damn peace in my life.

Chapter Seven

WAYLON

He wasn’t lying about the water pressure. Holy shitballs, I’ve never had a worse shower in my life. I’d be better off letting the kitchen faucet run over my head than the little dribble from the shower.

This is torture. But when I’ve shaved and dressed in one of my suits, I feel a little better. Not to mention finally having coffee flowing through my veins.

And Justin is willing to talk. That’s a step. A small one, but it’ll have to do for now because after that shower and terrible sleep, I need a win. So when I’m fully dressed, I make my way back over to his cabin, only to find him sitting on the porch, waiting for me.

The porch of his cabin has two—what look like handmade—rocking chairs, and he’s sitting in one, so I take the other. “Ready to talk?” I ask him.

“Ready to listen?” he shoots back, and I can’t help the smile that crosses my face because damn it, I do love this feisty side of him.

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