Page 33 of Colton's Last Resort

Sebastian hopped up between them. When he sought the space next to her, she waited until he folded into a rest position to pet him. “Because that’s enough time for us to get to know each other. Since we decided you’re a musician and I’m here at Mariposa, we’ve been courting mostly over a long distance. Calls, texts, the occasional rendezvous.”

“‘Rendezvous,’” he repeated. “So the relationship’s sexual.”

She found she could blush. And he hadn’t even smiled at the suggestion. “Do you know many rock stars who abstain from sex?”

“I don’t know one rock star, period,” he replied.

She eyed the leather jacket. It was soft from wear, scarred in places and sheepskin-lined. He hadn’t bought it just for the cover story. And he wore it all too well. “Have you considered which place in the band you would like to be?” she asked, changing the subject. “Bass? Keyboards? Drums?”

“Rhythm guitar,” he responded readily.

“Can you play the guitar?” she asked, curious.

“No,” he admitted. “But, as you say, I’m not here to entertain. I’m here for a little R and R. And to see my girl.”

She tried to ignore the sudden rush of feeling...the wave of sheer heat at hearing him refer to her as his girl. Tamping down on it, she turned her attention to Sebastian’s belly when he rolled to expose it. “Six months will have given us plenty of time to grow loved up enough. There will be hand-holding involved. Hugging. Maybe kissing, to seal the illusion. Are you okay with that?”

“Are you?” he challenged.

“Yes.” She hoped.

“I’ve done undercover work,” he revealed. “It’s all part of the act.”

She opened her mouth to ask if he’d ever pretended to date another woman for the sake of work. The question washed away quickly. That wasn’t what she needed to know about him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“So am I,” she said, offering a stilted smile. “My birthday’s May sixth. When’s yours?”

“November seventeenth.”

She nodded, filing the information away in case she needed it. “My middle name is Elizabeth.”

“Why do I need to know that?”

“It’s the sort of thing lovers would know about each other after a time,” she commented.

He looked away. “My full name’s Noah Nathaniel Steele. Nathaniel for my dad.”

She felt a smile warm her lips. Nathaniel seemed awfully formal. Like a nice tie he kept tucked away in a drawer because he’d decided it didn’t suit him. “Your real dad?”

“For this,” he said carefully, “maybe I shouldn’t be Noah Steele, former foster kid. Maybe the rhythm guitarist, Noah Steele, comes from a traditional home. A normal one. It’s less complicated.”

“Great artists rarely come from normal homes. But that’s your decision. Where do you want the new Noah Steele to come from—California?”

“Washington,” he decided. “I spent some time there with my mom before...”

As he trailed off, she willed him to say more. Was he speaking of his biological mother or his foster mom, the one he’d shared with Allison?

“Before...?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m from Washington State.”

“I’m originally from LA,” she pointed out. “Just for the record.”

“I know.”

She blinked. “Oh. You looked into me.”

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