Page 9 of The Chance

“Not tired.”

“You’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours.” He says this like I didn’t already feel that in my bones.

“I took a catnap when you snuck off to the gym,” I answer, because I did pass out for thirty seconds when I heard him leave this morning at the ass crack of dawn but then I rolled over in the empty bed and my mind would not shut back off.

It was too empty without him.

Something in my chest pinches uncomfortably.

“Fine,” Jordan huffs and pushes to his feet, his hat back on his head, and gestures to the TV. “Pick another one and I’ll be right back.”

I blink at his back as he leaves and then swing my lifted brow to the screen where the credits roll.

Did I seriously stare at him that long?

Chapter Four

Jordan

There’s a tightness that’ssettled into my chest and hasn’t left me.

Even as I scour the neighboring convenience store like a kid in a candy shop, including the armfuls of colorful packages as I exit, there’s still somethingoff. Something weird.

I don’t like it.

Taking my time at the apartment across the hall from Mac’s place, I change into grey sweats and an old band tee that I think may have been Mac’s at one point.

Armed with my bag of snacks and my cap back on my head, I stalk across to Mac’s and roll my eyes when the door opens freely.

Good thing this place is locked down like Fort Knox.

Guess that’s what happens when the band owns the whole building.

All twenty-six floors of it.

“Vida!” I call into the space as I hip-check the door closed and lock it behind me. “I came prepared.”

I don’t bother stopping at the counter to ditch the crinkly bags when the sound ofThe Other Guysfills the room because I know damn well that as soon as my ass hits the cushion, I’m not getting up again.

But when I step over Mac’s low-top Chucks and find the TV bathing the empty leather in light, I drop the goods right in his seat and wander farther into the apartment.

“Mac?”

Turning the corner into the open bedroom, I freeze for half a second when all I see is a flash of ass. It’s enough to have my stomach clenching, then releasing just as quick, while my brain screams to turn back around and ignore it.

I don’t.

I’ve seen a lot of butt-shots. Too many dicks. Lots of naked or scantily clad bodies thanks to being on a tour bus with rock stars for years.

In locker rooms even longer than that.

Waists with tan lines. Muscular, but thin arms. Tons of tattoos I’ve admired.

This is no different.

Instead, I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb as Mac pulls up the athletic shorts and snaps the elastic waistband against his smooth skin.

“Are those mine?” I ask.

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