Page 22 of Unleashed

I’d spent months keeping my distance, seeing only the producer with her cameras, her angles, the grip she kept on the reins. But tonight, that grip of hers looked shaky. It started at the bar, in the hush between her words. And now, here? Seeing Ms. Hollywood rattled gave me ideas.

Made me want to push.

Made me want to see what else I could draw out, what other cracks hid beneath the surface, waiting for the right pressure.

Made me want to kiss her more than ever.

“I’ll be right back.” She retreated toward her bedroom, taking her addictive scent with her.

When had tonight morphed from figuring her out for my own protection to craving every unguarded piece of her?

If she hadn’t pulled away, my mouth would be on hers right now. My blood pounded hot through my veins. Maybe she’d already be spread across the couch under me, or better yet, sprawled across her bed.

She’d been right to stop us.

Letting anything happen between the two of us was stupid, irresponsible. A colossal mistake. I’d let my guard down, distracted by her eyes, her scent, the way her pretty lips parted, coaxing me closer.

Movement rustled from the next room, followed by the low hum of her dryer kicking on. Moments later, she appeared at the end of the loveseat, the kitchen lights glowing behind her.

“Coffee?” She motioned to the island separating her closet-sized kitchen from her barely bigger living room. “While we wait?” She twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt.

I dragged the towel over my chest, catching the drops still falling from my hair. “Sure,” I said, holding back a laugh. She’d gone still as a statue, her breath hitching as I dried off with the towel. I deliberately swiped from the top of my shoulder to my opposite pec, testing my theory. Sure enough, her teeth sank into her lower lip, her fingers digging into the counter, as her eyes tracked the path of the towel. “That’d be great.”

Her eyes snapped to mine at the laugh in my voice. With a guilty gasp, she spun on her heel and attacked her coffeemaker.

I gave her the moment. Probably rude of me to enjoy it as much as I did, but watching Ms. Hollywood unravel around the edges did things to my ego. She’d turned down the kiss, sure, but every part of her had leaned into it first. I wasn’t some choir boy. I knew the difference between hesitation and rejection. And yeah, maybe my pride took a hit, but seeing her scramble to pull herself back together? Worth it.

My jeans clung uncomfortably, water-logged and heavy. The thought of peeling them off crossed my mind, but that might snap whatever thread Sutton was hanging onto, and I wasn’t a cruel bastard.

Though considering the thoughts running through my own head, I wasn’t exactly on steady ground either.

At least, not tonight.

I stood at the kitchen island and worked the towel through my hair while taking in the sight of her puttering around the tiny kitchen. She kept her back to me, her cut-offs cupping a spectacular rear. Those shorts of hers might just be my new favorite piece of clothing. She shifted from side to side on her long, tan legs as she worked—adjusting the coffeemaker, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above, then reaching into a fridge that barely cleared her shoulder.

The size difference between her and her apartment’s miniature appliances struck me as oddly endearing. Made me wonder about the woman who’d walked away from California to end up here, making coffee in a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in.

The whole apartment served triple duty—living room, dining room, kitchen all crammed into one. A loveseat served as the only seating at one end of the rectangular room. A skinny bookshelf stood against a wall; titles I itched to inspect stacked haphazardly. At the opposite end, a sink, narrow stove and fridge lined up like soldiers. The counter disappeared beneath a single-cup coffee maker, oversized microwave, and survival rations—oatmeal packets, canned soups, ramen squares.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering tension, when movement caught my eye. That white puffball of a cat perched on one of the two barstools tucked up to the island. His ice blue eyes narrowed, radiating pure feline suspicion while his tail twitched back and forth. Even his squashed-in face screamed judgment, like he’d appointed himself guardian of Lily’s tiny domain and found me lacking.

“What’s the story with your cat?”

She turned to face me, her movements as skittish as a startled rabbit. “What do you mean?”

“He’s looking at me like I’m about to steal his tuna.”

She laughed, her gaze sliding to the cat. “He looks at everyone like that. He’s actually really mellow, he just has a permanently grumpy expression.”

“Has he been coming with you to the practice arena all season?”

“Most days. He doesn’t like to be cooped up here alone for too long.”

“How can you tell? He looks even grumpier?”

She gave a low laugh, the sound as soft as velvet. She stepped to the island and the cat immediately jumped atop the counter and pranced closer to Sutton.

She curled her finger beneath the cat’s chin, and gave him a soft scratch. The cat leaned into her touch, the rumble of his low purr carrying through the small apartment. “We know each other pretty well by now. Bright found me a month after I’d left California. I’d moved to Nashville where Adele was working—she directed music videos before I begged her to help me with theUnleashedproject. Bright was barely more than a kitten at the time, a stray scavenging around the studio she was renting. He’s been my little shadow ever since.”

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