Page 77 of The Good Girl (Nashville Neighborhood)

“Aw, shit,” I groaned.

“What? What is it?”

I stared at the pink spot on her neck. “Looks like I, uh, gave you a hickey. Sorry.”

I meant the apology, but I wasn’t that sorry. When I’d sucked on her neck, I hadn’t intended to do anything, but—fuck. I couldn’t deny it looked good, and I liked the idea of leaving my mark on her.

My gaze returned to her hand pinned beneath mine.

There was a red-purple line on her skin where she’d cut her finger the other night, and the memory made tightness pinch inside my chest. This was another mark I was responsible for, but this one I wished she didn’t have.

At least the cut looked like it was healing okay, and it probably wouldn’t leave a scar. Eventually, both of my marks would fade away and it’d be like they’d never happened.

Was that how it’d be for us?

Yeah, I fucking hated that idea.

Her fingers tapped the leather, moving absentmindedly, and her brow furrowed.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

She looked like she didn’t want to answer me, and her hesitant voice was hushed. “That we only have one lesson left.”

“What are you talking about?” I counted them in my head and realized why my number was different from hers. “The night Colin showed up doesn’t count,” I explained. “We got interrupted.”

“Oh.” A thought occurred to her, and she clearly liked it because a smile climbed into her eyes. “If that’s true, then neither does the night in my room. We got interrupted then, too.”

Huh.

She probably expected me to push back, but—no way. “You know what?” I said. “You’re absolutely right.”

As the date approached, Troy’s launch party became Distinguished Events’ primary focus. We purposefully didn’t schedule anything else the final week leading up to the album’s release. That way, we’d be ready to focus on any issues that arose. So far, everything was going according to plan, and I was doing all I could to make sure it stayed that way.

When Warbler requested two extra cases of hard-to-come-by champagne yesterday? Sure. Not a problem. Or the venue changing its policy and announcing VIPs had to wear wristbands instead of lanyards? I made it happen. I even pretended it was an easy switch, when in reality, it was stressful as hell.

I was sitting in Colin’s living room and had just finished going over the timeline for the event with him when my phone buzzed.

Sydney: I got someone to cover my shift on Thursday. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?

Excellent.

Preston: Nope. I’ll pick you up at 7.

Sydney: Really? You’re not even going to give me a hint?

I sent her the emoji of an axe.

Sydney: WTF?

I chuckled, and I did it a little too loudly because it caught Colin’s attention. He lowered the screen of his laptop so he could better look at me.

“Who are you texting?”

His question made the smile freeze on my face and my mind temporarily blank. “Nobody,” I mumbled. “Just a friend.”

Well, shit. That was the worst lie in the history of lies, and I scrambled to come up with something better. Something believable as I locked my screen and set my phone face-down on the table.

I went with the first plausible name I could come up with. “Cassidy.”

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