Rock My Love: A Steamy Standalone Instalove

“Because you’re interesting,” he says after a pause, leaving me to wonder what he was really going to say. “I had no idea you wanted to be a songwriter. What are you doing for work now?”

“I’m a waitress,” I tell him. “It can be difficult at times and the hours are long, but I’m lucky to even have a job. It’s tough out there. When I graduated high school, half the places I applied to wanted a college degree as a minimum, and the other half wanted years and years of experience.”

“You can forge a new career,” he says, sitting up as his muscles seem to expand in his iron suit. “You can do anything you want, Billie. I believe in you.”

I almost ask him why again, but I don’t want to spoil the moment.

If it wasn’t for the specter of dad niggling at the edges of my mind, this would be the most perfect moment of my life. Aaron Blaze, telling me I can be a songwriter, telling me he believes in me.

It would make me want to scream in joy…

If it wasn’t for my dad.

“I think it’s your turn now,” I say, smiling. “Tell me something nobody knows. Tell me something I can’t find on the internet. Tell me something, anything, Aaron.”

“Something nobody knows, but me?” he says, leaning forward. “There’s something. But I think you might run for the hills the second I tell you.”

My curiosity flared. “Try me.”

His eyes flit here and there as if looking for an escape, his jaw tight. “Billie, I…”

His phone buzzes on the table, the screen flashing.

“The food?” I ask.

He stands, nodding, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Yeah. I’m going to let them in.”

He strides away, leaving me on the balcony with the flickering firelight, wondering what the heck he was going to say.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Aaron

As I walk down the hallway, I clench my fists so hard I’m sure I can feel my knuckles trying to break through my skin. Everything feels tense, on-edge, as I realize the mistake I was about to make.

I was going to tell her that she belongs to me.

I was going to tell her that nobody else gets to touch her, ever.

Nobody else gets to even look at her in a way I don’t like.

She’s my property. She’s my woman. She’s mine.

But when my phone went off, the moment passed and now I can see it clearer. The story about Clay had my blood growing hotter, boiling, my body tense and ready for violence. I needed her to know I’d never let anything like that happen again.

If I tell her, what will she say? Will she still want to be here? Will she think it’s too much?

I open the door, giving the waiter my best smile. But I’ve never been one for false smiles.

The man is dressed in a tidy uniform, expertly balancing two trays.

“Thanks for doing this,” I tell him.

“Of course, sir,” he replies. “It’s our pleasure.”

I lead him out to the balcony. He lays the trays down and begins unloading the food and the drinks.

“Thank you,” Billie says. “This all looks delicious. And smells it, too.”

She’s right. My steak looks like it’s been cooked perfectly, the garnish neatly presented, and Billie’s gourmet pizza throws up mouthwatering scents. After placing the drinks down – soda for me, juice for Billie – I walk with the waiter to the door.

Reaching into my pocket, I take out some cash and hand it to him. “Thanks again.”

“Sir, this is too much,” the man says, staring down at the bills in his hand.

“It’s not,” I tell him firmly.

He bows his head. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

I return to my woman, take my seat, and glance at her. She’s waiting for me to go on, to reveal the reason she might run, to reveal my true feelings.

But doubt grips me, an emotion I’m not used to feeling. It twists through my mind, polluting all my visions of our future, making our envisioned life dissipate in a haze of impossibility.

She’s had a crush on me for years. When she kisses me, I can feel the desire, even if it’s buried beneath her nervousness.

But that doesn’t mean she’ll feel the same, that she’ll melt for me the second I tell her about my true feelings.

“This looks delicious,” I say, picking up my cutlery. “Don’t be afraid to use your hands for your pizza. I won’t judge.”

She smiles softly, but it frayed at the edges, as though she’s forcing herself to smile. My chest gives an urgent ache, telling me this isn’t fair. I can’t say I’m going to tell her something and then just leave it to hang there.

Giggling, she picks up a slice. “I’m so glad you said that. Eating pizza with a knife and fork always feels funny.”