Second Chance at the Riverview Inn (Riverview Inn)

And now she was… staring at his junk.

He held out a to-go cup of coffee and grinned at her. Like he knew, of course he knew.

“Milk no sugar,” he said.

“There’s a coffee shop around here?”

“I had it delivered.”

“That’s the most decadent thing I have ever heard in my life.”

He laughed. “Honey, you need to get out more.”

They agreed to meet out at the car in fifteen minutes.

“Here. I had this delivered, too.” He picked up a plastic bag at his feet and handed it to her. Inside was deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush.

“Oh my god, you ordered me underwear?”

“From Walmart,” he said, turning back around toward his door. “Don’t get too excited.”

Well, joke was on him. All her underwear came from Walmart.

“But you don’t have to buy me stuff—”

“It’s just money, Helen,” he said. “And I’ve got a lot of it.”

And then he was back behind his door and she was left, mouth-gaping, staring into an empty hallway.

She took a shower, used everything he’d bought her, guzzled her coffee and was outside at the truck in fifteen minutes. He came sauntering out a few minutes late.

Yeah. He sauntered. There was no other word for it.

He crossed the parking lot like it was a stage and people were screaming his name.

It was hot.

“You ready?” she asked and they both climbed into the car. She started to set up her phone’s navigation for White Plains and he put his hand over hers.

Fuck, she thought, trying to play it cool. Part of her wanted to tell him to take it easy on her with this stuff. This casual touching, flirtation thing. She was like a puppet with too many strings and too many joints. She had no control and every twitch felt like it sent her jerking all over the place.

But she also didn’t know how to interpret it. He was Micah Sullivan and he was flirting with her, and he did that as easily as he breathed. She didn’t even know how to receive it. He touched her hand and she wanted to shriek with laughter, like he’d tickled her.

“Quick favor,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He opened his mouth, shut it and then smiled. “Has anyone ever told you, you are adorable when you’re angry.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re not as charming as you think you are?”

He gasped, clutched his hand to his chest. “My god, woman. You’re vicious.”

And he was ridiculous. And charming. Very, exceedingly charming.

“What’s your favor?”

“My bass player, Danny, lives up this way and I need to go see him. Honestly, it should only be an hour detour.”

“You know I have a daughter, right? A child who calls me Mommy and hasn’t seen me for a day.”

He made a chagrined face. “Right. Of course. I forgot about your daughter. Sorry—”

“I will take you to Danny’s,” she said, once he seemed to feel guilty enough. “But it will cost you.”

“What more could you possibly want from me?” he asked, denim-blue eyes bright.

So much. Remind me what it feels like to be touched by a man. To be desired. Remind me what it feels like to be out of my head. To be sweaty and crazy. Remind me what sex feels like. And come tastes like.

Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

“Whatcha thinking about over there, Helen?” he asked, his lips twisted in a smile.

His eyes hot.

“You’re going to play at the picnic,” she blurted.

“What?” He laughed. “You know I’m kicking off a gigantic world tour at Madison Square Garden literally that same month.”

“Two days before, actually.”

“And you want me to sing in a park?”

“This is my demand. You want a ride? Doesn’t come for free.”

“So, I give you thousands of dollars, am donating all my song-writing stuff and now you want me to play the picnic? How about a signed guitar?”

“I’ll take that, too.”

He gasped at her and she laughed with delight. He really was so charming.

“You’re a mercenary, Helen Larson.”

“Twenty-minute set. You let us advertise. I can provide transportation back and forth. We’re literally right up the road.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure.” She unrolled her window and took the key out of the ignition, humming like she had all the time in the world.

“You,” he said, “are a real piece of work.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

“My…” She stopped, realized the words at the tip of her tongue had not been said in a while. “Fiancé.”

“Is this a…current fiancé?” he asked, like he’d been thinking about that little scene in front of her hotel room door the way she had. And her being engaged changed the whole nature of that moment.

“No. The man who died. I’m not…there hasn’t been anyone else.”

Ugh. Helen, too far. Too much.

“I’m sorry, Helen,” Micah said, his familiar rock-star voice gruff with pity. She shook her head, squared her shoulders. She fucking hated pity.

“Stop staring,” she said, glancing over at him. He shook his head and she laughed, stunned by his audacity.