Feels Like Home (Southern Bride 5)

“Anson?”

“Anson.”

Someone hit my leg, and I jerked up. Lanny stood there, staring at me.

I was frowning when I realized we had stopped, and Lanny had come onto the bus. “How long has Charles been here at the hotel?”

“An hour. He called for you, but when you didn’t answer, he figured you had fallen asleep, and he didn’t want to wake you up.”

With a nod, I stood and stretched. Zeus did the same.

“You’re all checked in. They’ve got you in the presidential suite; even though I told them you were fine with a regular suite, they insisted. I dismissed the butler that came along with the room and assured the hotel that you didn’t need one.”

“Jesus, a butler for a damn hotel room?” I asked as we walked into the exclusive entrance that was used for patrons who required privacy, such as myself.

“Not everyone is a simple country boy like you, Anson. Never mind the fact that you could probably buy this hotel,” Lanny stated as she hit the button for the top floor. “It’s got a nice view.”

“I’m too tired to look at it. I’m headed right back to bed,” I said.

“Alright. Bus leaves early—do you want to get up and run?”

I nodded as the elevator doors opened to the suite.

“You can stay here, you know,” I said. “It’s so big we probably wouldn’t even see each other.”

She laughed. “Sure, let’s add to the rumor mill, why don’t we?”

I winked. “Like you don’t like being known as my secret lover.”

Lanny rolled her eyes, hit the button to go down, and said, “You wish, Meyers.”

A roar of laughter escaped from me as the doors closed. The moment they shut completely, my smile slowly disappeared, and the loneliness crept back in.

With a deep sigh, I walked over to the wall of windows and looked out over downtown Atlanta. Maybe I should have met with Lori. It would have at least been a temporary relief from the pain in my chest and my cock.

Zeus barked, and I looked at the small bag of food that Lanny had put on the counter.

“Fine. Dinner, a short walk, then it’s bed, mister.”

Bristol

“WAIT, LET ME position this to the side,” I said as I moved the vase I had just stuck the fresh flowers in.

“There, that’s perfect, and the light will work nicely for the photo.” Mindy held out her hands and made a frame with them. “I think you should move the book to the left, though.”

I contemplated her suggestion for a few moments, then moved it to the right side of the vase.

“Or the right side,” Mindy mumbled.

“That’s it. That is the shot!”

I stood back, lined up my camera, and snapped a few photos. This would get posted Sunday as my weekly read. I posted a book I was reading every Sunday and captioned it as “Share it Sunday,” where I encouraged my followers to share what book they were reading for the upcoming week.

“How do you find time to read, Bristol?” Mindy asked.

With a laugh that held no humor in it at all, I replied, “You know I don’t have a boyfriend, so my nights are consumed with the make-believe kind.”

She laughed, for real. “Speaking of, did you happen to listen to the countdown yesterday?”

“What countdown?” I nonchalantly asked, throwing in a half shrug to emphasize my confusion. Of course, we both knew it was a ruse. But Mindy humored me.

I knew what countdown she was talking about because even though I shouldn’t give two shits, I still followed Anson’s career. Compulsively. His latest single, “Missing You,” had made it to the number one spot. Of course, if you believed the rag papers, the song was about Lindsey Ashton. The reigning princess of country music. The two of them had released a duet together a few months back and had been photographed a number of times together. I didn’t want to admit how much I hated seeing them together. It was rare to see Anson photographed with a woman, so when he was, it was all over the papers. But then Lindsey announced her engagement to some songwriter, and if you believed one iota of the tabloids, poor Anson was left brokenhearted. Hence, “Missing You” was born. I wanted to gag, just thinking about any part of that being true.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think the song is about Lindsey.”

I frowned and walked over to reposition the book once more. Did I say her name out loud or something?

“And I could not care less if it was,” I retorted. Even I could hear the snarky and full-of-shit tone in my voice.

I did care. And I hated that I cared. Hated that I had even opened my phone and looked up everything I could about Lindsey. She didn’t seem like Anson’s type. Then again, I hadn’t spoken to him in almost six years, so I really had no clue what his type was anymore. Obviously, his type had moved on from me.