Chapter 11
I’ll have a water,” I say to the bartender.
“Wussy,” Sam says to me, then lifts his beer glass to the bartender for another.
I slide my empty beer glass back and forth over the wooden bar top. We sit in an open courtyard with a bar in the center. It’s almost nine p.m., but the heat and humidity are still fierce. “Whatever. I have to pace myself or you’ll be carrying me back.”
He looks at me innocently. “How do I get to carry you?”
I pause, still sliding my glass back and forth. “What do you mean?”
His eyes twinkle at me. “Let’s go for piggyback, so your breasts are pressed against my back all the way to the hotel.”
I toss my beer-soaked cocktail napkin at him. “Shut up, you pervert.”
Catching the napkin, he ignores me. “Let’s do shots.”
“No. More. Shots.” We’d downed some J?germeister about an hour before to help me forget my kiss-induced bad temper. Guess it worked, because I’ve stayed in that warm, happy place ever since and almost forgot about planning his payback. Thing is, I don’t want to get way too drunk, which is why we’d also split a shrimp po’boy. After eating it, we decided to skip the dinner the tour promoters are putting on tonight at the hotel. I check my phone. Five more minutes until the jazz band we’re waiting to see will come on. “Ready to move up front?” I ask.
Sam hands me my water and a beer. Taking the beer I didn’t want, I give him a dirty look. He shrugs and heads to a table near the dancing area in front of the stage. Minutes later, the stage lights up and the band, a group of older men, comes out. Unfortunately, after a few songs, Sam and I are frowning at each other. Though the band clearly has some good musicians in it, they start with Sinatra and segue into Louis Armstrong. I like both just fine, but in New Orleans, I want to hear something more than a cover band.
Since the music is loud, especially the horns, I point to the exit and lift my brows. Although he can take it out to the street, Sam points to his beer. I sigh, and turn back toward the stage.
A woman comes out and a hush falls over the crowd. She steps in front of the microphone, and the drummer hits a beat while the guy playing the upright bass plays a low tune. The rest of the band members don’t touch their instruments, and instead only snap their fingers into the microphones. Before I can figure out what the song is, Sam hauls me up. “We have to dance. I love this stupid song.”
He drags me to the flagstones in front of the stage. The woman starts singing, and I slowly realize the song is “Fever” by Peggy Lee.
Holding my hands, Sam shimmies away from me, moving to the beat of the music. Then he draws me close, like body-to-body close. I can feel the muscles of his chest and his thighs, pressed for several long seconds against mine. Then our bodies part, moving to the slow, hypnotic beat and the woman’s lush voice. Until he pulls us flush again, and the fever she’s singing about feels all too real as I press against him. This time he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he tugs my hand up to his shoulder, wraps an arm around my back, and holds our joined hands up, swaying his hips to the rhythm perfectly. Damn, this boy can dance. The hand on my back slides to grip my hip, and he shows me how to move with him.
Now our hips are moving to the slow, lush beat. Together. In perfect rhythm.
Fever escalating.
I try to cool down the lust rushing through my body, but . . .
Moving with Sam to the hypnotic beat and listening to the woman’s sumptuous voice—maybe under the influence of too much alcohol—hurls me into a sensual stupor. Everything except the music and the press of our bodies fades to the background. Our dancing has me drunker than all the alcohol I’ve consumed. I’m suddenly intoxicated by lust.
The song ends. It takes me a few seconds to stop moving, to wake up. The loud thunder of clapping wrenches me from the sensual haze, and I nearly jump away from Sam, who’s watching me. His gaze makes my memories of our night together feel all too real. Memories I thought I’d buried. I turn away from him and stumble to our table. After gulping the rest of my beer, I smack my empty glass on the table and point to the exit.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He taps the side of his glass, reminding me he’s not done with his drink, and starts to sit.
“Take it with you,” I say, pushing my chair under the table. “We’re in New Orleans, baby.”
I’m grateful they allow people to walk around with alcohol in the Big Easy, because I know Sam hates to leave a drink behind. But after that sensual dance, I’m determined that we are leaving. As in now. I don’t wait for Sam to follow me. I make way through the tables to the sidewalk outside.
He catches up with me halfway down the block. “What’s your rush?”
“It’s after ten. You have a photo shoot tomorrow and a concert.”
“Oh, I can hang.”
“Well, I guess I’m a lightweight, because I can’t.”
He rolls his eyes. I march toward the hotel. Well, what I assume to be the direction of the hotel, anyway. I’m rather buzzed. Realizing I may be wandering aimlessly, Sam removes the map from his back pocket to make sure we’re headed the right way. Once he is done studying the map—and he guides us to the right path—a song title comes whipping out of his mouth. I counter each time with a title that has him grinning. Though our walk probably lasts over a half hour, it feels like we arrive back at the hotel in mere minutes.
After checking in at the reception desk for our room keys, we sneak through the lobby quickly, afraid someone might drag us to the dinner probably still going on. Besides being slightly too loaded to deal with a roomful of rockers, the day of sightseeing and drinking in the heavy humidity has left us sweaty and exhausted. I have no idea if Sam has been affected by the strange roller coaster of emotions the day has produced. But I know that I, for one, need a breather.
We race up to our room, and Sam goes directly to the little fridge filled with booze.
He lifts two small bottles. “Nightcap?”
The man is trying to kill me. “On ice. No shots. And give me something that won’t make hair grow on my chest.”
Sam smirks. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”
I reach into the ice bin on the table next to me and chuck a cube at him.
Bending to duck from the icy missile, he pulls out a tiny bottle of amaretto.
“Perfect,” I say, flicking off my flip-flops and falling to the end of one bed. Because of a breakup during our sophomore year of college, Jill once tried to get wasted on amaretto while watching sappy movies. There wasn’t enough alcohol content in the stuff to put her out of her misery, so I know it’s not too potent.
After handing me the amaretto, Sam pours a whiskey in a glass, then sits down next to me.
“I had a great time today, Peyton,” he says, before taking a sip of booze.
“It wasn’t too bad.”
His head snaps toward me. “What? It was great and you know it.”
“I didn’t get to go in the miniature store,” I say in a sad tone.
“Well, I didn’t get to see strippers.”
“You made me sing karaoke.”
“You were awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m a virtuoso.”
“Maybe not that good but better than I thought you were going to be.”
“Your song choice was awful.”
“That song is a classic. And I know your taste in music is as eclectic as mine. So I’m sure you liked it. You just don’t have the balls to admit it.”
I give him a narrowed glare. “The jazz band was totally commercial. Kind of lame.”
“Who cares? They did ‘Fever.’?”
“It was hot and muggy all day.”
“We partied from noon until now.”
“It was exhausting.”
Bending over, he sets his drink down on the floor. “Admit you had a good time.”
I shake my head slightly, taking another sip. When I’m done, he snatches the glass from my hand. “Admit it was great hanging out with me all day.”
I shrug. “It was okay.”
“Okay? What about my dancing?”
“You dance . . . all right.”
“All right?” he screeches.
I blink at him innocently. My lashes flutter like an idiot’s.
He stares at me with hooded eyes, then lunges. We slide across the bed, and he lands on top of me. His hands find my stomach, and he begins to viciously tickle me.
“Admit I can dance.”
I can’t admit anything. I’m too busy laughing.
“Admit it!” he hollers, his fingers pausing for the slightest moment.
I gasp out, “You can dance!”
He attacks again.
“Admit you liked singing.”
I try not to give in to this demand, but his fingers on my ribs soon have me shouting, “Loved the singing!”
“Admit you had a good time.”
“Good,” I gasp, then laugh loudly. “Good time!”
His fingers dig into my sides more furiously. “The best time?”
“Best time ever!” I yell.
Sam finally stops tickling me, and I can breathe. He’s hovering above me, his knees on either side of my hips. Very little of his weight rests on me. He stares down at me with those pretty blue eyes. I try to catch my breath and contain the mixed emotions stirring inside of me. He leans the tiniest bit forward, his lips slightly parted, desire etched on his face. And lust hits me like a tsunami, crashing into me and fucking up everything.
The space between our locked gazes crackles with longing. He leans closer to me, brushing my waist with his thumbs, as if slowly asking . . . I don’t move. Want courses through me. I should move. Put a hand up for him to stop. Something. But I’m rendered immobile by the desire for his lips to meet mine. The promise of his muscled weight pressing against me causes those lush bottled-up memories to surface. The hot touch of fingers on my skin. A soft sigh above me. A harsh pant in my ear. The quick flashes of recollection nearly have me reaching for him.
We stare at each other, the desire between us obvious.
The swish of someone slipping a key card into the lock on the other side of the door breaks the silence, and our glued gazes jerk apart. At the turn of the handle, I frantically buck Sam off me. He moves away, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. Ignoring his expression, I roll off the bed and reach for my bag—which, luckily, is on the chair next to the bed—then disappear into the bathroom as Gabe strolls into the room.
The hot shower washes away my guilty tears—it feels like history is repeating itself. I take my time brushing my teeth, flossing, applying moisturizer, brushing my hair, and waiting for the redness to subside from my eyes. Fortunately, when I step out of the bathroom, the hotel room is empty. Sam and Gabe must have gone out.
I turn off the lights and crawl into the smallest damn rollaway on earth. It seems the more expensive the hotel, the tinier the roll-away. My fingers grip the edge of the sheet. I feel awful. I almost kissed Sam and cheated on Bryce. Maybe I would have stopped. I hope I would have stopped it. Or did I just get lucky that Gabe walked in when he did? I’m guessing the latter.
Ugh.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Too much booze? Away from my boyfriend too long? Sam is too appealing?
No. No. Sorta.
I’ve never once thought about cheating on Bryce. Drunk or not. Apart for a while or not.
Apparently, I need to stay away from Sam. Being with him brings up too many old memories and confusing feelings. Because that has to be what’s screwing with me. It’s like reliving memories that I should have never let loose.
I tug the sheet up and roll over toward the wall. I’ve always hated recalling the heartache of my memories with Seth. But recalling the scorching heat of Sam is starting to feel even more painful.
It feels like he can still burn me.