Blue—who was, in part, responsible for her need to let off steam—on his heels.
Max's voice bounced off the walls of the cavernous room that had been reserved and emptied to protect Janey's privacy.
"And I pity the fool who catches her on a bad day," Max added in his best Mr. T voice.
Bryce lifted his hand. "Pity me then," he said, and let Max tug him to his feet.
Janey bent over to snag a towel off the mat—only to find Wilson had already picked it up. He held it out to her, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest of moments. He smelled of summer heat and sunshine, and clean. He always smelled so damn clean. And he looked better in worn jeans and black T-shirts than any man had a right to look.
"Thanks," she said, both surprised and—and what? Aware? Intrigued? Or maybe just puzzled by the vibrations she picked up from him from time to time. Vibrations that sometimes made her think he might be feeling some of the same physical heat that she was.
Which was just plain stupid, she conceded, wiping her face and neck. Just like her fascination with him was stupid.
Rent-a-hunks were a dime a dozen. He was one of hundreds she'd dealt with on many tours. Maybe she was struggling with all this physical awareness because unlike the others, he was going to be around for the duration. A part of her life.
Max had already started extricating himself from her daily routine, and Wilson was taking up the slack. Professionally, competently. Quietly leaving her to herself. Where she had plenty of time to study him. And speculate. And fantasize, which was something new for her since she was, as Max liked to remind her, too grounded in reality for her own good.
But with Wilson, it was like constantly staring at the cover of an intriguing book—but never being offered the opportunity to open it up. Look inside. See if there was substance to match the beautifully designed packaging.
You spend way too much time looking at that package, she told herself, dragging the towel over her chest and, in the process, feeling the burn in her muscles when she stretched. She'd needed this. Needed the physical outlet. She just wished the workout had burned off a little more tension.
And she wished she could quit thinking about her mother's death. Just like she wished she could shake the untenable sensation of being watched. And she wasn't referring to the way Baby Blue's gaze made a quick survey of her in her damp workout clothes before he averted his gaze to Max. Always in the back of her mind was the reality of Edwin Grimm.
"Shake a leg, snooks," Max said, clapping his hands together. "We've got to move."
Janey groaned. "Is the hour up already?"
"'Fraid so. Time to lock and load. Traffic's a bitch, and judging from the size of the mob waiting by the back door, word leaked out that you're here. We'll be cutting the photo session close."
"How does that happen?" she sputtered, and headed for the shower. "How does that always happen?"
No matter where she went, no matter how secretive and careful they were, someone always found her. The fans she could handle. She loved her fans. But not the press. They were relentless.
Her hair was still wet as, dressed in a pumpkin-colored leather hip-hugger mini, a gold halter top, and the Celtic cross she never went anywhere without now, she braved the crowd waiting in the sweltering heat on the south side of the building. Max and Wilson helped her run the gauntlet to the car that had been hired to take her to the beach, where a photo shoot was set up on the boardwalk for a spread in Vogue.
She smiled and waved to her fans, then dove into the backseat beside Max. It all felt so surreal sometimes. So surreal that she often wondered if she were living someone else's life. She had her very own $30-million jet and a layout in Vogue, for God's sake.
And sometimes, she thought absently as she stared at the hard, clean lines of Baby
Max's voice bounced off the walls of the cavernous room that had been reserved and emptied to protect Janey's privacy.
"And I pity the fool who catches her on a bad day," Max added in his best Mr. T voice.
Bryce lifted his hand. "Pity me then," he said, and let Max tug him to his feet.
Janey bent over to snag a towel off the mat—only to find Wilson had already picked it up. He held it out to her, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest of moments. He smelled of summer heat and sunshine, and clean. He always smelled so damn clean. And he looked better in worn jeans and black T-shirts than any man had a right to look.
"Thanks," she said, both surprised and—and what? Aware? Intrigued? Or maybe just puzzled by the vibrations she picked up from him from time to time. Vibrations that sometimes made her think he might be feeling some of the same physical heat that she was.
Which was just plain stupid, she conceded, wiping her face and neck. Just like her fascination with him was stupid.
Rent-a-hunks were a dime a dozen. He was one of hundreds she'd dealt with on many tours. Maybe she was struggling with all this physical awareness because unlike the others, he was going to be around for the duration. A part of her life.
Max had already started extricating himself from her daily routine, and Wilson was taking up the slack. Professionally, competently. Quietly leaving her to herself. Where she had plenty of time to study him. And speculate. And fantasize, which was something new for her since she was, as Max liked to remind her, too grounded in reality for her own good.
But with Wilson, it was like constantly staring at the cover of an intriguing book—but never being offered the opportunity to open it up. Look inside. See if there was substance to match the beautifully designed packaging.
You spend way too much time looking at that package, she told herself, dragging the towel over her chest and, in the process, feeling the burn in her muscles when she stretched. She'd needed this. Needed the physical outlet. She just wished the workout had burned off a little more tension.
And she wished she could quit thinking about her mother's death. Just like she wished she could shake the untenable sensation of being watched. And she wasn't referring to the way Baby Blue's gaze made a quick survey of her in her damp workout clothes before he averted his gaze to Max. Always in the back of her mind was the reality of Edwin Grimm.
"Shake a leg, snooks," Max said, clapping his hands together. "We've got to move."
Janey groaned. "Is the hour up already?"
"'Fraid so. Time to lock and load. Traffic's a bitch, and judging from the size of the mob waiting by the back door, word leaked out that you're here. We'll be cutting the photo session close."
"How does that happen?" she sputtered, and headed for the shower. "How does that always happen?"
No matter where she went, no matter how secretive and careful they were, someone always found her. The fans she could handle. She loved her fans. But not the press. They were relentless.
Her hair was still wet as, dressed in a pumpkin-colored leather hip-hugger mini, a gold halter top, and the Celtic cross she never went anywhere without now, she braved the crowd waiting in the sweltering heat on the south side of the building. Max and Wilson helped her run the gauntlet to the car that had been hired to take her to the beach, where a photo shoot was set up on the boardwalk for a spread in Vogue.
She smiled and waved to her fans, then dove into the backseat beside Max. It all felt so surreal sometimes. So surreal that she often wondered if she were living someone else's life. She had her very own $30-million jet and a layout in Vogue, for God's sake.
And sometimes, she thought absently as she stared at the hard, clean lines of Baby
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