You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (7 page)

Not that he’d ever know.

—

As Slater turned into the Riverdale Country Shopping Plaza, he noticed Emmie leaning forward to get a look at Go to Work. Yeah, they went all out with their window displays, but, man, she sure liked her office supplies.

Only, as he pulled into a spot, he realized her gaze was fixed on the shop next door.

Bella Donna sold high-end, elegant lingerie. And Emmie practically drooled at the fancy shit in the window.

Interesting
.

He cut the engine, pocketed his keys, and met her in front of the car. They stepped onto the walkway, and as she cut right for Go to Work, he started left.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“I’m following your heart.”

“What?” She glanced nervously at the Bella Donna sign.

“Come on. You know you want to.”

“Yeah, right.” She laughed it off, but he saw the interest in her eyes.

“We can just look around.”

“Right. You go ahead and look around. They should have
something
in your size. I’ll be in here.” She pointed to the office supply store.

“That’s fine. You can work up to it.”

She shook her head as she went inside for her supplies.

After grabbing a basket, Emmie’s gaze roamed the aisles and displays, a look of reverence overtaking her features. “This place is amazing.”

She started filling her basket with crap he was sure she’d never use in a lifetime.

“Didn’t you bring any supplies with you?”

“I left everything at my apartment. Six weeks, remember?”

How could he forget? He was keenly aware of everything about her. From the changes she’d made to the band and the way she’d brought them together beyond rehearsals or gigs, to the fact she was only there temporarily.

She had three and a half weeks left.

“Oh, my God,” Emmie said, her attention turning to a clipboard. “Look at this. Is this the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Yeah, a
clipboard.
So it had a light blue background and bright yellow daisies all over it. And . . . it was still a clipboard.

She clutched it to her chest. “I have to have it.” Spotting another one—this one with orange dots on a hot pink background—she grabbed it, held them both out to him. “Which one?”

He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“I should get both.” She started to put them both in the cart, then stopped. “But what do I need them for?” She gazed up, lost in thought. “I don’t. I don’t need them at all. What would I use a clipboard for?”

“Inventory.”

“I don’t do inventory.”

“Exactly.” As adorable as she was being, this whole shopping experience was lost on him. Couldn’t she have chosen the lingerie shop instead? He’d have lots of opinions there.

“You know what?” She set them back on the shelf. “I don’t need them. You have to stop me from impulse buys. I can’t just randomly spend money.”

“I’m in charge?”

“Do you want to be?” She trained those warm brown eyes on him with her mischievous smile, and suddenly she no longer wore the simple pink T-shirt and khaki shorts. He imagined her standing before him in the purple chemise he’d seen in Bella Donna’s window.

What the hell?
“Let’s get a move on.” But, Christ, did she fill it out nicely. He strode off.

In the next aisle, she agonized over how many and which sizes of multicolored Post-its she needed.

“You’re looking to sign bands. Other than a pen and a cocktail napkin, what do you need?”

“Buzzkill.” She turned back to examine the ridiculous array of choices.

“Funny how you need all this color in your office supplies but not in other areas.”

She swung around to him. “What does that mean? You think I’m boring?”

“You wear white underpants and bras.”

Color rushed to her cheeks. “How do you know what my undergarments look like?”

Undergarments?
He chuckled. “We share a bathroom and a laundry room.”

“I don’t just wear white.” She turned and snatched random packages off the shelves, tossing them in her basket.

He tugged the back of her shorts, peered inside.

“Hey.” Whacking his hand away, she stumbled into the display bin of highlighters.

“You’re right.” He reached out and grabbed it before it toppled over. “My bad.”

She cocked her head.

“You’ve got beige, too.”

“They’re comfortable. I shouldn’t
feel
my underwear.” She frowned, heading down the aisle. “What does it matter what I wear?” But then she hesitated and turned back to look at him with turmoil in her eyes. Waiting for a woman to pass by with her cart, Emmie grabbed his shirt, pulling him close. He could feel the heat of her, her intense energy. “
Does
it matter? I mean, is it a total turnoff to see a woman in boring underwear?”

He could see how much it mattered to her. “If a guy wants to get off, then, yeah, sexy underwear on a hot body’ll do the trick. But if a guy’s into you, then he doesn’t need you wearing sexy lingerie to get it up. If he does, then he doesn’t want you enough or for the right reasons.”

Her features relaxed, and she was just so damn pretty. Her complexion so clear and smooth, the shape of her mouth so sexy.

“I like that.”

Oh, she shouldn’t have smiled. Not when he could see the sparkle in her eyes and the little dimple under her eye, right at the top of her cheek. “I’m more interested in taking it off, anyway,” he said. “I want what’s underneath.”

Her gaze drifted from him, looking dreamy and contemplative.

The girl took all the fun out of trying to rattle her.

She drew in a slow, deep breath, her chest rising. “But I wonder how it would make
me
feel, you know? I wonder if it would make me feel sexy.”

“Only one way to find out.”

And he’d said that out loud
why
? Should he really be encouraging Derek’s sister to wear naughty lingerie?

And why the hell was she sharing this shit with
him
anyway?

The realization hit him like a telephone pole. She could talk like this, walk around the house braless, only if she didn’t see him like that, like a guy. He was just a player who banged groupies. She’d never take a guy like him seriously.

It wasn’t just a line she’d used. She actually wasn’t susceptible to him at all.

Holy fuck.
Why did that realization drop him to his knees?

*   *   *

After she’d paid for the few items she’d wound up buying, they headed out into the hot sun. Slater watched her toss her bag in the backseat, then head to the passenger side of the car. “Last chance,” he said, nodding toward the lingerie shop.

She looked past him to Bella Donna, and he knew the moment hesitation turned to commitment. “Maybe I’ll just take a quick look.”

“Good idea.” He met her on the walkway, then reached for the door to open it for her.

She turned to him, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “You want to get us some coffees?” She tipped her head toward the coffeehouse a couple of stores down. “I won’t be long.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back with them.”

“Or, you know, maybe just wait for me there?”

He smiled. “Sure thing.”

Not a fucking chance.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Slater peered through the window holding their two coffees. He didn’t see her, so he went inside and was immediately overwhelmed with scented vanilla candles and Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” Pink wallpaper with black bows made the shop feel cozy. An older, well-heeled saleswoman stood behind a table folding a satin peignoir.

She smiled. “You looking for Emmie?”

Of course she knew Emmie’s name. He nodded with an indulgent smile. Emmie’d probably revolutionized her folding system by now. The girl got shit done, and she did it in the sweetest, nicest way possible.

“In there.” She pointed toward the dressing rooms. “You’re going to love her choices.”

Yeah. Like he’d go into the dressing room to see Derek’s sister trying on teddies. When the woman’s features fell in confusion, he lifted the coffees as an excuse.

She nodded in understanding. “You go in. A girl always appreciates her man’s opinion. More so than an old lady’s.”

“Thanks.”
Still not going in.
He headed to the dressing room as the woman turned to hang a scrap of silky material on a mannequin. A row of four curtained rooms gave way to a small sitting area. Champagne-colored walls with a crystal chandelier gave the area an elegant feel. He peered in to find a round dais facing a three-way mirror. Emmie stood on it, wearing an indecent nightgown.

Lace formed the cups of the top, revealing the fullness of her breasts, the dark pink of her nipples. A yellow satin band fit snugly just underneath them, and the skirt floated over her hips, stopping just below the incredibly sexy curve of her ass.

Head tilted, all that dark hair shifting to one side and revealing the deep V of the back, she examined herself. He couldn’t tell if she liked what she saw. She seemed unsure until she brought her hands up to her breasts, touching her nipples as if to see how they felt through the thin material.

She hissed in a breath, her whole face transforming, tightening with a rush of desire, and then her hands cupped those lush, round breasts. She gave them a gentle squeeze, eyelids fluttering closed.

Holy shit. Desire exploded inside him, rushing through his dick, making him instantly hard. The door chime jangled, and as he jerked away from the wall, hot coffee spilled onto his hand. He could hear the saleswoman talking quietly to whomever had just entered.

Fuck. He set one of the coffees down on a shelf, then dragged his wet hand on his jeans. His heart pounded, and he couldn’t for the life of him get the image of Emmie touching herself out of his head. It just kept repeating like a GIF.

He had to get out of there.

She’d taken too long shopping. She could tell because the moment they got in the car¸ Slater cranked the stereo and tore out of the parking lot.

“Sorry about that.” Well, sorry she’d wasted his time. But thrilled she’d taken care of number seven on her list: Wear sexy lingerie.

“No problem.” His hands gripped the steering wheel.

Emmie loved her new bras. Loved them with a passion normally reserved for dessert and pretty office supplies. She sipped her coffee, which he’d prepared perfectly for her, and then set it between her legs, since the old car didn’t have cup holders.

Opening the pretty pink and black bag, she withdrew one of the bras, quickly sliding it out of the tissue paper. She could not believe a bra could be so beautiful and sexy. The teal satin demi cups with black lace overlay had hoisted the girls into the most delectable mounds she’d ever seen.

She held it up by the straps. “Is this to die for?”

He barely spared her a glance.

“I love it,” she said more to herself, since he obviously didn’t care about bras. “How far is your mom’s?”

He didn’t answer, just kept his gaze trained on the road, jaw set tightly.

Okay, he was pissed. She flicked off the stereo. “I thought you wanted me to go in there.”

He frowned, giving her a dismissive shrug like,
Whatever
.

“I didn’t take that long, did I? I mean, come on. Less than twenty minutes.”

He ignored her and turned the music back up.

Taking another sip of her coffee, she balled up the tissue paper, put the bra back inside, and pulled out another one. Tearing off the paper, she brought this one to her chest and clutched it. This one she
adored
. Super-sheer black lace covered in tiny yellow and white daisies, it had nice lift from the underwire but plunged deeply across her cleavage, exposing lots of skin and making her breasts really bouncy. She’d never felt sexier in her life than when she’d tried it on.

She flicked off the stereo. “This one’s my favorite. Isn’t it pretty?”

He sighed, all long and drawn out, letting her know his exasperation. “Sure.”

He hadn’t even looked at it. “Okay, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re adults, not middle schoolers. We don’t say,
Nothing
. If I took too long in the store, just say so.”

“You’re fine.”

If he wanted to sulk, let him. “Oh, I’m fine. Very, very fine. And I’m not letting you lick off my frosting.”

“Excuse me?” His eyes practically bulged out of his head. Now, he looked at her. She held up her bra and let it dance before him. He glanced back at the road before squeezing his eyes shut and actually groaning.

“The best part of cake is the frosting. Derek used to lick mine off—every single time, my birthday, his birthday, anywhere—and it used to make me so angry. Until I decided not to let him get to me anymore. And guess what?”

“He stopped licking off your frosting.” He shifted uncomfortably, narrowing his gaze out the windshield.

“Bingo. God, I can’t believe I never bought bras like these before.”

He groaned again.

“I didn’t bother with the nighties. I mean, do women actually sleep in those scratchy things?” She lowered her voice, leaning closer to him. “Some of them had thongs. Imagine that crawling up your butt in the middle of the night?”

“Emmie, I’m a man. You do know that, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Was she boring him? “Fine. We’ll talk football stats.” She smiled at him. “I can do that, too.”

Mouth a grim line, he turned the stereo up loud enough to make conversation impossible.

*   *   *

His mom lived only a few minutes from the shopping plaza, so she didn’t have to endure his foul mood for long. Growing up in Westchester County, she was used to grand colonials, rolling green lawns, and stone walls. But these homes looked newer, all browns and beiges, and the landscaping more rustic. Lots of terra-cotta and dusty-looking trees and shrubs, unlike her White Plains neighborhood, which was vibrant with flowering trees and red maples.

As the streets grew narrower, the houses became closer together, less formal. A few more turns and the homes grew even smaller. This area made more sense for a music professor’s salary.

A quick flash of water appeared between houses. “You live on a lake?”

He nodded. When he turned onto his street and began to slow, a feeling bloomed inside her and made her . . . happy. The band’s house in the suburbs seemed so artificial, so bland. But where he’d grown up? Lovely.

“I always had this fantasy about living in a cottage on a lake, a swath of green lawn canopied by towering trees. My private little fairy forest.”

He pulled into a driveway. “That was my childhood all right. A real fairy tale.”

Bougainvillea spilled off the terra-cotta roof of the stucco one-story house, and a stone walkway bracketed with rosebushes led to an antique oak door.

“This is gorgeous.” She got out, breathing in the rose-scented air. In their development, the air smelled dusty and dry, and the landscape was stark and desert-like. “You grew up here?”

“Hey, Mom.” His flat, guarded voice had Emmie swinging around to find him at the front door.

“Jonny.” A petite woman in loose linen pants and a sleeveless tunic gazed up at him with so much love and admiration, Emmie’s breath hitched in her throat. Her parents had
never
looked at her like that. She was so similar to her super-efficient mom that everything good she did was just expected. And her dad? Well, unless she suddenly tapped into her inner virtuoso, Emmie didn’t think she’d ever get more than a vague sense of appreciation from him—when she did something he wanted.

But wait a minute. What had she called him?
Jonny?
His mom called him
Jonny
?

Slater angled back. “Mom, this is Emmie. Derek’s sister.”

“Emmie Valencia. How wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in.” Her warm smile drew Emmie up the walkway.

“So nice to meet you, Dr. Vaughn.”

“Please call me Elizabeth. I wish I’d known you were coming sooner. I would have rearranged my schedule.” His mom clasped Emmie’s hand in her dry, cool ones. “You look so much like Derek.”

“Well, except I have hair and he has tattoos.” She stepped into the tiled foyer. The house smelled of old paper and something extremely familiar—the valve oil for brass instruments.

“Yes, except for that.” His mom laughed, eyes sparkling. “I’d love to make some tea and sit with you awhile, but I’ve got to leave for a meeting in a few minutes.” She gave her son a playfully admonishing look.

“I didn’t know I was coming until a few hours ago. Emmie hit up Go to Work.”

Pleasure lit up his mom’s features. “I love that store. Have you seen the new clipboards they just got in?”

“Are you serious?” Emmie said. “I wanted one of each. They were gorgeous.”

His mom smiled almost shyly, cupping a hand around one side of her mouth. “I did get one of each.”

Emmie laughed. “Totally jealous.”

“Do you have the list?” Slater asked, all business.

Emmie noticed the disappointment pull across his mom’s features. This was his home, his mom. He couldn’t chat for a few minutes?

Reaching for the chain dangling off her neck, she lifted her eyeglasses, then patted her pockets. “Now what did I do with it? I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing it up after you called, but I got distracted.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “I’m reviewing a student’s dissertation. She’s got some interesting ideas on modal jazz theory.” Her brow lifted, and she gave Slater a probing look. Right then, Emmie could see the professor in her. “I’d really love to get your input.”

Slater’s eyes narrowed. His posture slumped—barely, but still. Emmie noticed. “Mom . . .” He gave her a disbelieving look.

But she never wavered. “I would appreciate your insights.”

He exhaled, looked down at his big black boots and rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, sure. Okay. Leave it on the table. I’ll take it with me.”

Okay, so, wow
. First, his professor mom needed
Slater’s
help with jazz modal theory? And, secondly, sure, Slater was guarded—even around the guys—but he was always so laid-back, so . . . nonchalant. Around his mom, though, he just bristled. What had she done to hurt him?

“Wonderful. Okay, let me check the kitchen for that list.” As she strode off, she called back to him. “I’ll be so relieved to have the use of that powder room again. You can imagine the inconvenience when I’ve got a full house.”

Slater started after her, but then he turned to Emmie. “This won’t take long. Do you want to come with me or hang out here for a few minutes?”

Figuring he could use the time alone with his mom, she said, “I’m good. Take your time.” Plus, come on, she was in Slater’s childhood home. She was dying to look around. She gestured to the living area, her gaze fixed on the wall of bookshelves. “Can I look around?”

For the first time since she’d met him, color infused his cheeks. He hesitated. Was he
embarrassed
? “Have at it.” With a resigned expression, he turned and went into the kitchen.

What could possibly embarrass him about his home? It looked warm and inviting. She could hear them talking quietly as she took in the living room. The low ceilings and bloodred walls gave the house a cozy feel. The furnishings were old and funky. A pink chandelier hung over a bar in one corner of the room. A deep purple chaise with gold fringe caught her eye—it looked so pretty but was completely impractical in a living room. Clusters of tables and chairs were set up around the room. Actually, it kind of looked like an old-fashioned pub. A gathering of small sitting areas instead of a traditional living room arrangement of a couch and coffee table facing a couple of chairs.

But then she started to notice details. Weird-looking instruments hung on the walls, rested on the tables, stood in corners. Not a bar, then, but a place to jam. She recognized the harp, of course, and the balalaika. Leaning against the wall sat something that looked like a guitar, but with a bloated middle section and a squat but wide fingering band. But, really, other than some tambourines and a xylophone, she didn’t recognize the other unusual-looking instruments.

She could imagine the room filled with the scents of a Moroccan stew and burning candles as people jammed, talked, laughed, and sang together. What a great childhood he must’ve had.

And so similar to her own. Only, no one touched the instruments lying around her house but her dad and his friends. Even Derek, who’d played guitar and piano from the time he could walk, wasn’t allowed near them because he would just “abuse” them. This home seemed so welcoming. Why would Slater be embarrassed?

Wandering to the built-in bookcase, she found it stuffed with framed photos, books, vases, and figurines. The longer she looked, the more she noticed the photos basically chronicled Slater’s life.

“Got it,” she heard his mom call and then laugh. “It was on the washing machine.”

One photograph snagged her attention. A wild-haired man, loads of necklaces and chokers around his neck, tattoos all over his arms, stood beside a slightly younger version of Slater’s mom. With her salt-and-pepper hair, probing eyes, and serene smile, she looked like a pottery teacher or a woman who owned a healing arts store. What an odd pair. The man had his arm slung around her shoulders, his purple-framed round glasses askew on his nose.

“I’ll see how much of this I can get done today.” Slater came out of the laundry room with a tool box in one hand. He watched Emmie for a moment, and she thought he might say something, but he just scowled and turned into the powder room.

“Well, I’m off.” His mom breezed past her but stopped to look at the photograph. Her head came to Emmie’s shoulder. “That was taken on Jonny’s first day of college. We’d just dropped him off in his dorm.”

Emmie wished she could see
that
picture, of Slater in his dorm room. She wondered if he’d been the stud on campus. Had he joined a frat? But she wouldn’t ask about Slater, not when he was a few feet away. “How did you and your husband meet?”

Her smile seemed a little tight. “I know we look like quite the mismatched couple, but we worked. We lived down the street from one another. His parents hired me as his music tutor.” She reached for the frame, her thumb gently rubbing the glass. So much conflicting emotion in her eyes. “He was full of energy, full of life. Couldn’t sit still. And I was very serious, very thoughtful. He needed my clarity of thought, and I needed his passion.”

Emmie’s heart wrenched open.
I love that
. “That’s so nice.” She wished so badly her parents had thought about their differences that way. Instead, her dad had accused his organized, efficient wife of being uptight and cold. As much as he’d obviously needed her, he’d never appreciated her. He’d shut her out for not understanding the temperament of an artist.

“That’s such a beautiful way to look at it.” Emmie turned back to the shelves. So many photos of the wild-haired man with a boy—a teen—who was clearly Slater. In most of the pictures Slater looked angry, which didn’t quite fit the whole mini-me look he had going on with his dad. He almost looked embarrassed, but then weren’t most teenagers when forced to pose with their parents?

Funny to see how much Slater had changed his look from hard rocker to frat boy. Then again, he didn’t wear khakis and Ralph Lauren. He favored jeans, black T-shirts, and boots. So maybe he had some rocker in him. Just without all the accessories.

“Jonny and his dad.” His mom tapped the glass frame of a picture.

“Looks like they were close.” Emmie could feel the hurt all the way down to her bones, that need to be with her dad, hang out with him just like Slater and his dad. But he’d always pushed her away.

“Two peas in a pod.” A note of envy wound through his mom’s wistful tone.

A jarring sound came from the powder room, like a toilet seat slamming down. They looked at each other, eyes wide.

“Everything all right?” his mom called.

“Peachy,” he said, voice tight.