Hook, Line, and Sinker: A Novel (Bellinger Sisters Book 2)

Fox stood at the stove, spatula in hand, his gaze fastened to the door of the guest room, every cell in his body on high alert. Who was going to walk out that door? Or, more importantly, what was her game?

He’d barely slept at all last night, replaying the drive home. Every word she’d said, the meaning behind that kiss outside the apartment. What the hell was she playing at? He’d told her, plain as day, that they weren’t going to bed together. That she should stick with her director, because nothing more than friendship could come from this thing between them.

Why did all those statements seem so empty now?

Probably because if she walked out of the guest room at this moment and kissed him, he would drop to his knees and weep with gratitude.

I’m wrapped around her little finger.

He needed to unwrap himself. Fast.

Didn’t he?

Here he was, making her pancakes, more apologies for the inexcusable thing he’d said to her last night crammed up tight behind his windpipe. Then it’s a good thing we’re not going to fuck, because you’d just be another hookup to me afterward.

Christ, he didn’t deserve to live after lying like that.

Or better yet, he did deserve to live with the expression on her face afterward and the knowledge that he’d put it there. Scumbag. How dare he? How dare he say poisonous shit like that to this girl who, perhaps unwisely, gave a damn about him?

He’d spent a long time trying to avoid the belittling expression on a woman’s face when she implied he was a hall pass or a meaningless diversion. The one Melinda had all those years ago while lying in bed with his best friend. He’d never thought about seeing that look on Hannah’s face—not until last night. Not until he’d confessed everything to her and his past had nearly crowded him out of the car.

If Hannah ever looked at him like that, she might as well slice the heart right out of his chest. Melinda’s betrayal would be laughable compared to what Hannah’s disappointment or dismissal would do to him. Even the possibility had caused him to strike first. To say something to push her away and protect himself in the process.

God. He’d hurt her.

And she might have expressed that pain, but . . . she’d forgiven him with that kiss.

That purposeful, no-holding-back kiss.

Which brought him back to his current worry. Who would walk out of the guest-room door? His best girl Hannah? Or Hannah with a plan? Because that kiss last night, the one that turned his dick into a stone monument, had resolve behind it. She’d stroked his tongue without any hesitation. Like she wanted him to know she meant it. She was all in. And that terrified him as much as it . . .

Teased hope to life in his chest.

Dangerous, stupid hope that made him ask questions like What if?

What if he just put his head down and dealt with the lack of respect from his crew? Took on some of the responsibilities he tried so hard to avoid?

Because someone worthy of Hannah would need to be responsible. Not him. Right? Just . . . someone. Whoever it was. He couldn’t have an apartment totally lacking in character or comforts. He would need to have upward mobility in his job. Like going from a relief skipper to the captain. But that was just an example, because he wasn’t referring to himself.

He wasn’t.

Fox nodded firmly and flipped the pancake on the griddle, approximately 4.8 seconds passing before his attention snuck back to the door to watch the shadows move underneath. How ridiculous to miss someone he’d only seen the night before. Starting tomorrow, he’d be on the boat for five days. If he missed her after one night apart, 120 hours were going to be pretty damn inconvenient. Maybe he should practice blocking the emotion now.

You don’t miss her.

He examined the churning in his chest.

Well, that hadn’t worked.

“Hannah,” he called, his voice sounding unnatural. “Breakfast.”

The shadows stopped moving briefly, started again. “Coming in a sec.”

Fox let out a breath.

Great. They were going to pretend like last night never happened. They were going to act like he hadn’t spilled the insecurities he’d harbored for the majority of his life. Like he never revealed the seemingly well-natured ridicule he received from the crew. They’d kissed before and gotten over it.

This would be no different.

Why was the churn in his chest getting worse?

Maybe . . . he didn’t want them to get over it.

When Hannah walked out of the bedroom, Fox’s spatula paused in midair and he sucked up the sight of her like a vacuum cleaner.

No bun today. Her hair was down. Smooth, like she’d used one of those irons on it. And she wore a short, loose olive-green dress instead of her usual jeans. Earrings. Suede black boots that reached all the way up to her knees, making those hints of visible thighs look like dessert.

I should have jacked off.

It was hard enough to be around Hannah ordinarily. Spending the day with her in Seattle dressed for easy access? Torture. He wouldn’t be able to blink without seeing the ankles of those boots crossed at the small of his back.

The smell of burning blasted him back to the present. Great. He’d decimated the pancake. Turned it almost totally black while ogling the girl who was making him consider buying some throw pillows and window treatments.

“Hey,” she said, tugging on one of her earrings.

“Hey,” he returned, picking up the burned pancake with his fingers and throwing it in the trash, pouring fresh batter onto the pan. “You look nice.”

And I’d like to throw you down on the couch and devour you.

“Thank you.”

Fox hated the tension hanging between them. It didn’t belong. So he searched for a way to dispel it. “How late did you stay up making a road-trip playlist?”

“Too late,” she answered without hesitation, wincing. “You can’t really blame me, though. We’re going to a recording studio in the grunge capital of the world. I’m overstimulated.” She slid onto one of the stools in front of the kitchen island and propped her chin on a fist. “Sorry, babe. You’re going to be sick to death of Nirvana and Pearl Jam by this afternoon.”

That “babe” hung in the air like napalm, and he almost burned a second pancake. She proceeded to scroll through her phone, as if the endearment had never left her mouth, while it kicked him in the stomach over and over again. He’d called her “babe” before, too, but never like this. Never just . . . across the kitchen island in the broad daylight with the smell of warm syrup in the air. It was homey. It made him feel like one half of a couple.

Was this her plan? To walk out here after his ugly behavior last night and . . . stay? Not just in his apartment, but with him. Their bond intact. Unwavering. Because the fact that she knew every part of him, inside and out, and she was still sitting there . . . it was having an effect. The relief and gratitude that hit him was huge. Welcoming. And it was causing him physical pain not to hold her right now. Call her “babe,” too, and give her a good-morning snuggle. Ask to hear about her dreams. Last night at bingo, he’d slipped into the role of boyfriend, and it was kind of scary how good it had felt. To hold her hand and laugh and let his guard down.

The more he thought of that final kiss last night, the more it felt like a promise. That she wasn’t giving up on him? Or . . . the possibility of them?

Had he actually said the words “I won’t kiss you again”?

Like actually said them?

That promise sounded absolutely ridiculous to him in the light of day. Especially when she took a bite of the pancake he’d made, making a husky little sound of pleasure at the taste, her finger dragging a path through the syrup on her plate and dipping into her mouth. Sucking on it greedily.

Was it hazardous to operate a motor vehicle with a dick this hard?

“I see what you’re doing, Hannah.”

She glanced up, startled, the picture of innocence. “What do you mean?”

“The dress. Calling me ‘babe.’ The finger sucking. You’re trying to seduce me into thinking . . . this kind of morning thing could be normal for me.”

“Is it working?” she asked, eyes momentarily serious as she took another bite.

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t do anything but picture Hannah sitting there every single morning. Indefinitely. Knowing she’d be there. Knowing she wanted to be there.

With him.

“Might be, yeah,” he admitted hoarsely.

Obviously startled by his confession, she paused mid-chew, swallowing with visible difficulty. Taking a moment to recover while they stared at each other over the counter. “That’s okay,” she said quietly. “That’s good.”

He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to go lay his head down in her lap. To surrender his will, which was thinning by the moment, and let her do with him what she would. He’d woken up with the intention of staying strong, committed to remembering all the reasons that being one half of a couple with Hannah was not in the cards. They’d almost escaped this visit unscathed. Hannah, most importantly. Less than a week to go—and he would be fishing for most of it. Giving her false hope now could lead to her being hurt and he would rather tie an anchor to his foot and jump overboard.

His resolve was already weakening, though.

The what-ifs were becoming more and more frequent.

There was still a stubborn voice in the back of Fox’s head, telling him she deserved better than some responsibility-free tramp who had been bed hopping since he was in high school. But it was growing more and more subdued in the face of her . . . commitment to him. Is that what it was? All his cards were on the table. He’d taken off a layer of skin last night and exposed himself. Yet here she sat, not budging. Just being there. Right alongside of him. Permanent. And he was starting to realize the commitment already ran both ways. He’d formed it long before now. For Hannah, hadn’t he? Somewhere along the line, he’d started thinking of Hannah as his. Not just his friend or girlfriend or sexual fantasy. His . . . everything.

And as soon as he admitted that to himself he . . . burned another pancake. But most importantly, the sense that she belonged to him—that they belonged to each other—took root.

Which explained why, a few hours later when they walked into the recording studio and several band members looked Hannah over with interest, Fox wrapped an arm around her shoulders and almost growled, Back off, she’s taken.

This man was fully overboard.

* * *

Hannah’s girl-crush on Alana Wilder was instantaneous.

The lead singer of the Unreliables was in the recording booth when they entered Reflection Studio, the sound of her throaty purr electrifying the air and holding Hannah in thrall. She approached the glass as if hypnotized, skin prickling with excitement, already imagining Henry’s words belted out to the masses from the curvy redhead’s throat.

Before she could lift a hand to the glass, as if to touch the music, Fox’s warmth surrounded her, his palm rubbing up and down her bare arm. Tingles speared down to her toes, hair follicles sighing in contentment. Oh dear. She’d been wrong before. Traveling to grunge heaven to record a demo wasn’t overstimulating.

This was.

With awareness coiling in her belly, Hannah tilted her head back to look at Fox questioningly and found his irritated gaze focused on something besides the woman belting out lyrics like she was born into magic.

Hannah followed his line of sight and found a couch occupied by three musicians, one holding a guitar, the second with a bass resting sideways in his lap, the third with a fiddle that looked like it had seen better days.

“Are you the girl from the production company?” asked the fiddle player.

“Yes.” She extended a hand and walked toward the trio, finding herself moving in tandem with Fox, whose touch now rested on the small of her back. “Er . . . I’m Hannah Bellinger. Nice to meet you.”

She shook hands with the guitar and bass players, noting they looked kind of amused by the fact that Fox was towering behind her like a bodyguard.

“Wow,” Hannah breathed, tipping her head at the recording booth. “She’s incredible.”

“Isn’t she?” This from the bass player, whose voice held a hint of the Caribbean. “We’re just here for decoration.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” She laughed.

“We’ll lose that job, too, now that you’re here.” The fiddle player stood, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re definitely easier on the eyes than us ugly bastards.”

Fox’s comically forced laughter lasted five seconds longer than the rest of theirs.

Hannah turned and raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder.

What is wrong with you?

Seeming to realize the spectacle he was making of himself, he coughed into a fist and crossed his arms, but remained close. Was he jealous?

If she wasn’t so shocked, she might have been . . . thrilled? Last night, she’d done a lot more than work on the grunge playlist to end all grunge playlists. While selecting songs, her determination to fight to change Fox’s mind about himself had only built. She wasn’t going back to Los Angeles without him knowing he could be more than some beautiful joke. A man who everyone expected to fulfill some bullshit destiny simply because he could. Not happening.

And maybe the fact that he could feel jealous was an indirect sign of progress? Maybe being jealous over her would prove to him he could want to get serious with . . . someone else someday?

If, for instance, he and Hannah weren’t meant to be.

Hannah ignored the horrible burning in her breast and turned back around. “Have you had a chance to look at the songs I sent over last night?”

“We have. Been burning the midnight oil working on arrangements.”

“You’ll be happy with them,” the bass player said, definitively, a musician’s arrogance on full display. “No question.”

The fiddle player gave her a look that was half chagrin, half apology for his bandmate. “Soon as Alana is done in there, we’ll run through the shanties, make sure it all works for you.”

She smiled. “That would be great, thank you.”

The trio went back to their conversation, and Hannah returned to the glass to watch Alana, Fox coming up beside her. “What was that?” she whispered at him.

“What was what?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m being helpful. They were looking at you like a ten-tier birthday cake just walked in the door.” He wasn’t quite succeeding in pulling off a casual tone, an agitated hand lifting to scrub at the bristle on his jaw. “Musicians are bad news—everyone knows that. Now they’ll leave you alone. You’re welcome.”

Hannah nodded, pretending to take him seriously. “I see.” A few seconds of silence passed. “Thanks for the consideration, but no thanks. I don’t need you running interference. If one of them is interested, I’ll deal with it myself.”

Now his eye ticced. “Deal with it how?”

“By deciding yes or no. I’m capable of doing that on my own.”

Fox studied her as if through a microscope. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Hannah exhaled a laugh. “Doing what? Calling your bluff?” His jaw looked ready to shatter, his eyes revealing a hint of misery. “If you’re jealous, Fox,” she said quietly, “just say you’re jealous.”

Conflicting emotions waged a war on his face. Caution. Frustration. And then he visibly gave up the battle, standing in front of her naked with honesty. “I’m jealous as fuck.” He seemed to be having a hard time getting breath into his lungs. “You’re . . . my Hannah, you know?”

She tried very hard not to tremble or make a show of what was happening inside her. But there was a Ferris wheel turning at max speed in her stomach. Did he really just say that out loud? Now that he had, now that it was out there, she couldn’t disagree. She’d been his for months. Don’t freak out and put him back on guard.

Instead, she went up on her toes. “Yeah. I know,” she whispered against his mouth.

Fox let out a relieved breath, his color returning gradually. He looked like he was right on the edge of making another admission, saying even more, his chest rising and falling. He wet his lips, his gaze raking over her face. But before he could say a word, the door of the booth was kicked open and out came Alana, stomping into the lounge area. “All right, folks.” She clapped her hands twice. “Let’s talk shanties before these two start making out, yeah?”

* * *

Dealing with her imposter syndrome on the heels of Fox’s admission was no small task. Hannah felt pulled in several directions, acutely aware of the man stationed like a pillar at her side, his exposed energy vibrating like a raw nerve, while also determined to watch her artistic vision come to life.

Who was she to give an opinion on musical arrangements?

But after the third take, there was something not working about the refrain in “A Seafarer’s Bounty.” It fell horizontal in the middle, and as a listener, her interest flatlined, too, when it should have been absorbed. The band seemed satisfied with their angle, and, man, they were so good. Way better than she should have expected on short notice. Why not just be grateful and move on?

She stood beside Fox in the corner of the control room, listening to the song’s playback over the speaker, while on the other side of the glass, the band was visibly preparing to start the next song. Running through the lines individually.

Could she just interrupt the process with an opinion that might be totally wrong?

“Just tell them what’s bothering you,” Fox whispered in her ear, laying a lingering kiss on her temple. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“How can you tell something is bothering me?”

He studied her face, almost seeming like he was battling the weight of his affection, nearly making Hannah’s legs liquify. “You get this expression on your face when you listen to music, like you’re trying to climb inside it. Right now, it looks like the door is locked and you can’t get in.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, an ache moving in her breast. Unable to say more.

Fox nodded at her, his own voice strained when he said, “Kick it down, Hannah.”

Adrenaline rippled up through her fingertips, along with a white-capped wave of gratitude. Urgency rushed in and she didn’t hesitate a second longer. Approaching the microphone that extended up from the mixing desk, she pressed the button to talk. “Alana. Guys. The refrain on ‘A Seafarer’s Bounty.’ When we get to ‘trade the wind for her,’ can we pause and embellish a little? How do you feel about drawing out the word ‘wind’ on a four-part harmony?”

“Make it sound like the wind,” Alana called back, forehead wrinkling in thought. “I like that. Let’s run through it.”

Hannah let go of the talk button and exhaled in a rush, exhilaration coasting down from the crown of her head, down to her feet. When she leaned back, she knew she would land against Fox’s warm chest, their fingers weaving together just like the music, rivaling the thrill of the band’s next version of “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”

She’d been right. That one addition and it soared.

After that, the day was nothing short of a fairy tale.

In no way did the Unreliables live up to their name. In Hannah’s head, they would henceforth be called the Reliables, but she sensed they’d be offended if she legitimized them, so she kept it to herself.

Sitting beside Fox on an old love seat, she listened to the band sing her father’s songs about the ocean, tradition, sailing, home. At one point, Fox left and came back with tissues and only then did she realize her eyes had gone misty.

It sounded like a cliché, but they brought the words to life, made them curl and dance on top of the page, infusing them with sorrow and optimism and strife.

Alana seemed to feel every note, as if she’d known Henry personally, and lived through the triumphs and tragedies of his songs with him. Her band anticipated her and adjusted on the fly, boosting her, supporting her as she wove. Magic. That was how it felt to take part in the creative process. As an obsessive listener of music, Hannah had benefitted from that kind of inventiveness since she could remember, tucked away in the worlds turning inside her headphones, but she’d always taken it for granted. She couldn’t see herself doing that ever again.

They ordered lunch in to the studio, the band members telling Hannah and Fox stories from the road. At least until they found out Fox was a king crab fisherman and then all they wanted were his stories. And he delivered. Brushing his thumb up and down the base of Hannah’s spine, he recounted the close calls, the worst storm he’d ever seen, and the pranks the crew played on each other.

On the next take, there was even more flavor to Alana’s vocals. Hannah and Fox watched it happen from outside the booth, his arm settling around her shoulders and pulling her close. He performed the action as if testing it, testing them both, and then one corner of his mouth edged up, his hold tightening with more confidence.

“Your stories did that,” Hannah managed, nodding at Alana, then looking up at Fox to find him staring back down at her. “Do you hear that note of danger in her voice? You inspired her. The song is richer now because of you.”

Fox stared back at her stunned, then moved in slowly to lay a kiss on her lips. With the sides of their bodies pressed together, they let the music wash over them.

Hannah wanted to stay and listen to them record the entire demo, but Fox had to leave in the morning, so they parted ways with a round of hugs, well-wishes on their tour, and a promise to have the digital recording files to Hannah the next day. She didn’t realize her fingers were intertwined with Fox’s until they were halfway to his car. Overhead, clouds were beginning to thicken in the early evening sky, as they were wont to do in Seattle, passersby on the sidewalks carrying umbrellas in preparation for the moisture collecting in the atmosphere.

Their earlier conversation came back to her in stark clarity, and the thoughtful expression on Fox’s face suggested he was thinking about it as well. Would they pick up where they left off?

Doubtful. He would pretend it never happened. Kind of like this morning when he’d tried to gloss over the gravity of the prior evening by making pancakes and greeting her oh-so-casually.

Fox hit the button on his key ring to unlock the car door, opening the passenger side for Hannah. Before she could let go of his hand and climb in, he held fast, keeping her upright.

“If you’re up for a detour . . .” he said, twisting one of her flyaways around his fingers and tucking it behind her ear. “There’s somewhere I want to bring you.”

His face was so close, his eyes so breathtakingly blue, her body so attuned to his size and warmth and masculine scent, that if he asked her to swim to Russia with him, she’d have vowed to give it the old college try. “Okay,” she murmured, trusting him a hundred percent. “Let’s go.”