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

An hour later, Fox stood in the shadows, leaning against the fish-and-chips shop across the street from Cross and Daughters. He should have stayed home. He shouldn’t be out here trying to catch a glimpse of Hannah through the front window, his very existence seeming to hinge on just seeing her. At least one more time before he explained that he’d been wrong. Wrong to even consider that he could be good for her.

Someone walked out of the bar to light up a smoke, and in that brief second the door was open, Hannah’s laughter drifted out through the opening. His body jolted off the wall, muscles tightening like bolts.

All right, look, he was still responsible for her safety until she went back to Los Angeles, so he’d just . . . make sure she got home okay.

Was he insane? If he had one ounce of self-preservation running in his blood, he’d have gone back to his apartment and changed the locks. Drunk a fifth of whiskey, blacked out, and woken up when she’d gone.

What had he done instead?

With the words of Sanders and Deke ringing in his head, he’d gone through the motions of a shower. Put on cologne. She was in town, and there was no earthly way he could stay away. Him needing to be near Hannah was just a fact of life. But once he saw her, he had to do the right thing.

Get your head in the game.

You are breaking it off with her.

A screwdriver slid into his gut at the thought of that. Breaking it off. It sounded so harsh, when his actions were the opposite of harsh. He was preventing her from making a mistake by wasting her time on him. Signing herself up for the same lack of respect that had become a normal part of his life. He couldn’t let her move a thousand miles to be with someone who people—people who knew him—assumed would chew her up and spit her out. If his own crew thought so little of him, what would the whole town think? Her family?

So go in there and tell her.

He would . . . soon.

He’d gotten on the boat Wednesday morning on an upswing of hope. During the trip, the captain’s wheel felt good sliding through his hands, the grain rasping against his palms. For a brief moment in time, the dreams of his youth had reappeared and sunk their hooks in, but that feeling was long gone right now. With Hannah believing in him, Fox thought he could earn the same honor from the men of the Della Ray, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen. He was stuck in this place of no forward movement, boxed in by his reputation, and he wouldn’t get her caught there alongside him. No fucking way.

Fox paced a few steps on the sidewalk, still unable to see Hannah through the window. Maybe he’d go to Blow the Man Down, have a drink to settle his nerves, and come back. He started walking in that direction—and that’s when he saw her.

Standing at the bar inside Cross and Daughters.

First, he saw her face, and his heart dropped into his stomach, a ripe tomato hurtling down a hundred-foot well and splattering at the bottom. God. God, she was beautiful. Hair down, curling in places he’d never seen it curled before.

He knew that expression on her face well, that mixture of earnestness and distraction, because she probably couldn’t help listening to the music, repeating the lyrics in her head, the words derailing the course of whatever conversation she was having. In this case, a conversation with a man.

Not Sergei, but an attractive, actor-looking type.

Fox ran his tongue along the front of his teeth, his throat drying up.

Don’t you dare be jealous when you’re about to end things. She’d be back in LA soon talking to millions of men. There would probably be a whole herd of them waiting on the highway off-ramp, full of the right words and good intentions and—

And that’s when he noticed the little turquoise dress.

“Ah, Jesus,” he muttered, changing directions again. Moving at a much quicker pace this time. Even before he walked through the door of the bar, Fox wanted a lot more than a closer look. He’d spent five lonely nights on the ship with a hard-on, his dick stiff and aching for Hannah and Hannah only. So when he started to weave through the crowd, focused solely on her, his hands were already itching, and that was not a good sign. If this hard discussion was going to be successful, those hands needed to stay off her.

Be strong.

She turned, and their eyes met—and thank God the music was loud, because he made a sound midway between agony and relief. There she was. Safe and alive. Gorgeous and all-knowing and merciful and perfect. Any man with half a brain in his head would get down on his knees and crawl toward her, but he . . . couldn’t be that man. It was especially hard to acknowledge that when her face brightened, the hazel color of her eyes deepening to a mossy copper, that heart-shaped mouth spreading into a smile.

“Fox. You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he managed, sounding like a garrote was tightening around his throat. And it was a good thing Piper was behind the bar, or he might have kissed Hannah then and there. Two seconds in her presence, and he almost ruined his plans. Would have been worth it, though. “How . . . are you?”

A glimmer of sadness ran a lap around her face—because he hadn’t kissed her?—and she set her drink down on the bar. “Good. I’m fine.” Why did she seem to be measuring her breaths so carefully? Was something wrong? “Fox, this is Christian.” She gestured to the man to his right. “He’s the lead actor in the film. He’s an absolute nightmare.”

“She speaks the truth,” purred the actor through his teeth, holding out a hand to Fox. “And you must be the one taking her away from us.”

Just when Fox thought his stomach couldn’t knot any tighter, it twisted into a pretzel. She’d already made plans. She’d made plans that would make it easier for them to be together. With Hannah standing in front of him, so familiar and sweet and soft, the word “plans” didn’t sound quite as daunting. It was when they were apart that he started to doubt his ability to execute any kind of plan. It was the doubt of others that shook him.

The leather cuff around his wrist turned into molten metal, branding his skin.

“Oh. No,” Hannah rushed to say, her face rapidly turning pink. “I mean, I . . . I’m leaving the production company. But that’s a decision that I made . . . for me. Separate from Fox. Or anything.”

Until that news came out of her mouth, Fox hadn’t truly processed the weight of it. What it meant for her. “You quit your job?”

She nodded. Breathed, “They’re going to use the songs. In the film.”

“Aw, Hannah.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, and he had to rub at the center of his sternum, the rush of feeling there was so intense. “Damn. Damn, that’s amazing. You did it.”

Her eyes sparkled up at him, communicating a million things. Her nerves, her excitement, her pleasure to be sharing the news with him. Fox sucked it down like a glass of cool water placed in front of a thirsty man.

“Yes . . .” Christian swirled his drink lazily, his attention moving back and forth between Hannah and Fox with unabashed interest. “Now she’s off to go discover more new bands and plug them into indie soundtracks. Hannah Bellinger, music broker. She’s going to be too good for me soon.”

She placed a solemn hand on the actor’s shoulder. “I’m already too good for you.”

The guy tossed back his head and laughed.

The caveman part of Fox’s brain relaxed.

There was nothing to be jealous over here. Hannah and Christian were obviously just friends. But there was still a lot to worry about. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Hannah quit her job on the heels of them discussing potential logistics of a relationship, right? Had she made the move in anticipation of them trying?

Despite his worry over that, he wanted to hear more about this new job. Music broker. What did that mean exactly? Would she be traveling a lot? Was it Seattle-based? How excited was she on a scale from one to ten?

“You’ve definitely made a lot of decisions since I left,” he said, keeping his questions to himself. Very soon, they wouldn’t be any of his business.

Hannah studied his face. “Looks like you’ve made a lot of decisions, too.”

“Lord, the undercurrents are a-flowing,” Christian muttered, regarding them. “I’m going to go make fun of the interns. You folks have fun working this out.”

Silence landed hard as soon as they were alone.

His brain repeated the speech he’d practiced on the walk through town. I’m sorry. You are amazing. My best friend. But I can’t ask you to move here. I can’t make this work.

His mouth said, “You look incredible.”

“Thanks.” She forced a smile, a fake one, and he wanted to kiss it right off her mouth. You don’t fake anything with me. “Are you going to break up with me here or somewhere a little more private?”

“Hannah.” Shock made her name sound ravaged, and he tuned his face away, unable to look at her. “Don’t say ‘break up.’ I don’t like how that sounds.”

“Why?”

“It sounds like I’m . . .”

Pushing you away. Severing our connection.

Oh God, he couldn’t do that. Might as well ram an ice pick into his heart.

“Can we mutually agree on this, please?” Fox asked, his lower body coiling tight when someone in the crowd nudged her closer, bringing the tips of her breasts up against his chest. Momentarily, he lost his train of thought. Was she even wearing a bra with that dress?

What had he been saying?

“If we both agree on this”—he swallowed the word “breakup”—“change of status, then we can stay friends. I need to stay friends with you, Hannah.”

“Mmmm.” The hurt she was trying so desperately to hide—chin lifted, gaze unwavering—gutted him slowly. “So when I come to Westport for a visit, we’ll hang out like nothing ever happened. Maybe listen to my Fleetwood Mac album?”

It took him a moment to speak. To form a response. Because what could he say to that? He’d confessed the truth to her at the Sound Garden.

I had it bad for you. If the convention didn’t make it obvious, I thought for sure the Fleetwood Mac album would do it. I’ve got it so bad for you, Hannah.

Really . . . really bad.

Was she remembering those words, too? Is that why she raised her chin another notch and delivered yet another blow to his resolve? “Look, I’m not going to fight you on this, Fox.” She rolled a delicate shoulder. “You’re ending whatever this was developing into and that’s fine. It’s your right.”

He watched helplessly and miserably as she wet her lips.

What happened now? They just walked away from each other?

Was he really strong enough to do that?

“Could you do one last thing for me?” she asked, brushing their fingertips together ever so slightly.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his temples beginning to pound.

Hannah tilted her head, and he eagerly memorized the curve of her neck.

“I want a good-bye kiss.”

Fox’s eyes flew to Hannah’s, lust racking him, along with . . . panic. Flat-out panic. No way he could kiss her and leave it at that. Was she aware of how difficult that would be? How impossible? Was that her game? Her expression was so innocent, it didn’t seem possible. Nor was it possible to deny her request. To deny her anything.

He’d kiss her here. In public, where it was safe.

Right.

Like anything about touching her was safe when he was on the verge of breaking. Shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.

Fox licked his lips and stepped closer to Hannah, his hand settling on her hip as if magnetized. His thumb encountered a very slight shape, almost like a . . . tiny strap, and he looked down, watching his fingers feel it out. “What panties are these?”

“I don’t see how that matters. This is just a kiss.”

It’s a G-string. I know it’s a fucking G-string.

Jesus, she’d look so hot in it.

“Right.” He exhaled, pulse hammering at the base of his neck. “A good-bye kiss.”

“That’s right.” She blinked at him slowly. “For closure.”

Closure.

Case closed.

That was what he’d decided. That was what needed to happen.

She’d thank him someday.

Her mouth was so soft-looking, lips parted just a touch, waiting for him to place his own on top of them. One kiss. No tongue. No tasting or he’d be a goner, because no one on the planet had her perfect flavor, and he needed the memory of it to fade, not grow stronger.

Nice try.

The memory of her is never, ever going to fade.

Fox, apparently self-destructive, lowered his head anyway, desperate to get his fill of her one last time—

A bell started ringing behind the bar, Piper yelling, “Last call. Pay up and hit the bricks, kiddies.”

Hannah tugged out of his arms, shrugging. “Oh well.”

His mind struggled to play catch-up, the fly of his jeans infinitely tighter than it had been upon walking into the bar. “Wait. What?”

Despite her flushed complexion, her tone was casual. “Bad timing, I guess.”

“Hannah,” he growled, stepping into her space, twisting his hands in the sides of her dress. “You’re getting the kiss.”

She made a wishy-washy sound. “I mean, I guess I need to grab my bag from your apartment, anyway. The bus leaves at seven in the morning.”

His head swam, stomach bottoming out, crashing straight down through the floorboards of Cross and Daughters. He’d known the bus would eventually depart, but somehow he’d blocked out that information. No staving it off now. She was going. Leaving. Her decision had been hinging on him, and they both knew he’d made it.

You’re doing the right thing.

“I’m going to change out of this dress, too,” she muttered, half to herself.

Oh, but he heard it. And definitely pictured her stepping out of the turquoise material in nothing but a G-string and heels. Definitely imagined his mouth on her skin and, Christ, that utterly perfect coming-home feeling only Hannah gave him.

Piper rang the bell again, and the bar lights flashed.

“I guess we better go,” Hannah said, breezing past him.

Worried he might very well be walking to his doom, Fox was helpless to do anything but follow.