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

You’re off to a fine start, idiot.

After his intervention with Brendan, he’d had a few weeks to sit on the fact that Hannah was coming to stay with him. A lot of that time had been spent out on the water, the ultimate head clearer. It was going to be no problem. A girl would be sleeping in his guest room. He’d be in the other room. With no expectation of sex. Great.

Causal sex was easier than this.

Before Hannah, Fox had relied on his personality a grand total of once in his life when it came to a woman. His one and only serious relationship hadn’t gone over well, mostly because it had only been serious to him. His college girlfriend’s perspective had been entirely different. Yeah, Fox had learned the hard way that he couldn’t escape the assumptions people made about him—that he was temporary entertainment. Growing up, he’d ached to escape this town and the role his face—and to be fair, his actions—had carved out for him. God, he’d tried. But those expectations followed him everywhere.

So he’d stopped trying.

If you’re laughing with them, they can’t laugh at you, right?

Looking down at the crown of Hannah’s head, Fox swallowed hard. They were walking past Blow the Man Down, and he could practically hear every stool in the place swiveling to watch Fox escort Hannah toward his apartment. They would be making jokes. Chuckling into their beers. Speculating. And, shit, how could he even blame them? Most of the time, Fox was the one making jokes about himself.

How was Seattle? they would ask him, eager to be entertained by his exploits. Distracted from their fishing stories for a moment.

Filthy place, he’d say, winking at them. Filthy.

Now he had the nerve to put his arm around Hannah? Distractingly pretty, endlessly interesting, not-after-his-dick Hannah. They were the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood crossing the street in front of the docks, her no-nonsense bag dangling from his free hand. And when they stopped in front of his building so he could unlock the door, Fox was painfully aware of Hannah glancing back from where they’d come, hoping to catch a glimpse of her director.

He’d never been jealous over a girl in his life. Except for this one. When he’d caught sight of Sergei bundling Hannah down the stairs of the bus, his head ducked toward her in concern, that ugly green had splashed across his vision like a rogue wave across the deck, reminding him of the first time he’d heard the director’s name. His first impulse had been to break the guy’s nose—the opposite of what he should be doing. If Hannah was his friend, why would he want to mess up her budding romance?

Maybe he was jealous in a friendly way?

A total possibility.

People got jealous over their friends. Right? It stood to reason that Fox’s first female friend would be the one to inspire the feeling. He did covet this relationship, even though it scared him. If he was a scale, hope would sit on one side, fear on the other. Hope that he could be more than a hookup to her. Fear that he’d fail at it and be exposed.

Again.

“Thank you for letting me crash,” Hannah said, smiling up at him. “I hope you didn’t take down all the Baywatch posters on my account.”

“I hid them in my closet with my Farrah Fawcett centerfold.” That got a laugh out of her, but Fox could see she was still distracted by something. It took him the entire walk up the stairs to convince himself he wouldn’t make it worse by bringing it up. “So . . .” he said, opening his apartment door, tipping his head to indicate she should enter. The first girl he’d ever brought to his place. No big deal at all. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

She squinted an eye. “Did you miss the whole head-injury thing?”

“Definitely not.” If he didn’t get antiseptic on the cut soon, he was going to sweat through his shirt. “But that’s not what’s bugging you.”

Hannah walked over his threshold, hesitated like she was going to come clean, then stopped. “I was promised ice cream and a cookie.”

“And you’ll get it. I wouldn’t lie to you, Freckles.” He set down her bag by his small, two-person kitchen table, searching her face for some indication of how she felt about his apartment. “Come on.”

It was purely his nature to distract himself with something physical. One second Hannah’s feet were planted on the ground, the next he’d plucked her up and settled her onto his kitchen counter. He’d performed the action without a thought. At least until her pretty lips popped open in surprise as her butt hit the surface of the counter. The feel of her waist lingered on his palms, and he was definitely thinking then about things he shouldn’t.

Reeling his hands back, Fox cleared his throat hard. He stepped to the side to open a cabinet and removed his blue metal first-aid kit. “Talk.”

She shook her head as if to clear it. Then opened her mouth, closed it again. “Remember how I told you I wanted to assert myself more at work?”

“Yeah. You want to make a shift to soundtracks.”

She’d told Fox about her dreams of compiling song lists for films last summer, namely the day they’d gone to the record expo together. Fox remembered every single thing about that day. Everything she’d said and done. How good it felt to be with her.

Realizing he was staring into space, recalling the way her elegant fingers walked through a record stack, he wet a cotton ball with antiseptic and stepped close, hesitating only a second before pushing the hair back from her forehead. Their gazes met and danced away quickly. “Are you going to cry when this stings?”

“No.”

“Good.” He blotted the wound with cotton, his gut seizing up when she hissed a breath. “So? What happened with creating the soundtracks?” he blurted, to distract himself from the fact that he was causing her pain.

“Well . . .” She breathed a sigh of relief when he removed the soaked cotton ball. “I’m kind of a glorified serf at the production company. When a task arises and no one wants to do it, they summon me like Beetlejuice.”

“I can’t imagine you as anyone’s serf, Hannah.”

“It’s by choice. I wanted to learn the industry, then work my way up on my own merit, you know?” She watched him sort through the bandage section of his kit. “We were almost to Westport. I thought this trip could be my chance to . . . flirt with a higher position. I was just about to ask Sergei and Brinley if I could observe the soundtrack process, and that’s when Hannah went splat.”

“Oh, Freckles.”

“Yeah.”

“So you didn’t get to ask at all?”

“No. Maybe it was a sign that I’m not ready.”

Fox snorted. “You were born ready for making soundtracks. I have seven months of text messages to prove it.”

At the mention of the texts, their eyes clashed, splotches of pink waking up in her cheeks. Blushing. He had a friend’s blushing little sister sitting on his kitchen counter. Jesus Christ. Before he could reach out and test the temperature of those splotches with his fingertips, he went back to sorting through bandages.

“All right,” he said. “One missed opportunity. You’ll have more, right?”

Hannah nodded but said nothing.

Kept right on saying nothing as he applied Neosporin to her cut and laid the small Band-Aid on top, smoothing it with his thumb.

Not leaning in to kiss her when they were inches away felt foreign. Had he ever gotten this close to a woman besides his mother without the intention of sealing their mouths together? Flipping through his memories, he couldn’t pinpoint a single time. On the other hand, he couldn’t recall all the times he had kissed women. Not with any clarity.

He’d remember kissing Hannah.

No the fuck you won’t.

With grabby movements, Fox collected the Band-Aid wrapper and opened a lower cabinet so he could brush it into the trash. “Wanting to observe doesn’t seem like a big ask, Hannah. I’m sure they’ll say yes.”

“Maybe.” She chewed her lip a moment. “It’s just . . . did you notice the woman who was walking with Sergei?”

“No,” he answered honestly.

Hannah hummed, looking at him thoughtfully. “She’s the music coordinator. Brinley.” She picked up a hand and let it drop. “I can’t see myself doing anything that woman does. She’s . . .”

“What?”

“A leading lady,” Hannah said on an exhale, looking almost relieved to have gotten that baffling statement off her chest.

Fox’s confusion cleared. “You mean, she’s one of the actresses?”

“No, I mean she’s a leading lady in life. Like my sister.”

Nope, still confused. “I’m lost, Hannah.”

She fell forward slightly with a laugh. “Never mind.”

Damn. She’d only been here for five minutes, and he already wasn’t living up to the friend status. Did she not want to confide in him? It scared him how much he wanted to earn her trust.

Fox moved to the freezer and took out the ice cream. Chocolate-vanilla swirl had seemed like a surefire bet when he picked it out at the supermarket yesterday. Best of both worlds, right? Watching her reaction, he took a spoon out of the drawer and stabbed it into the top, handing her the entire pint. “Explain what you mean about Piper and this Betty chick being leading ladies.”

“Brinley,” she corrected him, laughing with her eyes.

Fox made a face. “An LA name if I’ve ever heard one.”

“You sound like Brendan.”

“Ouch,” he complained, clutching his chest. Letting his hand drop away. “An explanation, please, Freckles.”

She seemed to wrestle with her thoughts while taking a relishing bite of ice cream and drawing the spoon from between her lips slowly. Mesmerizingly.

Fox coughed and dragged his attention higher.

“I’m good at being . . . supportive. You know? Giving advice and doling out helpful suggestions. When it comes to my own stuff, though . . . not so much.” She let that settle quietly in the kitchen before continuing. “Like I can pack up, put my job on hold, and move to Westport because Piper needs me. But I can’t even ask my boss for a chance to observe? How crazy is that? I can’t even”—she gave a dazed chuckle—“tell Sergei I’ve had this dumb crush on him for two years. I just kind of stand around waiting for things to happen, while other people seem to make them happen so easily. I can help others—I like doing that—but I’m a supporting actress, not a leading lady. That’s what I meant by that.”

Wow. Here she was. Confiding in him—in person. About her insecurities. About the guy she wanted to date. This was his first heart-to-heart with a girl. No flirting or pretense. Just honesty. Up until that moment, it was possible Fox hadn’t fully grasped that Hannah really, actually, one hundred percent only thought of him as just a friend. That all those texts weren’t a unique, platonic style of foreplay. After all, she had eyes. She’d seen him, right? But there was no unspoken interest on her part. This really was just friendship. She apparently liked whatever the hell Fox had lurking on the inside. And even though he felt like he’d been socked in the fucking stomach, he still wanted to meet her expectations. Although, he suspected his ego would be purple with bruises by the time this was over.

“Hey,” he said, clearing the rust from his voice, putting another few inches of distance between them. “Look, I’ll be honest, I’ve never heard such a load of bullshit in my life. You’re supportive, yeah. The way you defended Piper to the captain? You are fierce and loyal. All those things, Hannah. But you’re . . . Don’t make me say it out loud.”

“Say it,” she whispered, lips twitching.

“You are leading-lady material.”

Those twitching lips spread into a smile. “Thanks.”

Fox could see he might have made Hannah smile, but the issues were far from solved. For one, she liked the director, and for some reason Fox couldn’t fathom, the dumbass wasn’t chasing after her with a bouquet of red roses. How could he help with that? Did he want to help her with that? It was a fisherman’s nature to plug leaks, fix problems when they arose. For another, Hannah not feeling one hundred percent happy was a definite problem in his book. “The guy was jealous, you know. Back at the bus when I came to pick you up.”

Her head came up, expression hopeful, but it faded just as quickly, unlike the knot tying tighter inside him. “No, he was just being nice,” she said, digging back into the ice cream. Chocolate side only, he noted for next time.

Next time?

“Hannah, trust me. I know when I’m intimidating another guy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Is jealous the same thing as intimidated?”

“Yes. When men are intimidated by other men, especially ridiculously hot men like yours truly—”

She snort-laughed.

“—they assert themselves. Fight to get the upper hand back. It’s a natural reaction. Law of the jungle. That’s why he wanted to get your bag. That’s why he kept his arm around you way too long.” Fox grabbed at the sweaty, icy skin at the nape of his neck. “He didn’t like that you were staying with me, and he especially didn’t like me calling you Freckles. He was intimidated and, therefore, jealous.”

Fox didn’t add that he was speaking from experience.

Intimidated by some artsy goatee-sporting guy from LA. A Russian, no less. Russians were their main competition during crab season, as if he needed another reason to dislike the motherfucker.

God, he was jumpy. “Anyway, all I’m saying is . . . he’s not not interested.”

“This is all very fascinating,” Hannah said around her spoon. “But if you’re right, if Sergei was jealous, he’ll eventually realize there is nothing happening between you and me, and he has no reason to . . . resort to jungle laws.” Casually, she poked at the ice cream. “Unless we let him think we’re sleeping together. Maybe he needs to be shaken up.”

Alarm stole downward through Fox’s fingertips. He’d walked straight into a trap. One he’d set himself. “You can’t let him think that, Hannah.”

“I was only brainstorming.” Whatever she saw on Fox’s face caused her to narrow her eyes. “But why are you so opposed?”

Trying to mask the panic, he let out a crack of laughter. “You don’t . . . No. I’m not letting you associate your reputation with mine, all right? A couple of days in this town and he’ll probably hear all about it. Trust me, if he’s worth a damn, the fact that I got to bandage your bump will make him jealous enough.”

Hannah blinked. “If he’s worth a damn, he won’t believe everything he hears. Especially about someone he doesn’t know personally.”

“Unless a lot of what he hears is true, right?” He smiled straight through that rhetorical question, trying to give the impression that the answer didn’t bother him. When she only seemed to look deeper, curious, Fox said something he immediately regretted just to distract her. To bump her off the topic of his reputation. “Have you tried letting him know you’re interested? You know, a little lip biting and arm squeezing . . .”

“Gross.” She looked him up and down. “Does that do it for you?”

Nothing was doing it for him lately. Nothing but the three little dots popping up in their text thread. And now head wounds. How pathetic was that? “Don’t worry about what does it for me. I’m talking about this guy. He’s probably clueless, and a lot of men will remain that way without a little encouragement.”

Visibly amused, she tilted her head. “Are you one of those men?”

Fox sighed, resisted the urge to scratch at the back of his neck. “Encouragement is kind of a given for me.”

“Right,” she said after a pause, something flickering in her eyes.

How did the conversation get here? First, he’s giving her pointers on landing the director, and now he’s inadvertently bragging about his luck with women? Off to a great start, man. “Look, I’m not in the relationship race and I never will be. Clearly you are. I was just trying to be helpful. Flirting with Sergei is one thing, but the bottom line is we’re not letting anyone incorrectly assume”—he sawed a hand back and forth in between them—“this is happening. For your own good, okay?”

Hannah definitely wanted to discuss it further, pick it apart, but thankfully she let it drop. “You don’t have to tell me you’re not in the relationship race,” she said, biting her lip. “I can see your apartment just fine.”

Grateful for the subject change, he breathed a laugh. “What?” He chucked her chin. “You don’t think women are into the waiting-room look?”

“No. Seriously, would an area rug and a scented candle kill you?”

Fox took the ice cream and spoon out of her hands and set them on the counter. “You’re not getting that cookie now.” He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her facedown over his shoulder, prompting a squeal as he stomped toward the spare room. “I’m not putting up with an ungrateful houseguest, Freckles.”

“I’m grateful! I’m grateful!”

Her laughter cut off abruptly when they entered her room—as he’d already begun to think of it—no doubt noticing the row of scented candles, the folded towels, and the pink Himalayan salt lamp. He’d seen it in a tourist shop window and decided she definitely needed one, but at this juncture, the purchase made him feel utterly silly.

Shaking his head at himself, Fox eased Hannah off his shoulder and dropped her gently onto the queen-sized bed, his chest tugging at the way her hair flopped down to cover one eye. “Oh. Fox . . .” she murmured, scanning the row of supplies.

“It’s no big deal,” he said quickly, backing up to lean sideways against the doorjamb. Crossing his arms. Definitely not thinking about how easy it would be to prowl over her on that bed, tease her a little more, run his fingertips along that section of skin between her hip bones and waist, flirt until kissing turned into her idea, instead of his intention all along. He knew the dance moves well.

None of them were right for a friend.

“Listen.” When his voice sounded gruff to his own ears, he forced some levity into it. “I’m heading down to the docks to load the Della Ray. We’ll be on the water starting tomorrow. Coming back Friday. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone and make me regret my first candle purchase.”

“I won’t, Peacock,” she said, lips lifting at the corners, her hand smoothing the bedspread he hoped she couldn’t tell was new. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime, Freckles.”

He started to leave but stopped when she said, “And just for the record, I would be honored to fake sleep with you. Sordid reputation and all.”

With a stone blocking his windpipe, all he could do was nod, grabbing his keys on the way out of the apartment. “Cookies are in the cabinet,” he called, walking out into the sunshine, welcoming the way it blinded him.