I’m already scooting off my stool before Ian’s face falls, making a quick getaway before he has a chance to retort. When a large hand touches the small of my back, I spin around to face him, ready to put him in his place regardless of how hot his smile is. “Look, I’m sure you—”
But then I look up. And it’s not Ian’s grey gaze that’s staring down into my brown eyes. These are eyes that I could pluck out of a crowd without even making an effort to locate them, and right now, they make me forget how to breathe just right. The deep scowl on this face literally speeds up my pulse. I tighten my grip around my drink so I won’t spill it all over my boots and his.
The sharp blue eyes glaring down into mine belong to none other than Wyatt McCrae, the man I came to New Orleans to get the hell away from. The ripped, tattooed, and dirty blonde bass guitarist for Your Toxic Sequel, my big brother’s band.
I force myself to keep my voice even. “What are you doing here?”
Wyatt leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. Despite the heat caused by all the sweaty bodies around us, I shiver when the piercing at the corner of his lower lip skims my skin. “Too f**king loud in here, Ky. Outside.”
Though I know I shouldn’t, I give him a jerky nod and follow behind him, passing my drink along to some random girl gyrating her ass on the concrete dance floor. I’m unable to stop myself from making a comparison between Wyatt and Ian, the man at the bar who backed down as soon as he started trying. Wyatt reaches back, wrapping his hand around my wrist to keep me close to him as we pick through the crowd. He doesn’t let me go until we’re outside and in the alley. Out here, I can hear not only the upbeat pop anthem playing inside the club, but music from a street festival, too.
Wyatt’s the first to say something—well, do something. He gives me an appreciative onceover, taking in all five foot four inches of me, starting at my boots and working his way up. He pauses on certain areas—my curvy hips, the tiny flash of pale skin between my jeans and green fitted tee, and my small br**sts—before stopping at my tousled blue and black hair.
“Come here,” he says. He flares his hands over my hips, drawing me close to him until our bodies rub together. Too bad for him, I’m not having it. I break our contact, stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans.
“Why are you here?” I demand furiously, confronting his dark blue gaze.
“Why weren’t you in Nashville?”
The muscles in my neck twitch. I take in a noisy breath so I won’t tell him to go shove the neck of his guitar up his arrogant, perfect ass. “I’m entitled to a vacation.”
Wyatt lets out a dangerous chuckle. “Taken the exact moment we were supposed to see each other again? That shit won’t work with me, Kylie. You were trying to avoid me. You should’ve known this was going to happen since you’ve been ignoring me ever since Thanksgiving.”
Because he’s using my full name and not Ky or Bluebird, and since we once agreed to be honest with one another—even if that truthfulness aches like a fist to the heart—I give him the closest thing to a smile I can summon. “I’m entitled to a vacation that gets me away from you because seeing you always results in me losing my head for a few days.” A sensual grin begins to creep its way across his face, and I immediately add, “And those few days always, always end with you letting me down for something or another and me wanting to knee you in the balls.”
Grasping at his chest dramatically, he stumbles backwards and winces. “You’re scary when you’re pissed, Wolfe.” When I open my mouth to correct my last name, he presses his lips flat. “Don’t even f**king think about it.”
“Or you’ll what? Spank me?”
Running his gaze suggestively up the length of my body, he says softly, deliberately, “That’s coming anyway, Ky. You know how I feel about your ass.”
Choosing to ignore that particular comment, I pull my hands out of my pockets and grab the cigarette tucked behind my ear, sliding it between my lips. Wyatt produces a lighter from his pocket and holds it six inches from my mouth. As I lean forward, I stare up at him from beneath my lashes. “How’d you find me?” I demand, taking a long inhale. Straightening my back, I support my weight against the brick wall. “Well?”
“Disable the Foursquare or I’ll do it for you,” he warns in that possessive voice that had me tripping all over myself a few years back. “Anyone can find you with that shit.”
“Funny, thought I took you off my friend’s list.”
“Didn’t take Cal off it,” he says, referring to one of his and my brother’s band mates.
“Nice.” That single word sounds like poison rolling off my tongue. I take another drag of my cigarette before dropping it to the black asphalt and crushing it beneath the heel of my boot. “Guess I see where Cal’s loyalty lies. So why’d you come?”
“Didn’t want to think of anyone else’s hands digging into that hair.” He reaches out to slide a few short strands through his fingertips. When I release a frustrated groan, he comes closer to me. “Couldn’t stand the thought of you getting drunk and wrapping those legs around someone else.”
As if to prove his point, he squeezes my thigh, flicking the tip of his thumb back and forth across the V between my legs. My snug black jeans absolutely suck as a barrier—heat speeds through my body, and I bite my bottom lip to make him think I’m still capable of breathing like a normal person.