CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

I make it five steps down the hall-back toward the bouncers and the rope and the hallway filled with fans, before Luca calls after me. "Cassie-hold up."

I hesitate, but take another few steps away from him. If I stay...if I stay I might make a huge mistake.

"Hey-stop." He catches up to me, grabbing my arm to pull me around to face him. "Where are you going?"

"Home." I can't meet his eyes.

He mutters, "Shit," a split second before the hallway behind us erupts in screams. Luca's name is screeched so loudly I feel like my ears are going to bleed.

"Come on." Luca's mouth moves from inches away from my face, but his words are muted against the raucous wailing behind us. He tugs me with him-past the room we've just come from until we get to a door with his name next to it on the wall. He flings the door open and drags both of us inside, letting it slam shut behind him.

I shake my head and rub my ears to clear some of the deafening echoes still rattling around in them. Luca's standing a little too close for comfort; I can feel the weight of his presence him against my back, though we aren't touching, so I step forward into the room.

It's smaller than the band's. The walls are a deep maroon color-and a faint hint of a fresh paint scent lingers in the air. I wonder if he put in the request for the color, which would be a weird demand-but far from the strangest I've ever heard. Cushiony-looking couches fill the space, with two matching armchairs and a few scattered stools and a sleek brown coffee table between them all. Two huge, flat-screen TVs hang in the back corners of the room, and there's a row of long vertical mirrors on the wall between them-each glass panel is lined with vanity bulbs and rests just above a thin black dressing table.

The room is nice, but...not that much nicer than the band's. I'm thinking Polly has a bit of a warped impression of Luca. I wonder why.

"Jesus," I say when my ears finally stop feeling like they're full of cotton. The door behind us blocks some of the noise, but not all of it. "How do you deal with that?"

"That's nothing, believe me... I actually kind of love it," he admits. Then, when I turn to look at him, he frowns at me and steps closer. "Where were you going?"

Don't stare at his frown. Don't think about his lips. "I didn't want to interrupt you and Vera."

"We were just talking..." The corners of his mouth tilt up. "Are you jealous?"

"No!" I wish he'd move back an inch or two. I'm finding it very, very difficult to think.

"I thought you wanted me to talk to her."

"I did. I do. Wait-did you leave her sitting there by herself? You have to go back."

"No." He stares at my face, the pressure of his gaze making my cheeks tingle. "I've wanted to get you in here all night."

I take a step away from him. "Listen. I didn't come here for whatever you take girls back here for."

"What?" Confusion wrinkles his brow. "What are you talking about?"

I want to tell him what Polly said-but I just shake my head. "I just thought it'd be cool to hang out for a little bit after the show."

"Exactly. And?" The wrinkle deepens as he studies me and then reverses as his eyes widen in comprehension. "Oh, Cassie, come on. Have a little faith. I want to hang out. Talk."

"You told me you were hitting on me." I freeze mid-breath when his warm, vanilla cinnamon scent hits me. He smells delicious. I find myself, again, wanting to lick him.

"I was. I am." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully gelled coif. "But I'm not an asshole. I can see the panic across your face. If you're not into it, let's just chill."

"I'm not saying I'm not into it." Oh, God. What am I saying?

"I can see that, too." He's so smug.

"That's not what I meant to say." In an attempt to regain some balance, I turn away from him and point toward the mirrors along the back wall. "Is this where you do your pretty, pretty makeup?"

"Maybe." His smile comes through the tone of his voice. His hand wraps around my hip and I straight-up jolt further into the room and that smile becomes a laugh behind me. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I stroll as casually as I can through the middle of the room, weaving through the couches and stools and square silver side tables. I can feel his gaze against my back. My breath hitches, but I swallow it down and just keep taking in the surroundings.

"So what sort of things do you have on your list of demands for venues?" I still can't make myself turn back toward him. I point, instead, to a small refrigerator against the wall. "What would I find if I opened that?"

"Nothing too crazy." His voice drapes silkily across the back of my neck. "Tea. Honey. Hummus and vegetables... Throat drops."

"Throat drops?"

"Gotta keep the vocal chords oiled," he explains.

Makes sense.

"It pains me to say this, but I've got a sore throat," comes out of my mouth in the lamest dad joke voice ever.

My body completely freezes where I stand. Oh God. My dad never even told dad jokes-I don't know where it came from. I want to crawl into a deep, deep, embarrassment-hiding hole.

And Luca? From behind me, he starts to laugh. Chuckling at first, but like an avalanche it picks up speed and size.

It takes me about a year to turn around and face him, and when I do I mean to keep my cool, to raise an eyebrow in a mock glare, but instead I start to laugh, too. Because he's just completely lost it. Like he hasn't laughed this hard in ages.

"It wasn't that funny," I say, unable to keep from wearing what I know is a ridiculous grin.

"No, it wasn't," he says, wiping a hand across his face. "But your voice, going all husky and deep-was that...was that a dad joke? Your dad impression?"

"Not my dad, in particular." The heat I feel in my cheeks spreads down my neck. At least he got the dad thing.

"You're so freaking...cute." He laughs a little more, giving the smallest shake of his head, like maybe he doesn't use the word cute all that often. I'm not sure what to make of it.

"Yep, that's me," I say, drolly. "The cutest." I don't think I've been called cute in...well, ever. At five and a half feet, I'm a little too tall to qualify. With too many curves. "Glad to provide so much entertainment."

If I'd ever imagined having a conversation with Luca James-which, honestly, I hadn't until meeting him-I could've played out a million different scenarios and never come up with this one.

Of course, in my head, I wouldn't have been as clumsy around him as I've been, either.

"I'm not usually so..." My words drift off when I notice something else. Behind the chairs to my left is a long white table draped in a sheet. "Is that a massage table?"

His expression goes adorably sheepish. "Yeah."

"Wow. You require a masseuse? Is that something that goes in your contract?"

"My manager arranges perks like that."

"I'm sure they're very hard to accept."

He shrugs. "Other musicians relax-or get hyped-with drugs before shows. A massage seems kind of tame, if you ask me."

"Your anti-drug campaign is pretty great," I admit. "I bet your rock star appeal keeps a lot of teens off drugs."

"Interesting." He studies me, his head tilting a bit to the side.

"What?" I hate the way his stare makes my neck tingle with the heat of a flush.

"I think this is the first time you've noted anything about me without some sort of condescension."

"I have a lot of respect for what you're doing," I say, simply. "It means a lot to me, and I'm sure it does to a ton of other people."

"That's the goal." He glances away for a moment, and his cheeks tinge with the faintest whiff of pink. What I've said matters to him. Which makes it matter even more to me.

"What made you...I mean, I feel like drugs are part of the whole rock star territory. What made you take on the cause?" I ask.

"The money," he says, with a disarming grin.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right. You don't have to tell me."

"I will..." He smiles, but for the first time it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't talk about it with a lot of people, but I had a girlfriend-years ago, when Gold Rush was just breaking out-and she...had a problem. A big one. It didn't end well." He pulls out his phone, turning it over in his hands, like he can't keep them still.

"I'm so sorry." I can't read his expression now, but I know it all the same. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to remember. For a moment I feel closer to him than I've felt to anyone in a long time.

A pause yawns between us. It's not uncomfortable; time's shifting a few things around in the way we regard each other and needs a second to do so.

Then Luca tosses his phone onto a couch and his features rearrange into something much more playful, more mischievous.

He gestures toward the massage table. "You know, I've picked up a few tricks of the trade."

He takes a slow, calculating step toward me.

Another step.

And another.

Move back. I should move back.

But I don't.

"I'd be happy to practice them on you." He reaches toward me, scrunching his fingers in and out.

"No. I'm good, thanks." The words leave my mouth so fast they almost blur together.

"Hmmm. I like this, by the way. Very pretty." He tugs at the skirt of my dress.

"Thanks," I murmur, trying oh so very hard not to give away the fact that beneath the fabric my knees are trembling.

He releases my skirt and I release the breath I'd been holding. "You sure about that massage?"

"I thought you said you could see my panic."

"It's not there anymore."

No, he's right, it isn't. Instead the nerves along my skin are pricking me with the most delicious nips of anticipation. It's all I can do not to wring my hands together to temper it.

It's all I can do not to jump him.

He slides closer.

I swallow and stand my ground.

What am I doing?

"I want to feel your skin." His words are soft, his tone sensual. He doesn't move, just watches my face. "Can I touch you?"

"Uh..." I should say no, that I don't want him to touch me. Except...I want him to touch me so bad it almost hurts. Breath makes a tunnel out of my mouth, whooshing out from my lungs. "Uh..."

He reaches halfway out, his fingers extended toward the side of my leg where my hand is resting. My palm tingles with the need to take his hand. He leans a little closer and his next words are low and husky. "Say yes."

His mouth is mere inches from mine. I try so hard not to look at it. Not to lick my lips. I fail. "Yes."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

The instant I tell Luca he can touch me, my blood catches fire in anticipation. For a moment, he makes me wait. Nothing changes in his face. Nothing changes in his stance.

But then his fingers slide over my skin in the lightest of touches.

He traces a lazy circle along the top of my wrist.

The trembling in my knees travels to other areas of my body. My arms. My belly. Places a little lower...

He slides the pads of his fingers slowly along my skin, stopping just above my elbow, and wraps his hand around my arm to pull me closer.

"Luca." I tug half-heartedly against his grip, but he doesn't let me go.

"Cassie."

"Cassidy."