“Musicians like you?” I cock a brow.
The corner of his mouth lifts higher, teasing me with one of those dimples. “You don’t care for fanboys, remember?”
“You’re not a fanboy. You’re trouble.”
This earns me a chuckle. “Glad we reestablished that.”
“Where are you staying?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can register what the fuck I’m doing.
“Some hotel called the Sandman? Name sounded fun. Enter Sandman. Get it?”
I grip the wheel tighter. He showed up here in the middle of a tour without his band or instrument just to stay in a hotel?
Yeah, I need to pinpoint his fucking problem. Then I can patch him up and send him on his way. Beau doesn’t belong in Dallas. He belongs out in the world, sharing his talent.
“How long you in town?” I ask.
He’s silent for a beat, and my pulse speeds up, thinking we’re finally getting somewhere with this conversation.
“Not really sure,” he admits quietly.
I throw my car into park at a stoplight so I can glare at him. “Beau.”
“It’s all good. No worries.”
Frustration curls in my chest. As many times as we hooked up, I never got to the bottom of him. He’s an ocean that hasn’t been fully explored. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe that’s why I kept taking his calls, enticed by the enigma he is.
Blue eyes meet mine. “Green light. Or you can keep staring at me if you want.”
Gripping the wheel tighter, I blurt out, “I have a spare room. Stay with me.”
He runs his hands over his thighs, visibly wearing through the worn material of his black joggers. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Why did you call then, Beau?” I demand, ignoring the wailing horns of trucks as they swerve around me.
He cranes his neck to glance out the passenger window like he’s suddenly found something fascinating in the night sky. “Don’t know.”
An uncomfortable tightness wraps around my lungs. I reach out to take his jaw in my hand, bringing his face back to me. “Cancel the hotel reservation.”
I glimpse the first shimmer of life in his eyes since he stepped off that plane. “Make me.”
As his teeth catch his bottom lip, I pop it free with my thumb. Then I dig out my phone and search for the hotel number. Putting the phone on speaker, I request a cancelation from the customer service member who answers. “What’s the name on the reservation, sir?”
“Beau Whitaker,” I reply.
Keys clack in the background, and Beau squirms in the seat. “I’m sorry. I’m not finding anything under that name. Do you have a confirmation number?”
I raise my brows at Beau.
“Must not have hit the booking button,” he mumbles.
Hanging up the phone, I shift into gear. “You’re staying with me.”
He doesn’t respond, so I take the exit toward my townhouse.
I don’t understand why he would lie about where he was staying. Where did he plan to go? Am I self-centered in my thinking that he actually came to see me?
