Outrageous Proposal (A British Bad Boy Romance) (61 page)

“I do. I believe you,” I said and dropped a kiss on her lips. She returned it hungrily, pulling my face down to meet hers.

After a few minutes of tender kissing, Laurel realized her phone was still recording, dangling in her left hand behind my neck, and she laughed and brought it forward. “I should probably not include the making out in the write-up.”

“I don’t know, it might be just what
Slipstream
is lacking,” I said with a wink. “Sex sells, right?”

She turned the recording off and looked up at me. “I’m going to have to go back to New York, at least for a bit, and finish this up.”

“And then what?”

Laurel smiled shyly. “And then… then I’m coming right back here. For a long while.”

“I think I might know someone who can show you around,” I said.

She kissed me again and didn’t stop until her phone was chiming, the call of an incoming message. Laurel pulled away from my mouth and looked at her phone with an annoyed grunt.

“Just one sec, it’s my partner from the magazine.” A few finger swipes later, she pulled up his message and let out a laugh with a shake of her head.

She held up the phone to me, and displayed a photo of a fit dude with short-cropped hair sitting in a cozy dark blue first class airline seat. In each hand, he held a full mimosa, and grinned at the camera behind sunglasses like he had won the lottery.

“I guess I missed my flight,” she said, stuffing the phone in her pocket. She looked up at me with lustful, curious eyes.

As I ran my hands up her thighs, I said, “Well, what’s to be done about that?”

“
S
eriously
, man, it’s still not centered!” I laughed, waving my hands from side to side. The workers on the scaffolding above the doorway to the Graveyard Club followed my directions with only a little frustration, until I hollered and put up the okay sign with both hands. “Perfect, there! Perfect. I’ll have beers waiting for you boys when you’re done.”

The workers made their notes about the location, and then carefully lowered the brand-new, but old school-looking, neon sign for the club that had just been delivered. I wiggled around the scaffolding with care and went back inside.

Things had moved fast after the story hit the presses. It became the best-selling issue of
Slipstream
in the past fifteen years, and generated a ton of new revenue for the magazine. Noah’s reputation had recovered—and then some. Shows and reporters had lined up the first few weeks, trying to get some face time with him, but he turned them all down. He had said everything he wanted to say in my story, and he only wanted to focus on the future.

Domino was upset, but she understood when I stepped down from the magazine. She called it going out on a high note, but the truth was just that I didn’t want to sneak around my scene anymore, trying to uncover its dirt—I wanted to get back to helping it thrive, supporting the local acts, and writing culture pieces. Deathshead, one of Seattle’s oldest underground magazines, was all too happy to hire me, and I intended to take over as editor one day.

I found a house in Thornwood only a short drive from Noah’s, which I only bought after I insisted it was the right thing to do for a lifelong commitment-phobe. He understood my need for freedom; it wasn’t like we were apart for long periods, anyway. Noah was spending his time on low-key things after the stress of the festival, and most of his days, he was working the Graveyard Club with Kevin, slowly edging him into the present one upgrade at a time.

Behind the bar, Kevin was drying glasses. “Get it all okay?”

“Yeah, it’s going to look fucking amazing,” I told him. “They should have it finished in an hour or so.”

“Don’t forget to ask them to hang up some of the bug zappers we got, too. That neon light is gonna pull all the skeeters to the smokers at night,” he said, gesturing to the lamps gathered under one of the tables.

“Will do,” I promised and took a drink of water from the glass on the bar.

“Babe,” came Noah’s muffled voice from the stage. “Are you busy? Can you help me out here?”

I hurried over to find him trying to hold up one of the overhead PA speakers while he simultaneously tried to maneuver a dolly that had tipped onto its side.

“Geez, tough guy, what gives!” I teased, picking up the dolly and rolling it right underneath him. Noah lowered the speaker carefully onto the platform and stood up with an exhale. He straightened his shirt and pulled me close for a kiss.

“Thanks for helping out today,” he said. “Are you sure the mag didn’t mind?”

“Nah,” I said. “This new place is way more low-key than
Slipstream
. Besides, that was the point, remember? That I
don’t
work my ass off all the time anymore?”

“So what do you call helping fix up the Graveyard Club—a vacation?” he laughed, slapping my ass playfully.

“Ooh,” I said. “We should probably take a real one of those soon. I’m getting a little travel thirsty.”

Noah’s eyes lit up. “You too, huh? I bitched about every tour, but man… it always gave me something to look forward to.”

“Well… maybe we should plan one,” I said.

“Maybe we should!” he said, hands on his hips.

“Why are you saying that all defiantly? I’m agreeing with you,” I laughed, poking him in the ribs.

“I don’t know. You get my blood all boiled up.” He pulled me close by the waist and kissed me deeply until Kevin began cat-calling us from behind the bar.

“Back to work, you fuckin’ horn dogs!” Kevin laughed. “If I don’t get any, neither do you!”

Noah and I laughed as we parted, and I hopped off the stage to go check on the sign workers. They were still on track, and the sign already improved the curb appeal of the club. I gave them a thumbs up and returned inside, but the room was empty.

“Hey, Noah, I had this idea,” I said as I came around the corner to the back room.

I found Noah and Kevin huddled up near the sink, looking down at something Noah was holding in his hand. Something small, and something glittery. It was only a split second before they realized I was in the room, and Noah scrambled to shove his hands in his pockets while Kevin made a surprised noise and waved his towel around.

They stared at me like deer caught in headlights, not even bothering to try and explain their strange behavior. I looked to one, and then the other, my smile growing as I waited and waited for one of them to try and cover.

“You guys are…
really
bad at this,” I laughed.

Noah’s face twisted in a playful glare. Kevin started huffing and walked past me, slapping me a few times with the towel. “Hey, why don’t you mind your own business?”

Noah followed him, walking up close to me. He leaned down and in heated whisper said, “Yeah, why don’t you mind your own business, babe?”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Noah smiled and gave an evil little laugh before he dropped a kiss on my forehead and moved past me into the bar.

As I watched him go with a smile, I wondered if he realized it didn’t take an investigative journalist to figure out what a ring box in the pocket of a pair of jeans looks like.