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

The ride home was quiet.

They returned to the church hall to say a quick good-bye to Charlene, and then Fox held Hannah’s hand all the way to his car. He opened the door for her like they were on a proper date, a muscle flexing nonstop in his cheek. Charged silence followed as he got them back onto the highway. What was he thinking?

What was she thinking?

Her thoughts were in disarray, like a tornado had blown through.

That kiss.

Holy hell.

The one they’d shared at the cast party was the gentle opening notes of “The Great Gig in the Sky.” But the one against the church wall was that wailing solo three-quarters of the way through the song. The one that never failed to make her want to wax poetic about the complexity of women and their turbulent hearts.

And speaking of turbulence, there was no better description for what Fox’s skilled mouth had done to her. Her body had responded like a flower finally being given sunlight, desperate and starved. Even now, she could still feel the zap of electricity in her fingertips, the dampness on the seam of her jeans.

Once I’m good and deep, I don’t think I’ll be able to slow down.

At the memory of that blunt pronouncement, Hannah turned her head and moaned soundlessly into her shoulder, the intimate muscles below her waist catching and releasing. Were they going home to have sex? Was that what she wanted?

Yes.

Obviously.

There was little doubt that sex with Fox would be mind-blowing. She’d known that since meeting him last summer. But if he thought they didn’t have a reason to talk first? To solve some things? He was out of his ever-loving mind. Their relationship was a complicated riddle that got more confusing every day. They were good friends, highly attracted to each other. They’d behaved like a couple tonight, no denying that. No denying how much she’d liked it, too. Holding his hand under the table, sharing private jokes with their eyes, no words necessary.

Her feelings for Fox were growing at an exponential rate, with no signs of slowing down, and she could only liken it to heading for a steep waterfall in a kayak. Hannah might mean more to Fox than the average girl, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be more than friends.

Charlene’s flinch popped into Hannah’s head, and she traced her eyes over Fox’s stiff jaw, his hair made messy by his own fingers. And not for the first time, she saw someone who was scared. His expression reminded her of the afternoon she’d turned him down in the guest room, stripped him of his sensual power. She saw that same trepidation now. Like maybe . . . maybe he did want to be the man who held her hand at bingo and drove her to Seattle, but flinches and leather bracelets and hang-ups from the past got in his way. Made him doubt he could do it.

Was she reaching?

Hannah dragged her eyes off his perfect profile, watching the windshield wipers move in their rhythmic pattern on the glass, catching the obscuring rain and smoothing out the view, making it clear so they could move ahead. Doing it over and over again until the rain finally stopped.

What if she could do the same with Fox?

Stay steady, unwavering until his view cleared?

Was she strong enough for that?

Forget strong. Trying to lure this man out of bachelorhood was flat-out self-destructive, and it could end with her heart in tatters. Although walking away, going back to Los Angeles, as if Fox wasn’t claiming more and more acreage in her heart, seemed infinitely worse than trying.

Oh boy. A sign for Westport passed on the side of the road, but it might as well have said Trouble Ahead.

Hannah swallowed hard. “So, um”—she clutched the nylon of the seat belt—“are you sure about driving me to Seattle in the morning? I have no idea what to expect when I get to the studio. Could be a lot of waiting.”

“I’m sure, Hannah.” He cut her a sidelong glance. “Now ask me what you really want to ask me.”

Her stomach flopped over at the continual proof that he knew her so well. “Okay.” The pulse at the base of her neck sped up. “You, um . . . we . . . um . . . You know, that was definitely kind of foreplay back there, right? Like, you asked if I’m a virgin and that seems like, yeah, you were checking for a reason. A reason like sex.”

His long fingers stretched on the steering wheel, then gripped it seemingly tighter. “That’s accurate enough. Keep talking.”

“Well. I guess I’m wondering what would happen after. After we did that. If we did that.”

He rolled a shoulder. “Wait for me to get hard again. Hit a different position.”

“Fox.”

“Hannah. I can’t answer what I don’t know,” he said through stiff lips. “What do you want me to say? Do I want to fuck you? Yes. Oh my God, I”—his eyes closed briefly, those fisherman’s hands flexing on the steering wheel—“I want you underneath me so bad that I can’t lie in bed without already feeling you there. I’ve never even had you, and your body haunts mine.”

That took the breath right out of her lungs, leaving her winded. Thank God he kept going, because there was no chance of her speaking with that statement hanging in the air. Your body haunts mine.

“Look”—his chest rose and fell hard—“it’s better if we don’t. You wouldn’t believe how much it kills me to say that. But the fact that you’re already asking me what happens afterward is a good sign it’s a bad idea. Because what happens afterward, Freckles, is I usually call a cab and get the hell out.”

“Why?”

“I guess . . . so I can own the fact that I’m just about sex . . . before they do. All right?” he said in a burst. “I’d rather leave instead of seeing that look on anyone’s face ever again. Almost like . . . Wow, how cute. The pretty boy thought this was more than a quick fuck. Owning who I am is easier than getting hit with the proof that I’ve been used. No one gets to make me feel shitty. And it’s not just the women making me feel like a joke. It’s . . .”

“Keeping talking,” she said, forcing herself to take in the hard confession, to keep treading water for him so he could let it all out. “Who else makes you feel that way?”

It took him a moment to continue, his gaze pinned straight ahead on the road. “When I get a text or a phone call in front of the crew, if I even hint that I might not be interested in whatever empty hookup is being thrown into my lap, they treat me like something is wrong with me. It’s always been like that. The male pressure to live up to this expectation—and I don’t even know when the hell it was set.”

Heat pressed in behind her eyes. This was not okay. None of it was okay. But she wanted, needed, to know the name of every ugly truth swimming around inside him. “It’s wrong every time someone makes assumptions about what you feel or want. You set your own expectations for yourself and there’s nothing . . . less masculine about saying no, if that’s what they’re putting on you. Jesus. Of course there isn’t.”

His throat worked long and hard. So long she wasn’t sure he was going to respond. “If I’d met you in college, Hannah, I could have excused the shit I did before. Chalked it up to wild oats or something—and been your man. Through and through. But now I’ve just been doing this so damn long. I’ve . . . paved over whatever chance I had at a clean slate. I’ve become what people seemed to want me to be. I’ve earned my reputation, and as good as you are, as sweet and fucking wonderful as you are, Hannah, I don’t want to be the one thing you fail at. Or the choice you question.” He cursed under his breath, pushed restless fingers along the back of his neck. “I won’t kiss you again. I shouldn’t have done it tonight. I know better. If we weren’t interrupted . . .”

When he threw the car into park, she realized they were already outside his building, the ocean whitecaps appearing and disappearing across the road.

Silence dropped like a knife in the car, nothing to fill it except the lap of waves on the rocks and their accelerated breathing.

“Even if we weren’t interrupted tonight, we’d still be having this conversation,” Hannah said.

He was already shaking his head. “Why? What are you trying to get out of this little chat?” His mouth twisted, and she saw something in his face she’d never seen before. Something she couldn’t quite name. “Anyway, you’ve obviously got the director hooked now.” His swallow was loud enough to drown out the waves. “Maybe . . . maybe you should focus on that. Him.”

“I turned him down,” Hannah said. “When he asked if we could go out once we’re back in LA, I said no.”

It was blatantly obvious how hard he tried to hide his relief, but she saw it. She saw it blare through him like a siren, tension melting from his muscles, his eyes, his jaw. And she knew that unnamed emotion she’d seen before had been jealousy. “Well,” he said, stiffly, after a few seconds had ticked by. “Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. Sex is the only satisfaction you can get from me.”

“No. It’s not.” Her voice shook. “I get satisfaction from holding your hand. Hearing you sing. Being your friend—”

“Being my friend?” He scoffed. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not going to fuck, because you’d just be another hookup to me afterward.”

Hannah recoiled like she’d been slapped, shock and hurt punching a hole in her throat. Blindly, she reached for the passenger-side door handle and pulled, throwing herself out of the car. Ignoring his panicked call of her name, she took the outside stairs leading to his second-floor apartment two at a time, accelerating when she heard his steps pounding behind her.

She reached his door, her hands shaking as she tried to locate the apartment key in her pocket. She found it but never got the chance to slide it into the lock, because Fox was behind her, wrapping her tightly in his arms, drawing her back against his chest. Hard. “I didn’t mean that,” he said into her hair, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “Please, Freckles. You need to know I didn’t mean that.”

Thing was, she did know.

There was the pink Himalayan salt lamp, hidden record player, introducing her to his mother, singing the shanty for her, offering to drive her to Seattle. The Fleetwood Mac record. Seven months’ worth of texts. Even the way he was holding her now, his breath racing in and out, like he’d break down if she stayed mad. She knew he didn’t mean the hurtful thing he’d said. She knew. But that didn’t mean his dismissive words didn’t sting.

Hannah realized in that moment that she could run away from the potential hurt that would come from fighting for Fox. Or she could hold her ground. Refuse to back down. Which would it be?

Fight. Like a leading lady.

He was worth it.

Even if a relationship between them wasn’t possible or couldn’t work out, she wasn’t going to let the hideous beliefs inside him fester forever. She refused.

There wasn’t a label for what they were to each other. Friends who burned to sleep together didn’t quite communicate the gravity of what existed between them, waiting to be unearthed. But she knew this wasn’t about curing him or being the best supporting actress. She wasn’t falling into a pattern. Being supportive, as she’d done so many times in the past, was easy. So easy. As was being on the periphery and not an active part of the narrative. But this time, the consequences of her actions in this story could determine her future. Not a friend’s and not her sister’s.

Hers. And Fox’s.

Did they continue their story together or apart?

She couldn’t imagine the latter. Not for the life of her. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean he felt the same. Even if he did, a relationship could be too much to hope for at this stage. They could end up friends only—that was a real possibility. One that made her stomach sink to the floor. Making the decision to be the one who pushed for a future together was scary. Terrifying. It made failure and rejection a possibility. He was worth fighting for, though. If anything forced Hannah to dig in and remain strong, it was the need to prove that to Fox. To make him believe in himself.

Even if it benefitted some other girl someday—and not her. She was unselfish enough to show him what was possible. That letting someone else in didn’t have to be scary. She could do that, couldn’t she?

Hannah took a deep breath for courage and turned in Fox’s arms. She only caught a fleeting glimpse of his tortured eyes before lifting up on her toes and molding their lips together. Kissing him.

Momentarily surprised, it took him a few seconds to participate, but when he did, it was with gusto. He let out a broken, surrendering moan into her mouth, stumbling forward and pressing Hannah against the door, his hands lifting to frame her face, their mouths moving together feverishly in promise and apology.

Breaking away before it went too far might have been the hardest thing Hannah had ever done in her life, but she managed it, ending the kiss and rubbing her forehead against Fox’s, shaken by the throb of energy between them.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she whispered against his mouth.

Turning from his dazed expression, she let herself into the apartment and beelined for the guest room. She closed herself inside and slid down the back of the door, ending in a pool of hormones and resolve on the floor.

Better get some sleep. Fox and his deeply rooted doubts would still be there when the sun came up. Maybe if she had more time in Westport, she could chisel away at them little by little. Hope he’d eventually realize he was capable of a healthy commitment. She was running short on time, though. Her only option was to work with the days she had remaining.

Tonight he’d told her his modus operandi was to leave before any woman could demean him. Well, Hannah wasn’t going to allow that. She could show up after their argument, after the hurtful words and revelations, and prove their relationship was resilient. That he could be part of something stronger than the pull of the past. That she could look him in the eye and respect him and care. She could show up, period. That was what she’d been doing all along, perhaps subconsciously, and she wasn’t getting off course now. Hopefully she would leave Fox with the belief, the possibility, of more.

The courage and confidence to try again.

Hannah’s eyes landed on the folder of sea shanties resting on her bed.

Yes, tomorrow she’d fight, in more ways than one.