I zoom closer to draw attention to his profile—a snapshot of a little boy living his dream. Only now he has eyebrow rings and ink on his temple. This time he looks up to play-snarl at the camera, and I laugh.

After I get a little more footage of him, I ease the shot away to show the rest of the bus. The kitchenette, and then the heavy curtain to the hallway. Except the screen doesn’t show the black fabric. I still when I land on tan skin stretched tight over carved pecs. Lower are hard abs, and then black ink disappears into sweatpants hanging off his hips, leaving only the top half of the word visible.

I figured it out when Foster pulled up his shirt for the mic pack. The word was like a spike in my chest, dragging the memory out of me regardless of how deep I tried to lock it away.

“You think you know me so well? Then describe me in one word.”

Restless.

“I won’t be once I get to you.”

My eyes lift to a faded blue pair, watching me over my camera. Foster has a lazy look to him, effortlessly sexy in a state women would kill to see him in, with his hooded gaze all on me. My lips part as I draw in a breath, but I swear he drains the air from the entire bus, or at least the air that was feeding my lungs.

We haven’t said a word to each other since he bailed on his interview at the label. I haven’t even pushed to try again. Partly because the tour started up again and he’s had zero downtime. Mostly because I can’t be alone with him until I see him as Adams.

Given the way my chest fucking burns from not breathing right now, I’d definitely say I’m in a staredown with Foster West.

“Morning, sunshine,” Colton says from behind me.

Foster’s jaw clenches as his attention rises over my head to his best friend, but it lowers back to me before he rasps, “Hey.”

His gravelly morning voice skates over my skin, rough and jarring enough I lower the camera, along with my eyes. Avoidance is the only escape I have right now.

While I set the camera on the cushion behind Colton’s feet, Foster walks to the kitchenette. I’m fighting not to look again when Dev hisses, “Shit.”

The bassist has already set his mug on a table. He flings himself off the couch to his knees, and then he walks on them to me. Stopping beside me with a defeated look, he holds out the bottle and his left hand.

Of all the experiences I’ve had in this industry, a musician basically pleading me with his eyes while on his knees for me to paint his nails is somehow one of the more surprising.