“Lame.” I snort and then laugh. It takes a second for the joke to register as I’m fucking tired. “It’ll say something about how I like to play with big sticks or how you can handle the big stick.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs. “How did you not get noticed tonight?”

“I have a lot of practice at it. That, and I’m a drummer. People—”

“In the most popular band on the freaking planet.” She reaches over and rests her hand on my forearm. “You sell yourself short. Stop doing that.”

I open my mouth to speak and then bite back the history that might just come out with the words. “We should sleep,” I finally say.

“Hmm.” She’s already almost there. “I should change but I’m too tired.”

“Same.” I start to shift off the bed and she tightens her grip on my arm. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I’m that irresistible, huh? Think you won’t be able to control yourself and jump me in the middle of the night?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” I chuckle but know the thought has crossed my mind tonight.

“It’s okay. I know you want me.” Her sleep-drugged voice is as sexy as it is playful.

“I do, do I?” I play along.

“Mm. You do, but you can’t have me.” She turns on her side so that we’re face-to-face on the pillows. Her eyes are closed and her smile’s subtle.

“No? But you have my last name.”

She reaches out and presses a finger to my lips. “Shh.” Her eyes flutter back closed. Just when I think she’s drifted off to sleep, she murmurs slightly above a whisper like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the world. “Paul put cracks in me, but I have a feeling that someone like you would break me. I don’t want to be broken, Jase.”

“Why would you say that?”

Her ghost of a smile is haunted. “Because I have a feeling that’s what you do.”

My chest constricts at those words. “I won’t break you.”

“Promise?” The two syllables slur.

“I promise,” I say and sink a little farther into the bed at the sound of her sigh. “Good night, pretend wife.”

“Good night, pretend husband.”

A soft moan and the slight tug on the sheets beside me have every part of me standing at attention. I open my eyes and am met with Hendrix’s face close to mine.

And then my eyes travel. Down the V-neck shirt she has on—is that my undershirt?—that’s stretched tight over her breasts. The peaks of her nipples are pressed against the fabric, their darkened color sexy as hell.

The shirt’s pulled up, baring her stomach and a hint of something white and lacy just above the sheet pooled at her waist.

Well, then. Whew.