Page 6 of Don't Think

Butterflies erupt in my stomach while I stammer. “A-Allie,” I say, nervously placing a hand across my chest. “Allie Windsor.”

“Well, Allie. Allie Windsor,” he repeats, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jax. Jax Owens.”

A laugh bubbles out of me at his teasing as I slide my hand into his. The moment our palms meet, a spark from the cart zaps us both, but he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he just tightens his grip.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Allie,” he says with a slight bow of his head.

When he pulls away, I stay frozen in place, watching him walk off—still half expecting someone to pop out from behind a shelf and yell that I’m onPunk’d.

We were supposed to meettomorrow. That was the plan. Yet somehow, I just had my own personal meet-and-greet in the wine aisle of a random Boston grocery store.

If only it could have beenwithoutthe bodily harm.

Chapter Two

Jax

Roses.

That’s the first thing I noticed about her. The way she smelled like she just walked through an overgrown garden of roses.

When I felt that sharp, searing pain heat behind my ankle, I was initially pretty pissed off. I mean, who wouldn’t be? It’s definitely not an experience I would recommend.

Thankfully, though, for the first time in well over a year, I woke up in a relatively decent mood. So I swallowed the bark I could feel bubbling in the back of my throat.

Then when I turned around and was met with a beautiful woman with hair the same shade as copper and doe-like blue eyes, it suddenly felt like that same garden that surrounded her, somehow transferred over and swallowed me whole. The second I felt my lips curve into a smile from watching her stammer foran apology, I realized I had a newfound love for the smell of roses again.

The smell lingered the entire drive back to the hotel, and still does even now as I stand in the doorway with my foot barely inside the room.

James scrambles from his stool at the island, rushing toward me before he stops and looks at me expectantly. His short, black hair is sticking up in just about every direction, looking like he just rolled out of bed. Although, knowing him, he probably did.

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s up, bud?” I ask, letting the door swing shut behind me.

He gestures toward the bag that’s dangling from my index finger.

“So, is it… still in the car?” he asks, craning his neck to look behind me as if something’s magically going to appear.

I look from the bag, to him, then back to the bag when it suddenly dawns on me.

The entire reason I went to the store was to grab more beer.

I tip my head back with a groan and drag a hand down my face. “Shit. I forgot, man. I’m sorry—”

He doesn’t let me finish before he snatches the bag from my hand and wrestles one of the bottles free. Holding it up, he narrows his eyes at the label and scoffs loudly.

“How are we supposed to get wasted off”—he pauses to double-check the label—“Moscato?”

Before I can say the smart-ass answer that’s on the tip of my tongue, the door swings open and in strolls our manager, Don.

When we arrived in Boston, the label warned us they’d stick us with someone right from the get-go. What they failed to mention was that he’d be up our asses twenty-four-seven, hovering like a bloody vulture.

Technically, we’re not even supposed tohavea manager yet since we aren’t set to hit the road until after the record drops.But since another band screwed up their deal and couldn’t fulfill their album, noweveryonehas to be babysat.

Yippee for us.

“What’s with the yelling?” he asks, still standing by the door with his nose high in the air like he smells something rancid.

Gareth shuffles into the kitchenette, looking just as disheveled as James, and pours himself a glass of scotch.