Read Resisting the Musician (a Head Over Heels Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) for Free Online

epitome of the particular breed of woman who’d been favored by The Rift’s record company during his last heady days with the band. They’d handled everything from liaising with hotels, to press control, to inviting girls back to the band’s rooms. Impressive women, stunning to a one, ambitious, and bulletproof.
    Saffron had been such a one.
    Skin prickling with sweat at the mere whisper of that name, Dash rocked to his feet, catching his stool before it fell. “I’m going to check on Jagger.”
    As Dash whistled for Bowie to follow, Reg opened his mouth—probably to point out that Jagger was a nut ball who could be anywhere—but in the end let him go.
    With Bowie a warm comfort at his heels, Dash headed outside where, as usual, the never-ending woods clarified things, simplified, and slowed the world right down. Reminded him as clearly as anything could that those days were long gone. That unlike the world beyond his driveway, he didn’t live by calendars or clocks anymore. Corn flakes at three in the morning, beer as the sun rose—so long as nobody was getting caught up in his shit, and vice versa, what did it matter?
    In the middle of nowhere, making sure things remained that way took very little effort on his part. Less effort than he deserved to expend.
    Saffron rose back into his mind’s eye. And Lori Hanover right along with her.
    Dash kicked a rock, the pain reverberating through his toes not enough to dislodge either woman’s image.
    They didn’t even look alike.
    The former had been petite and dark, a PR rep for the record company. The other was all legs and old-time movie-star platinum glamour. But the hauteur, the entitlement, the dagger heels?
    They were of a type.
    His type, apparently.
    Which was why Saffron had been one of several warm willing bodies he’d spent time with on the European tour. She’d known he wasn’t exclusive. The kinds of girls who cared about such things had never been for him.
    Lucky, because he’d been on the road since he was in his teens, and had realized that women tended to pin him in a crowd even before that.
    And yet, in those first blurry days after his life had imploded, Dash’d thought she hadn’t given him the news about his Uncle Pete’s collapse back in Sausalito because hurt feelings had led her to ‘forget.’ Or to hurt him back. Making it his fault.
    But removed from the haze of shock, through his lengthy legal dissociation from the band, and the record company’s insistence on deniability, the truth had come to light.
    The Rift had been days out from rocking Wembley Stadium for the first time, and when Saffron had taken the hospital’s call she’d been well aware Dash’s first instinct would have been to leave the landmark tour to be with his uncle. It had been more important to Saffron’s own career that he stay. So she’d made the unilateral decision to keep him in the dark. To allow his uncle to die alone. Not giving him the chance to say thank you. To say good-bye.
    Dash came to with Bowie licking his fingers, and rainwater—or more likely sweat—dripping chillingly down the back of his shirt. He ran a hand over Bowie’s reassuring fur, and headed back to civilization, or his version thereof.
    The view of his house settled him. Especially the shed. His Uncle Pete’s shed, moved to this place piece by piece. It had been Dash’s penance, having to look at it every day. Until it had become his salvation.
    Jagger bolted out of nowhere to nudge against Dash’s legs hard enough to nearly topple him. Bowie twitched his nose in consternation.
    Dash often wondered which of the pair was really the smarter. Bowie, the thinker, or Jagger who had not a care in the world except food and sleep. Surely that’s all a guy could ever need.
    Nearly all , Dash thought, as Lori Hanover and her spiky heels stepped over the cracks in his mind.
    In particular, that moment in the kitchen when he leaned over her to get Callie’s envelope. What had started with