Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1)

by Diamond, Jaine

  “House over on one of the islands.”

  Which island? I wanted to ask, but it didn’t feel right. He was famous. If he didn’t voluntarily tell me where his other home was, it hardly felt like my business.

  “Is this your primary residence?” I asked instead.

  “It is now.”

  “How long have you owned this place?”

  “Two months. Had a smaller one on the eleventh floor for a few years. Just upgraded when this one came up.”

  “That’s a great move. Maybe not the best timing in this market, though.”

  He looked at me, finally. His expression was kinda blank, but cold blank, like he didn’t appreciate my assessment.

  I broke eye contact. I glanced around the room, at the white walls, some with scuff marks on them. Original paint, possibly. The place was due for a refresh, and I loved it when potential clients were totally open to my ideas.

  But I was pretty sure this one was trying to make things difficult for me.

  “What’s the purpose of this space, besides being home?” I probed. “Like what are the main activities you do here?”

  “Sleep. Eat.” He looked me over briefly. “Fuck.” When his blue eyes met mine again… they spoke volumes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly sure what they were saying.

  I wasn’t even sure if he was flirting with me, or just amusing himself.

  He didn’t look amused.

  He looked… annoyed.

  So why was I even here?

  Was this seriously about wasting my time?

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “I write music here sometimes.”

  Okay. That was probably the first useful bit of information he’d given me. The first truly personal thing he’d said.

  “Anything else?”

  “I guess I’d like to be able to have people over. Right now, it doesn’t really feel like a place I want to hang.”

  That made sense. Besides the giant black leather couch, which had seen better days, there was only the one awkward chair and a cheap table shoved up against the kitchen bar. And a wooden crate in place of a coffee table.

  Didn’t leave much room for his braless guests to hang around.

  “Who would you have over if you could?” I asked.

  “Friends.”

  “You live here alone?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you’re single?” Purely professional interest on that one, of course.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why the new bed?

  “Old one’s worn out.”

  It wasn’t worn out. Structurally, it was fine. But I’d definitely had clients who wanted to replace perfectly good beds before, and there was always a reason for it.

  Maybe he’d been through a recent breakup? Bad memories…?

  “You want to bring women here?” I interpreted.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  “See, right now,” I informed him, “this space isn’t conducive to that.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s not welcoming to a woman.”

  He stared at me like I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “Sheets are clean,” he informed me. “Got plenty of condoms…”

  Right. Because that was all a woman needed to feel welcome.

  “You’ve got a single nightstand, no room on the other side of the bed,” I pointed out. “Single bath towel in the bathroom, on the floor. Closet is disorganized. Nowhere for your, um, guests, to put away their bras.”

  He shrugged, and his mouth curled in the tiniest hint of a dickish smile. “Guess they didn’t mind.”

  “I guess not. They didn’t seem to mind leaving their bras behind, either.”

  “Maybe they thought they were coming back.”

  “Would you like them to? Come back?

  At that, the smirk faded. “Friends,” he kinda growled. “I said I want to have friends over. Friends and fucks are two different things.”

  Wow.

  Starting to see why Daniella wasn’t so keen on this guy…

  “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to find six pennies on short notice?”

  He held my gaze, and his expression didn’t change. I would’ve sworn it didn’t. But this time I read the amusement in his eyes.

  Well, I really didn’t have this kind of time to waste, if all he was gonna do was mess with me, be rude to me, take my free consultation and blow me off.

  You deserve it. Dani blew him off.

  Jesus Christ. Where was this guilt coming from?

  I was not my fucking sister. I’d never done anything to him.

  Yet… I still felt bad for what she’d done to him.

  Damn it.

  I reached into the little pocket in my blouse, which was inconveniently located directly in front of my nipple, and dug out the pennies—while he watched. Then I laid them out on the crate between us, in a neat row. One by one…

  Six fucking pennies.

  “You are aware that the penny is a discontinued coin in Canada?” I said. “The Royal Canadian Mint ceased production of them in 2013.”

  “I’m aware.”

  Yeah. I was getting the picture here.

  Maybe ten-percent crazy? Ninety-percent asshole.

  Which meant the real issue, if I was even going to consider working for him, would be figuring out if he was an asshole through-and-through, like the kind who spat on old people and kicked puppies, or just a surface asshole who could be managed, like a spoiled child.

  “My goal as a decorator,” I informed him, “is to create a space that reflects your desires and serves your needs. If you’re here to sleep, eat, write music and… entertain… then I can make this the ideal space for you to do that. I’d be happy to pull together some ideas and show you what I have in mind for a full makeover of the space, next week. I can price it all out and give you some options, depending on how extensive you want to go. If you’re happy with what I present and you hire me, I could probably get the painters in the next week after that, and then—”

  “But you’d be working on the project, right?” he interrupted. “You’d be here?”

  That threw me a bit.

  Did he want me here?

  Did he not want me here?

  “Yes. Unless you prefer someone else.”

  “Someone else didn’t bring me six pennies,” he said, his blue eyes locked on mine.

  And my stomach did that sparkly-twisty thing again. Complete with accompanying heart flutters.

  Butterflies.

  Because I’d impressed him by bringing him pennies?

  Jesus.

  Get it together, Danica.

  “It will probably take a few days to change out the furniture and add the finishing touches,” I went on, ignoring the world’s stupidest butterflies. “Depending on how extensive a change you want. I can give you a more firm estimate on the timeline next week as well, when we meet again.”

  “Meet again?”

  “Yes. I can come by with my proposal. But in general… the good news is your home is pretty much a blank slate. I already have some ideas, and I can pull things together pretty quick. Does that sound good to you?”

  He took a long, long moment—staring at me the entire time—to answer that. “Sure.” Then he returned his attention to his phone. “Do whatever you want.”

  Uh… okay?

  Was I being dismissed?

  “Great.” I got up and collected my purse. “So lavender walls and lots of flowers are good for you, then?”

  “Do whatever you want,” he repeated. “You’ve got experience and beautiful eyes, that’s all I need.”

  “Uh, an eye for beauty, you mean?”

  “Sure.” He looked up at me, meeting my eyes again. “That’s what I meant.”

  Clearly, that wasn’t what he meant. He meant my literal beautiful eyes.

  I just stood in his entryway, feeling increasingly awkward as he held my gaze. I was blushing again, definitely, an
d this time he was here to witness it. I clutched my purse to my chest, like some schoolgirl hugging her textbooks to keep a boy from looking at her boobs.

  His eyes dragged down my body anyway, as if the purse wasn’t there—and my clothes weren’t, either. Like he could see every last inch of me.

  And I wondered if he’d gotten my sister naked.

  Shit.

  Not something I wanted to wonder about. At all.

  His eyes returned lazily to mine. “We almost done here?” he said. “I’ve got a thing.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” I stuffed my phone in my purse and stepped into my shoes, trying to look like I was about to leave anyway—instead of getting lost in his crazy-blue eyes and totally forgetting what the hell I was doing.

  “Assume you can let yourself out,” he muttered, as he looked down at his phone again. I barely even heard him over the music.

  “For sure. I’ll be in touch to schedule another appointment next week. Um, thank you.” I turned and got the hell out of his apartment.

  Actually, I banged my forehead on the door, just a bit, when I opened it. Then I dashed out into the hallway so quick, hoping he wouldn’t notice, that I tripped on the door jam and stumbled. I caught myself just as the door closed behind me.

  Holy crap.

  I straightened, slipping my purse onto my shoulder and pressing my hand to my forehead. Ouch.

  What the shit was wrong with me? I’d never been so nervous at a consultation before. And I’d once had an ex-pro football player answer the door in his underwear and remain that way throughout the entire consultation—which I cut short. Of course, that dude was a total letch, and Madeleine was so pissed when I told her, we didn’t accept him as a client.

  But this? Ashley Player wasn’t sexually harassing me. He wasn’t even flirting with me—probably? All he did was lie there on his couch and barely look at me.

  He’d definitely been trying to make me uncomfortable, though. I was sure of that.

  And it worked.

  I knew who I could thank for that.

  Thanks again, Dani.

  If only she still had a Ken doll whose head I could sever for this. Christ, but being a grown-up sucked sometimes.

  “Danica.” The door opened behind me, and I turned—to find Ashley eating a lemon wedge. “You forgot this.” He tossed something at me and I caught it; my measuring tape.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “Tell your aunt the lemon thing is pretty fucking good. I’ll take a dozen next time.” He popped the rest of the lemon wedge into his mouth, his blue eyes on mine.

  Then he shut the door in my face.

  Chapter Nine

  Ash

  The next morning, I was pretty fucking impressed with myself that I managed to haul my ass out of bed, put back a coffee and some takeout breakfast and get over to Summer’s place by eleven a.m..

  On the way, I texted back-and-forth with Danica, messaging her at almost every red light.

  Honestly, ever since she’d walked out of my place yesterday, I’d been looking weirdly forward to seeing her again. And having her in my place again.

  Or at least, my dick had been.

  Especially if she wore one of those snug blouses again, and one of those tight, ass-hugging skirts. Girl had a sweet, round ass. All her clothes should be that nude color. All the easier to picture her without them.

  After I’d met her at her office and found out who she really was, I’d definitely downgraded her in my mind from hot chick I want to fuck to annoying sister of chick who was a bitch to me. It wasn’t so much that Danica was annoying, but it definitely annoyed me that I’d embarrassed myself in front of her, and also that her sister was a bitch to me.

  After the consultation at my place, I’d upgraded her status to hot chick I’m reconsidering fucking. I’d even updated her contact info in my phone from “twin #2” to “the hot twin.”

  But she still wouldn’t admit that she was into me.

  She just kept asking me bullshit interior decorating questions about paint and stuff. Total excuse to message me. I wasn’t born yesterday.

  No one gave this many shits about wall color.

  Plus, there were the lemon wedges. A dozen of them, waiting for me at the security desk in my lobby this morning as I left the building. The dude at the desk had buzzed me to tell me they’d been delivered for me. The woman who left them, he said, had brought two wedges for him, too, in a mini box.

  I brought the lemon wedges with me to Summer’s. I wasn’t exactly gonna eat a dozen of them myself, and food this good really needed to be shared.

  When I parked in her driveway, she didn’t answer the door, so I let myself into the house with the “secret” key she stashed in the bushes for her close friends to use. Elton John’s “Bennie and the Jets” was playing quietly. Didn’t see her in the kitchen or living room, which meant she was probably somewhere down the back hall—the one that led to her bedroom upstairs.

  I put the bakery box on the kitchen counter, then lounged out on the comfy couch in her sunroom and checked my phone.

  It was actually kinda irritating how happy it made my dick to find another message from Danica.

  “Good morning.”

  I looked up to find Summer wandering out of the back hall in yoga pants and a little tank top with a long, satiny robe-thing overtop, her dark hair in a ponytail, makeup on. If I’d never slept with her and known differently from experience, I might’ve thought she slept with makeup on and just woke up looking like that.

  “Yo.”

  She drifted past me, not quite dipping into the sunroom, headed for the kitchen. “When did you get here?”

  “Few minutes ago.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “You ready to rock?”

  “Always.”

  “Ha.” She made a skeptical little snort sound.

  Some dude rolled out of the back hall. Scruffy emo hair, skinny jeans and an overly ironic Cyndi Lauper Girls Just Want to Have Fun T-shirt. Had a definite wounded-poet vibe about him.

  Where the fuck did she find these guys?

  “Hey, man,” he said when he saw me.

  “Hey.”

  “You’re Ashley Player.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Cool.”

  He headed over to Summer. They had a long, sloppy kiss while I read Danica’s text.

  Danica (the hot twin): I just want to make sure it’s the right shade in the light you have throughout the day, especially in the dining area. Warm but not too warm.

  I heard Summer walking poet-boy out to the front door, and some more kissing and mumbling, while I texted Danica back.

  Me: Its white

  Danica (the hot twin): You know how many shades of white there are?

  Me: You can show me when you come over

  Danica (the hot twin): Do you prefer cotton for your bedding?

  Me: I dont give a fuck

  Danica (the hot twin): 100% cotton is more breathable. But it gives us less color choices. Have you given any thought to the bedspread colors I sent over?

  Yeah, she’d been working on this already—last night. Friday night. She’d sent me a shit-ton of texts about it while I was drinking with Janner.

  Me: I literally dont give a fuck

  Danica (the hot twin): Do you understand what “literally” means?

  Me: I take it back. I would literally give a fuck, if you asked me for one

  There.

  Direct. Honest.

  Who could fault me for that?

  But there was a long-ass pause before she responded to that one.

  Danica (the hot twin): Okay, I respect your directness. But I’d prefer to keep things professional, if you don’t mind.

  And she protests.

  At least that was something. I’d gotten a little impatient with text-flirting all last night and waiting on her to flirt back.

  A man only had so much patience. Especially when his dick was u
p.

  Me: Hey, you started it

  Danica (the hot twin): I don’t think so.

  Me: Youre telling me you normally text clients on Friday night?

  There was another long-ass pause before her response came in.

  Danica (the hot twin): Sometimes.

  Bullshit. That was a total fucking lie.

  Thing was, she was hot enough I’d maybe let her get away with it.

  Danica (the hot twin): I communicate with clients at all hours.

  Sure she did.

  Me: You can pick the colors. No fucks given in regards to color choice. Literally

  Danica (the hot twin): So then red works?

  Me: Why red?

  Danica (the hot twin): Why not red? You told me not to wear red at our consultation. Was that a thing or were you just messing with me?

  Me: Youre the color expert. Figure it out

  Danica (the hot twin): Sure. I’ll wear a red lace teddy to our next meeting, see if you break out in hives.

  Jesus.

  Me: I thought we were keeping this professional

  I craned my neck to see the front door. Summer was still sucking face with poet-boy. I really didn’t mind if Danica wore lingerie to our next meeting, but I was getting a hard-on just semi-arguing with her about nothing, and this was not the most convenient time or place for a hard-on.

  Danica (the hot twin): Pretty sure you started it. But let’s call it even and move on.

  Danica (the hot twin): You refuse to give input, I pick everything, and then if you don’t like it, you’ll let me know. Is that how this works?

  Me: Sounds good to me