by Karen Booth
These days, I was a freelance fashion stylist, and I would be dressing him for an upcoming magazine photo shoot. The magazine was willing to provide Spencer with one of their stylists, but he wanted to hire me instead, footing the bill himself and paying me directly. I didn’t relish the idea of working for him, but what could I do?
My career was still in its early stages, and I was in no position to turn down an A-lister. His name would look good on my resume. But even more importantly, a world-renowned photographer was booked for the shoot. If I impressed him, this could be a game changer for me. And the final kicker? I’d spent way too much money over the years, and the hefty sum I’d received from a legal settlement when I was just nineteen years old was dwindling. If I didn’t take this job and use it to my best advantage, I might never get out of the hole I created.
I drew a breath, then exited my car and made my way to Spencer’s door. It had rained heavily earlier, but it was just drizzling now.
I rang the bell, and he answered quickly enough.
Holy cow. It had been five years, and Spencer was hotter than ever. He stood tall and fit, with a naturally tanned complexion and straight, collar-length brown hair, parted on the side and swept across his forehead. His deep-set eyes were dark, almost black, and his jaw was peppered with beard stubble. He had strong features: prominent cheekbones and a wide, luscious mouth. He wore a plain beige T-shirt, threadbare jeans, torn at one knee, and leather sneakers. His left arm boasted a full-sleeve tattoo, but the ink was white, making it look like scarring against his dark skin.
“That’s new,” I said.
He blinked at me. “What?”
“The tattoo.”
“Oh, yeah.” He was staring at me as though he was having the same knee-jerk reaction that I was having to him. “How have you been, Alice?”
“Fine.” When he shifted his stance, my long-lost libido clenched. I’d been celibate since I’d shared his bed, swearing off men until the right one came along—a decision that my reckless hookups with him had obviously factored into. I’d already been using sex to fill the void inside me and being passionately consumed with him had intensified the ache.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked.
I nodded, wondering what he would think if he knew how cautious I was now. Or how badly I wanted to fall in love, get married and have babies.
He stepped away from the door, and we both went inside.
He was no longer staring at me, but I suspected that he wanted to take another long, hard look. We’d had sex in every room of his old apartment. One of his favorite activities had been doing body shots off my navel or from in between my breasts. Everything we’d done together had been hard and fast, including midnight rides on his motorcycle.
He led me to the living room, where a shiny red piano made a bold statement. His house boasted vintage charm, but was rife with contemporary updates.
He wasn’t born and bred in Nashville. He was originally from LA and never knew his father. He was raised by a single mother but somewhere along the way, she’d died and he’d moved in with an aunt and uncle. He’d only given me vague details. He knew far more about me than I did about him.
He gestured to an impressive wet bar and coffee station. “Can I get you anything?”
“That’s all right. I’m okay.” To keep my hands busy, I smoothed my top. I wore an oversize tunic, skinny jeans and thigh-high boots that served me in the rain. My bleached blond hair was short and choppy, left over from my cowpunk phase. It was the only wild side of myself that I’d held on to.
He sat across from me, illuminated by the cloudy light spilling in from the windows. My mind was whirring, working feverishly about how I was going to dress him. I envisioned a variety of looks, ranging from rebellious to refined. From what I recalled, he’d never really cared much about clothes, except when he was removing mine.
“You came highly recommended,” he said, jarring me out of my thoughts. “Kirby suggested that I hire you.”
I gaped at him. “Kirby Talbot?” The country superstar who’d destroyed my mother, who’d promised to buy her songs, but had merely slept with her instead. “Seriously, Spencer?” He knew damned well that I hated Kirby. Not only had Kirby ghosted my mother after their affair, he’d filed a restraining order against her when she’d tried to contact him again.
His heartless actions were a tragedy from which Mama had never recovered. I never got over it, either. Her depression had destroyed me when I was young. Now that I was grown up, Kirby kept trying to fix it. But I couldn’t forget the pain he’d caused.
I frowned at my former lover. I was aware that he’d written some recent hits for Kirby, but beyond that I didn’t know what their relationship entailed. “Just how chummy are you?”
“He’s actually become a mentor to me.” Spencer twisted one of the threads that looped across the hole in his jeans, then looked up, his gaze instantly riveted to mine. “I couldn’t have gotten sober without him.”
I blinked, then glanced at the bar, where bottles of liquor were clearly visible. “You’re a recovering alcoholic?”
He continued looking at me. “I’ve had a problem with it for years. Don’t you remember how drunk I used to get?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it was an addiction. I just thought you liked to party.” I was feeling foolishly naïve. All those slurred, sexy nights, all those body shots. “Why do you have a fully stocked bar now?”
“I keep it around for guests.” He ran his gaze over me. “I can resist the temptation.”
I hoped he resisted his drink of choice far better than he was resisting his renewed attraction to me. The air between us had gone unbearably thick. Temptation, I thought. So much temptation.
And on top of that, I wasn’t convinced that if push came to shove, he wouldn’t fall off the wagon. He still seemed restless to me. “How long have you been sober?”
“Two years, three months, five days and—” He removed his phone from his pocket and checked the time “—six hours.” He glanced up and laughed a little. “Give or take.”
His jokey remark didn’t ease my concern. “I’m glad you’re trying to turn your life around.” I would at least give him credit for that. “But you know what sucks? That I used to tell you what a jerk Kirby was, but you still managed to bond with him. You’d never even met him when I was with you.”
He scowled. “Well, I got to know him later. And what was I was supposed to do? Shun him because of you? He’s been trying to make amends with you for years.”
I tightened my spine, sitting ramrod straight. Spencer used to support my hatred of Kirby, but now he was siding with the enemy. “Did you hire me as a favor to Kirby? Is that what this is all about?”
“No.” His scowl deepened.
“Then why did you hire me?”
He shrugged. “For old times’ sake, I guess.”
Meaning what, exactly? That he was curious to see me? That didn’t make me feel any better. Our affair had started in the gutter. We’d hooked up on Tinder, strictly for the sex. I’d been all of twenty then. Young and promiscuous.
I gave him a pointed look. “You still shouldn’t have blindsided me about Kirby.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand your reluctance to forgive him. He apologized for what he did to your family, not just privately but in a press conference, too. He bought the rights to your mom’s songs from you and your sister and made good on his promise to market them. You got a nice settlement from him.”
“It wasn’t enough to last forever. Going to college and starting a new business wasn’t cheap.” I’d definitely spent a huge chunk on those things. But I’d blown tons of it, too. Not that I was going to admit that to Spencer. But in my defense, I was still running wild when I first got the money.
“Yeah, well, it’s just crazy that you won’t give Kirby a chance.” He
shook his head again. “Your sister is even married to his oldest son.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to accept Kirby the way she has. Besides, Mary has a softer heart than I do.” She was also blissfully happy with Brandon and their children. I was still waiting around for my dream man.
We sat quietly, until he said, “When Kirby first recommended you as my stylist, he didn’t know that I was acquainted with you. He knows now, though. I told him that we used to date.”
“Why in the hell did you do that?” I could have strangled Spencer, murdered him for real.
“Because it was too weird for me to pretend that we were strangers.”
“And now he thinks that we went out, way back when?”
He stared me down. “Would you have preferred that I told him the truth?”
“Of course not.” I didn’t want Kirby knowing my personal business. “I would have preferred that you kept your trap shut.”
“At least I made it sound respectable.”
“Whatever.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“Well, you know what?” he snapped. “Maybe you and I shouldn’t work together.”
Screw him, I thought. “You’re going to fire me already?”
He jerked his head. “I might.”
“Whatever,” I said again. I was too damned mad to care.
In the tense silence that followed, I studied the pale ink on Spencer’s arm. His tattoo was a predominantly Native American design. Kirby had a half-Cherokee son named Matt with one of his former mistresses, and Spencer was of mixed origins, too. He’d never told me what tribe he was from, though. When I’d asked, he’d claimed it didn’t matter. But now he was covered in artwork that seemed to prove otherwise.
I brazenly said, “It’s interesting that Kirby has a son with a similar heritage to yours. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you could be one of his kids, too.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe you actually are his son,” I taunted him. Not because I believed he was Kirby’s heir, but just because I wanted to get back at him for not keeping quiet about us. “You might be his kid, and you don’t even know it. With the way Kirby messed around, he could have dozens of illegitimate children out there.”
He sighed. “Go ahead and make up whatever stories you want. But biologically, him being my father is impossible. Kirby is white, and so was my mom.”
For some unknown reason, I’d always assumed that his mother had been Native American, but Spencer’s brown skin had obviously come from the father he’d never met. I swallowed my pride and apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that.” I had no right to bring his family into my foolishness. I made a sheepish expression and said, “Truce?”
He lifted his eyebrows, making me wait for his reply. Was he going to tell me to get lost? Had I blown this job? Had my stupidity gotten in the way?
“You’re something else,” he said a few heartbeats later. He didn’t sound amused. But he didn’t sound angry anymore, either. He expelled a breath and added, “But you always were feisty.”
I used to be a full-on brat, but I wasn’t going to cop to it now. I flashed a hopeful smile. “You’re not firing me?”
“I guess not.” He glanced at my lips, as if he was remembering the taste of them.
He stood and walked over to the bar. Seconds ticked by, or maybe it was minutes. I wanted to break the silence, but I couldn’t think of an intelligent thing to say. I was remembering the taste of his lips, too.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked.
I blinked at him. “Anything?”
“To drink. I’m going to have a ginger ale.”
Actually, I was getting thirsty. Or maybe my mouth had gone dry as a reaction to him. The air between us had gone thick again. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Do you want yours on ice?”
“Yes, please.”
He turned, opened the mini fridge and poured my drink.
“Here you go.” He came toward me with my ginger ale, and I reached out to take it.
He returned to the mini fridge, retrieved a soda for himself and took a swig directly from the can. I sipped my drink, the ice clinking in my glass. He leaned against the bar, facing me now. So tall, so dark, so damned handsome.
I steadied my voice and asked, “Is the photo shoot going to be here at your house?”
“Yes, it’ll be here, showcasing how I live.”
He kept drinking his ginger ale, with the off-limits bottles of hard liquor behind him. The wine rack on the bar was full, too. He was surrounded by the forbidden.
I was, too. Not the alcohol. That wasn’t a problem for me. My forbidden was Spencer himself. Crazy as it was, I was about to invite myself to his bedroom.
“Do you mind if I look in your closet to get a feel for your wardrobe?” I asked.
“No, I don’t mind.” He gestured to his attire. “Expect lots of jeans. Fancy clothes aren’t really my forte.”
He waited until I stood, then headed for a set of etched-glass doors that led to another part of the house. As I followed him, he glanced back and said, “I like your boots, by the way. They’re really…”
He didn’t finish his statement. I suspected he was going to say “sexy” or “hot” or something of that nature. But he let it drift instead.
I let it go, too. He guided me down a hallway riddled with artfully framed movie posters. I spotted a black-and-white still from The Wild One, featuring a young and defiant Marlon Brando, and my interest was piqued. The actor sat on a Triumph motorcycle, sporting 1950s biker gear. I knew the history behind his clothes. I’d taken a class about fashion in film.
Spencer opened the door to the master suite. “This is it, where my closet is.”
The first thing I saw was his king-size bed. It sat on a platform frame constructed from natural wood. The covers were tan and gold. Masculine. Overall, his room was warm and inviting, with an adjoining bathroom and French doors leading to the backyard. The curtains were open, with a view of his pool. Beyond it was acres of grass.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said. “I should have told you that when I first got here.” I wandered over to the doors and peered out.
He joined me, pointing to a flagstone path that cut through the grass. “My guesthouse is out that way. I turned it into a dog rescue. I have a slew of people who help me with it. Some are paid employees and some are volunteers.”
“I don’t have any pets.” I wondered if that made me lacking. “Mary and Brandon have a husky named Cline. My niece and nephew adore him. He was Brandon’s dog before he met my sister, and now Cline is the family dog.”
“I have two dogs.”
“You do? Where are they?”
He mock-whispered, “Hiding under the bed.” He smiled and said in a normal tone, “They’re just checking you out, deciding if you can be trusted. They were my first rescues, and I couldn’t bear to let them go, so they became mine.”
Curious about his companions, I glanced at the foot of the bed. Sure enough, there were two little white faces poking out from under it.
“They’re adorable,” I said. “They look like dust mops with eyeballs. What are they, actually?”
“Maltese. Normally they’re a fearless breed, but Cookie and Candy came from a traumatic situation. Once they get used to you, you’ll see whole new sides of them.”
“How long will it take for them to get used to me?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes they come around quickly and sometimes they don’t. If they’re agreeable on the day of the shoot, we might use them in some of the pictures. They already met the photographer and liked him.”
“That’s good.” The shoot was a little over a month away, so there was plenty of time for his dogs to cozy up to me. �
�Has the photographer discussed his vision with you and what sort of image he wants you to project?”
Spencer winced a little. “He said they want to go with a reformed bad-boy thing.”
I cocked my head. “You don’t like that idea?”
“It’s okay, I guess. We all have a brand these days, and that’s how mine is unfolding.”
“I can certainly build your style around it.” I knew just how bad he used to be. “I should check out your clothes now.”
“We can go into my closet together. It’s big enough for both of us.”
That was true. His walk-in was more like a room. Still, once we were inside, I imagined turning out the light and pressing my mouth against his. The first time I’d ever kissed a boy was in a closet. But not the urgent way I used to kiss Spencer.
To keep myself sane, I inhaled the fabric-cluttered air. His clothes smelled clean and fresh. He was right. There were a lot of blue jeans.
“I have a few suits,” he said, and showed me the garment bags.
As I unzipped them to check the labels, I almost felt as if I were undressing him. I shivered at the memory.
He stood back and his gaze roamed over me, and I hastily said, “You have great taste for someone who doesn’t place much importance on fancy clothes.” His Italian-cut suits were impeccably tailored. He’d certainly spent some money on them.
Spencer shrugged, but not in a casual way. He seemed as if he had a lot on his mind. I knew the feeling.
Finally, he said, “When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle used to make me dress up for their dinner parties and whatnot, so I guess some of it stuck. I know that I never told you this before, but they were rich as sin.”
I widened my eyes. He’d been raised with wealth and privilege? I hadn’t seen that coming. But as vague as he’d always been, how would I have known? “How old were you when you went to live with them?”
He frowned. “Ten. That’s when my mom died.”