The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

by Pippa Grant

  Four more books that he’s already read later, my children make their presence known. “Mom! Piper ripped a book!”

  “I did not! It was already ripped!”

  “Bookstore voices, girls,” I call back. “You know what to do with damaged books.”

  “She pushed me!”

  “She won’t let me through!”

  “She’s trying to hide the book she broke!”

  “Mama, I’m being the good one,” Hudson says from the floor.

  My customer’s lips twitch with his almost-grin again. “Do you have the new Dog Man book?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I’ll just take that, please.”

  Is he serious?

  I try to hide my reaction, but his lips twitch once more as he rocks back on his heels. “Quality literature.”

  “The kid section is behind you. Can’t miss it. Look for the massive yellow duck and the For The Adorable Anklebiters sign. Excuse me. I need to go break up a fight.”

  By the time I’m finished sending the girls upstairs, Yasmin’s helped Mr. Mystery find his Dog Man book and sent him on his way. She flits back to the stockroom, where I’m inspecting the torn book, with her hand over her heart. “Ingrid. Do you know who that was?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me his name.” I suddenly realize Hudson’s still alone behind the cash register with an iPad in hand. Knowing Hudson, he’s probably found either porn or a political talking head show.

  I set the book down and set a path for my youngest.

  Yasmin follows. “That was Davis Remington.”

  I’m focused enough on getting to Hudson that it takes me the full length of the store for the name to penetrate.

  Davis Remington.

  The one member of Bro Code who basically disappeared after the band split.

  One of Levi’s neighborhood friends. I know they stay in contact, because he’s mentioned him a time or two.

  I have my phone pulled out, ready to text Levi to ask if he’s been talking to his family and friends about me, when I spot Hudson standing on the checkout counter, reaching for—actually, what is he reaching for?

  “Hudson.”

  “It Charlotte, Mama.”

  A spider.

  He’s reaching for a spider dangling off its thread, hanging in the middle of my grandmother’s bookstore.

  I shudder.

  Holly, who’s coming down the stairs, shrieks.

  Hudson goes up on his tiptoes, and there’s no question in my mind what’s about to happen.

  It’ll involve him losing his balance, toppling off the counter, landing on his head, and needing stitches.

  I dive for him.

  Yasmin dives for the spider.

  Holly shrieks again, comes running, and dives for Hudson and me.

  And the four of us end up rolling on the floor together as the bells jingle merrily over the door, opening for a woman with twins in a double stroller.

  She stares at all of us, stuck with her stroller wheel caught so she can’t get fully in, and I manage to get out, “Hi, welcome to Penny for Your Thoughts. We’ll be right with you.”

  Her bottom lip trembles as she studies the four of us tangled on the rug, and then she bursts into tears. “Oh my god, this really is where I belong!”

  Yasmin and I share a look. “Self-help,” I say.

  “Board books,” she says.

  “Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?” Holly asks.

  The woman sobs harder. “Sorry. I don’t normally—it’s the hormones—I haven’t left my house in six days—self-help sounds great.”

  “Mama, what’s hornymoans?” Hudson asks.

  “They’re what get us into trouble in the first place, baby.”

  “Whoops,” Yasmin says. “Lost Charlotte.”

  Hudson bursts into tears too.

  And even though this is exactly why my bookstore is as successful as it is—we are so relatable here—I say a silent thanks to the universe that Levi’s friend wasn’t around to witness this.

  Eighteen

  Levi

  It’s mid-afternoon Sunday when I roll out of bed. I’m in New York, in my penthouse in Tribeca, and I would’ve been up a few hours ago if I’d gone to sleep before eight this morning.

  Early morning was my only chance of catching Ingrid awake and free to chat, and since I was up until four working on a new song after flying in after Tripp’s bachelor party last night, it made sense to stay up a few more hours rather than miss her entirely today.

  And now she’s running her kids between play dates and birthday parties.

  I snap a picture of my view of the Manhattan skyline and text it to her.

  No answer, so I hop in the shower.

  She’d like my shower. It’s state-of-the-art, with wall nozzles and a rain shower head. Heated towel rack within easy reach. Heated floors too.

  It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, and I’ve rubbed more than one out to fantasies of her wet and naked in the shower with me. Here. Copper Valley. My place in LA. Any shower will do. That look on her face when she came in her hallway—and how easy it was to get her there—I want more.

  I want all of her.

  And I currently hate my calendar for keeping me out of Copper Valley for the next eight days.

  I have a dinner meeting with the president of my record label at eight, two days of meetings about my next album, and then my plane leaves for Germany Tuesday night. On any other trip overseas, I might call up an old friend from the area for a good time in my three spare hours. This time, I haven’t even left yet, and I want to be back home.

  I’m getting attached. This isn’t normal.

  But it’s not as unwelcome as it should be for a guy who’s known since birth that he wasn’t ever planning to settle down with a woman.

  I picture sweeping her away for a weekend at a mountain cabin, snow falling outside, fire roaring in the hearth, me strumming my guitar while she reads a book, sometimes sharing her favorite passages with me, sometimes laughing softly to herself until I can’t resist being so close without touching her.

  Stripping her.

  Caressing her.

  Tasting her.

  Her hands exploring my skin.

  Her eyes dark and needy.

  Her lips parted, her tongue darting out, hungry and eager while she devours me with her eyes, so turned on that she’s subconsciously rubbing her own breasts.

  I jerk my aching cock while the hot water pounds down on me.

  Eight. Fucking. Days.

  I don’t want to wait eight more days. I want to see her now.

  And it’s not because I didn’t get off in her hallway. It’s not because things have to be even.

  It’s because she’s hot. She’s smart. That mouth—whether she’s gasping my name or kissing me or sassing me over whatever, I want more of it. All of it.

  I have an obsession, and her name is Ingrid Scott.

  Even her name makes my nuts tighten and my cock strain, and I’m blowing my load in my hand before I’ve completely mentally stripped her.

  One hundred percent official.

  I have a problem.

  She’s not my first no-strings relationship.

  But she’s the first I can’t stop thinking about.

  And no amount of showering until the water runs cold can wash her away, put her back in the for when I have a free minute box, or convince me that I have any right to ask to date her for real.

  I’m out of town for the next eight days, home for two, out to…hell, I don’t even remember where I have to go, but I know I’m booked until Thanksgiving.

  Tripp’s wedding weekend.

  And then I’m not off-off the rest of the year, but I’m slowing down.

  Just until January, when I take off the same way Ingrid’s ex apparently used to as well.

  I’m in a foul mood when I walk out of my bathroom, rubbing my hair dry.

  Almost miss the smell of coffee.

  Did
I set the timer?

  Or— “Jesus Christ, asshole. Who let you in?”

  Davis is stretched out on my couch, reading a book with a cartoon dog cop on the cover. He’s in cargo pants, a Nine Inch Nails concert T-shirt, and Chucks, which he has propped on my armrest. “The door. You wanna know what I know, or not?”

  I glance down—not naked. I’m in a towel.

  Lucky Davis. And now that my heart’s settling back in my throat, yeah, I’ll admit I’m glad to see the fucker. “I saw you last night at home and you couldn’t have made the offer then?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s it gonna cost me?”

  “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you don’t want anyone to know you’re in New York. And you could’ve avoided anyone knowing you’re in New York by not breaking into my place.”

  He smirks.

  “Hairy asshole,” I mutter. “You want them all to know you were here.”

  “New York, yes. I promised someone authentic black and white cookies. At your place? No. They’ll know I spilled the beans on your mom’s boyfriend. Hence why I couldn’t say anything last night. Too many witnesses.”

  If he didn’t have my full attention before, he has it now. “What’s this gonna cost me?”

  “Two meet and greet tickets to your holiday special in Chicago.”

  “For who?”

  “Not part of the deal.”

  Of course it’s not. That’s how he rolls. Could be planning to give them to anyone from two mega-fans that he overheard talking at a coffee shop to a couple pets from a shelter. Or he could be planning on using the actual physical tickets as a prank against someone who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to my music.

  Never know.

  “Done,” I tell him.

  “I could go for homemade cinnamon rolls too.”

  Now he’s just pushing my buttons. “So call your sister. Hers are better.”

  “She doesn’t do the orange marmalade ones.”

  “You hate those.”

  He doesn’t crack a smile, but he doesn’t have to. Of the five of us who left home to tour the world as Bro Code, Davis was always the most dangerous when it came to pranks.

  Mostly because he looks so serious and above it all.

  I scrub a hand over my face.

  Yep. Totally caving to his demands, even suspecting he’ll be using them for evil. “Do you need them today?”

  “By Christmas is fine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Don’t flash me when you sit down.”

  I tighten the tuck on my towel and roll my eyes. “Who’s she dating?”

  “Stan Sheldon.”

  It takes me a full second before I figure out why I know that name. “The car guy?”

  “That face is exactly why she didn’t tell you.”

  “My mother’s dating a used car salesman.”

  “She’s dating a tycoon.”

  Fine. Yes. She’s dating the guy who owns basically the entire Copper Valley new car sales industry. If there’s a car brand to be sold, he owns a dealership that sells it. It’s not the same as the used car market. And I shouldn’t judge used car salespeople. Just because the guy who sold me my first car sold me a lemon and knew it doesn’t mean they’re all corrupt assholes.

  “The look on your face right now is why she hasn’t told you.”

  I consider flashing him, even though he’s right. “So when is she going to tell us?”

  “My sources say when she decides if it’s serious or not. He’s not the first guy she’s dated.”

  “Good for her.” The words practically choke me. My mother’s been dating. And I didn’t know it. “Does Tripp know?”

  “I’m a good friend, not a masochist. Telling Mr. Overprotective is a job for little brother.”

  Or not.

  Davis pulls himself off the couch. “Besides, you can hardly blow your temper on your mom for dating when you’re hooking up with a single mother yourself.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “You went to a book club. The store’s owner is the only person working there who’s both single and into men.”

  “Maybe I was doing research.”

  He smirks. “And that’s why you let her come to your place with cookies after her daughter gave you a concussion.”

  “You have your own mother. Quit kissing up to mine for information.”

  “Filling in for you, bro. Your mom misses you.”

  And there goes the guilt again. “We took her out to dinner last week, and I’m taking time off for the holidays.”

  He snags his book, then grabs a jacket off my chair. “Yeah. Noticed, with that holiday mini-tour you’re doing through half of December.”

  “It’s five shows.” And I’m doing two charity concerts, and a couple virtual fan meet-and-greets for super active members of my fan club, now that I’m thinking about it.

  And then there’s the shoot for the—huh.

  Also, dammit.

  I’m not taking time off.

  I won’t see Mom. I won’t see Tripp and Lila and the kids, or anyone else from the neighborhood.

  I won’t have time to see Ingrid.

  Davis shoves his inked arms into his army green jacket. “Is it serious?”

  “Is what serious?”

  “You and Ingrid. I like her. She has spunk.”

  “You—tell me you didn’t pull the mysterious overbearing stranger routine.”

  He grins and snags his book.

  His book. Did he get that book at Ingrid’s place?

  Where’s my phone?

  Bedroom. I texted Ingrid a picture. It’s in my bedroom.

  “Me and Ingrid aren’t a thing.” The words choke me.

  Davis knows it too. He’s giving me the all-knowing man-bun eyeball of liar. “Fake, secret, or blackmail?”

  “Always one of those three, isn’t it?”

  “You picked the life, dude.”

  I did, and this is exactly why I haven’t gotten serious with anyone.

  Infatuated? Yeah. Hard-core infatuated? A time or two. There’s a reason my mother hates Violet, my most notorious ex, the way she does. But every reason Ingrid gave me for not wanting to date me is exactly the reason I’ve never been willing to settle down myself.

  I grew up without a dad. I won’t do that to a kid. Or to a partner.

  Slowing down? Yeah, I could see myself doing that.

  Giving up on touring all together?

  No way.

  They can pry that microphone out of my cold, dead hands when I’m ninety-seven.

  “Secret,” I tell Davis. “She has three kids she doesn’t want appearing in the tabloids. Not a lot of spare time. Plus, her ex traveled too much. It’s just—just a thing.”

  Davis can be a sneaky bastard, and he can be annoying, but he understands shit the rest of us miss all the time. Which means the sympathetic, dude, you’re fucked look coming from him makes my gut tighten. “Good luck with that.”

  “I can handle a fling with an attractive woman who needs to blow off steam, and we’ll both be just fine.”

  In coming up on twenty years on the road, I’ve eaten some questionable foods, put my body through jet lag more times than I can count, drunk a lot of stuff I shouldn’t, and my stomach has suffered the consequences.

  Right now, it’s suffering about the same fate as the night I should’ve skipped the oysters and tequila at that dive bar in—hell, I don’t remember where I was.

  Most of the next week was a blur of digestive disorders.

  Davis is giving me another one of those sage man-bun looks. “Do what makes you happy, man. The rest is in the noise. Tickets. Cinnamon rolls. And tell your mother you’re happy she found someone who treats her well.”

  I need to be home more.

  No, that’s not right.

  I want to be home more.

  See my fami
ly more. Sneak into open mic night at a bar in the warehouse district. Have a talk with fucking Stan Sheldon about how to treat my mother.

  Date Ingrid.

  I want to date Ingrid.

  Not temporarily. Not be friends with benefits. Not in secret.

  Smart and low-key to keep her out of the tabloids, yes. But a secret from my family and friends? No.

  Except I can’t be there for her the way a guy who wants to date her should. I can’t get to know her kids without being the guy who also doesn’t make it to hockey games and gymnastics meets and preschool Christmas programs.

  I want to date her, but I can’t be what she needs.

  This is officially a fucking disaster without a solution beyond keep calling this a secret fling for as long as you can so you can keep her forever.

  Except there’s one other solution.

  And that’s that I let her go.

  Nineteen

  Levi

  Forget leaving her alone.

  I’ve been in Germany for less than twenty-four hours. I can’t sleep. The director on this car commercial is a grade-A dick, and as someone who can be a perfectionist when it comes to stage performances—trust me, I really can—I have the absolute authority and experience to recognize dick over fussy artist.

  One uses his manners and shows appreciation. The other is just a dick.

  My favorite restaurant here in Nuremberg doesn’t open for another two hours. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to stay in the hotel.

  I want to be home.

  Maybe I have been traveling too much.

  Except home is New York these days, and I’m not thinking of New York.

  I’m thinking of Copper Valley. The city skyline. The ballpark. The Blue Ridge Mountains hugging us.

  Ingrid’s bookstore.

  Ingrid. Naked. Laughing. Smearing cheesecake all over my chest.

  Licking it off.

  I’m hitting her number before I give myself time to process what I’m doing. She picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey?”

  She’s out of breath, and it’s a question.