Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly #2)

by Lauren Layne

  He searches my face carefully. “You sure it’s the place?” he asks slowly. “Or is it the girl?”

  I don’t respond, but I know from Vaughn’s sigh that he already suspects the answer.

  It’s a little bit of both.

  Jenny

  Dolly wakes me up at the crack of dawn.

  Apparently the bone I gave her last night was a bit too much, and the poor thing yacks up all sorts of nastiness all over the floor before I can get her outside.

  By the time I clean up Pomeranian puke and get back into bed, my brain is already awake, and my thoughts are…

  Odd.

  This is going to sound nuts, but something about my unabashed seduction of Noah Maxwell last night fixed something inside me, and I decide it’s time.

  For a lot of things.

  I’m on the road before six and am in a Baton Rouge Starbucks by seven, armed with my laptop and a venti caramel macchiato.

  The first order of business is a no-brainer. I haven’t seen Preston Walcott since that first day at the house, haven’t had any contact with him at all except through Noah for maintenance things relating to the house. New wallpaper in the bedroom, it would seem, is apparently a bit outside the realm of what’s considered “standard maintenance.”

  As I impatiently start up my inbox and wait for it to load the hundreds of neglected messages from the past couple of weeks, I debate the wisdom of what I’m about to do, only to realize that there’s really not much risk in it.

  You’ve probably gathered this by now, but I’m not hurting for money. I mean, I’m not Oprah or anything, but I have enough money to buy a house. A couple of houses.

  Especially one that’s in the middle of nowhere in Louisiana and that the owner clearly has no attachment to.

  I want this house. Not to live in full-time, I don’t think. Although maybe someday.

  But I want a place where I can go to be off the grid. A place that’s all mine. A place that maybe someday I can open up to be a quiet retreat for young musicians, just the way it was for me all those years ago.

  I know the younger Preston Walcott’s not a patron of the arts the way his father was, but maybe that’ll work in my favor. The guy can’t possibly have strong ties to a property he didn’t know he owned. And based on the fact that he hasn’t been out to the house once since that first day, I can’t imagine that he’s somehow grown attached to the place.

  Plus, I think as I draft an email, the worst he can say is no.

  But please don’t say no.

  I send the email and take a deep breath. That was the easy part of my day.

  Here comes the brave part.

  I check my email, knowing full well it will have messages from my label, my publicist, my agent, and, most important, from Amber, who promised to give me honest but summarized versions of what’s happening with the Shawn Bates scandal, to be read when I’m ready.

  And I’m ready.

  Thirty minutes later I slump back in my chair, exhausted and liberated at the same time. The bad news: Shawn’s wife is continuing to scream victim to anyone who will listen, with me as her number one villain.

  The good news…

  Not that many people are listening anymore.

  She’s had her moment in the spotlight, and while the general consensus is that I’m still a home-wrecking whore, at least I’m no longer a front-page home-wrecking whore.

  The best news of all is that nobody has a clue where I am. My poor publicist has been a broken record with the statement I provided: Jenny Dawson is taking some time away from the spotlight to work on her upcoming album. She thanks you in advance for respecting her privacy.

  All bullshit, of course. Nobody gives a crap about my privacy. Nor does anyone likely believe that I’m working on my album so much as hiding away in my shame.

  But that’s their problem.

  I have bigger, more important problems.

  Name: Noah Maxwell.

  It’s occurred to me that I’ve been more intimate with him than I have with any other guy, and yet I hardly know him. I don’t know where he comes from, how it came about that he has this job, his favorite food, or what he watches on TV.

  But I know him well enough to know that I want to know him better.

  I know he can be a jerk, but he also knows how to apologize. I know he’s grumpy as shit, but he’ll never let a girl walk home alone at night. I know he’s good with his hands—really good with his hands—and as much as he might think Dolly’s ridiculous, he cares enough to make sure she doesn’t become a light snack for an alligator.

  Last night was 20 percent seduction, 80 percent revenge.

  But tonight I want to tweak that ratio and go full-on seduction.

  And not with just his body.

  I want to know what makes him tick. And I have exactly zero clue how to figure that out.

  I pick up the phone to call Amber, but at the last minute I change tack. I need a different approach with this one. I need…

  My mom picks up on the first ring. “Honey! You have your cellphone back!”

  I smile. “Hi, Mama.”

  “You sound happy. I love when you’re happy.”

  That’s my mother for you. She’s one of those really exceptional parents—the kind whose mission in life is ensuring the happiness of her offspring, but who rarely crosses the line into meddling.

  “Let’s just say I’m thinking it’s time to come out of the cocoon,” I say.

  “Oh, good! Does that mean you’re coming home?”

  I hesitate, not having the heart to tell her that I’m no longer sure Nashville is home. I mean, it’s more home than Los Angeles, certainly. But the thought of going back there doesn’t feel right. Not yet.

  “No, I’m going to stay here a bit longer. The album’s coming along, but I want to get a few more tracks down before I submit it.”

  “I think that sounds smart. Trust your gut.”

  Told you she was the best.

  “I could use a little advice, though,” I say. “On the personal front.”

  “Oh?”

  I smile, knowing that she’s probably quivering with anticipation right now.

  “There’s sort of…this guy,” I say, fiddling with the lid of my coffee cup.

  “Ohhhh,” she gushes.

  “Which, I know is crazy,” I say, “given that the whole reason for hiding out is to get away from guys, but he’s the caretaker on the property. A young, cute caretaker, not the old crusty kind. And I kind of…like him.”

  “What’s he like? What’s his name?”

  “Noah. And he’s…prickly.”

  “Ah, one of those,” she says knowingly.

  “I guess. He just feels very foreign to me. I’m used to guys, well…”

  “Chasing you?”

  “Let’s just say this one’s not a groupie,” I grumble.

  Mom chortles. “He’s playing hard to get.”

  Eh, not exactly. But I hold my tongue. My mom’s cool and all, but no way in hell am I telling her about the night Noah Maxwell caught me masturbating and finished the job for me. I blush just thinking about it.

  “Anyway…” I clear my throat. “I’m feeling a little out of my league here. I haven’t really felt this way before.”

  I feel like a dork admitting it, but there it is. I’ve dated plenty. Hooked up with a few, albeit a tiny fraction of what the media assumes to be true.

  But it’s never been quite like this. I’ve never experienced this all-consuming obsession with someone else.

  “Well, what is it you’re after?” my mom asks slowly. “If it’s just a good time, in my day that meant putting on our prettiest dress and convincing him to take us out dancing. In fact, that was your dad’s and my first date. I asked him out dancing. I wore a pink polka-dot dress and he bought me white wine spritzers, and we danced the night away.”

  I put a hand over my mouth to stifle the giggle. Could she be any cuter?

  “But if you’re w
anting to figure out if this could be something more,” she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, “you’ll want a different approach.”

  “Pins and needles, Mom. Pins and needles.”

  “Well, the first time your dad told me that he knew I was the one—”

  “Whoa. Sorry, have to halt you right there. I’m not looking to marry this guy.”

  “You never know who you might marry, sweetie. Nobody ever does until they do, you know?”

  I blink. “Does Kelly understand when you talk like that? You remember, right, that she’s the smart one?”

  “Nonsense, both my girls are smart,” she says loyally. “But anyway, whether or not you marry this guy, there’s exactly one tried-and-true way to crack any man.”

  Zip-tying him to the bed and giving him a blow job?

  Eep.

  “I’m listening,” I say, hoping this suggestion doesn’t involve dancing, because there’s no way in hell I’m getting Noah Maxwell onto any kind of dance floor in any universe.

  “You’ve heard that the way to any man’s heart is through his stomach?” she asks.

  I blink. “No. Is that a thing?”

  She sighs, sounding maybe the tiniest bit frustrated. “Honey, is there a grocery store nearby?”

  “No, Mom. No food at all in this time zone.”

  She ignores my sarcasm. “Get a pen and paper. I want you to write this down….”

  Noah

  I’ve never in my life been embarrassed about a sexual encounter. I’m sure as hell not embarrassed now.

  And yet I’m avoiding Jenny today.

  What the hell does one say to a girl who hid in your closet, ambushed you, zip-tied you to the bed, and then sucked you off to within an inch of your life, before promptly trotting out your front door without so much as a backward glance?

  Thank you.

  How about another?

  My turn.

  But I have no business touching Jenny Dawson. Or any woman, for that matter. Not until I figure out how to extricate myself from the last one.

  Because though I refused to admit as much to Vaughn and all his obnoxious prying this morning, I misjudged how to best handle the Yvonne situation. Ignoring her has only made her more determined.

  A part of me knows that Vaughn’s right—that the time is nearing when I need to go toe-to-toe with my ex. But the bigger part of me is reluctant to play that game.

  It’s her game, not mine.

  The truth is, if I’m going to get all fucking romantic about it, I’m starting to feel something close to happiness for the first time in a long time, and I want to hold on to it just a little bit longer. To linger in this safe space where there’s no Yvonne and no expectations, and where I don’t feel constantly pulled between my trailer park side and my silver spoon side.

  But anyway, back to Jenny.

  Am I avoiding her? Yes.

  Out of embarrassment? No.

  I’m avoiding her because I can’t even think her name without remembering what it felt like to have her hands and mouth all over me. I can’t blink and not see her in that sexy black bra. I can’t breathe and not smell her scent, all sweet and innocent.

  I’ve already crossed a line. Twice. (Not that I had all that much say in last night’s activities, and I find I’m just fine with that.)

  The girl might have been sexy as hell, but I’d bet my left nut that it was her first time doing anything like it. I’m relieved even as I’m terrified.

  Relieved that it was me she’d decided to get bold with.

  Terrified that I liked it so much, and certain that a girl whose future involves plenty of designer handbags, private jets, and red carpets is not for me.

  The girl’s as dangerous to me as I am to her.

  Which is why I decide that today’s the day to start a project that will keep me out in the ramshackle toolshed I’ve converted to a workshop. It’s far enough away from the house that we won’t have to talk.

  Even so, I keep an ear open for her music. I’m familiar enough with her routine by now to know that she usually works inside in the morning but prefers to bring her guitar out on the balcony in the afternoons.

  In a bikini, more often than not.

  Although, aside from that first day, I’m beginning to think the bikini really is more about staying cool than making me lose my mind, because most of the time she barely seems aware of me—or anyone—when she’s working. She alternates between strumming on her guitar over and over until she gets it just right and then pulling the pencil out of her messy ponytail and jotting something down, before she repeats the whole process over and over again, for hours.

  It’s oddly compelling the way she just loses herself in the music, almost as though she’s incapable of ever becoming bored because the music in her head won’t let her.

  I want some of that for myself, and today I find it.

  It should be pretty clear by now that I know my way around a wood shop. I’ve fixed the porch, the walls, the floorboards, even built myself a pantry for the cottage.

  And I love it.

  I know that’s fucking lame. Who loves wood?

  But I love everything about it. The feel, the smell, the potential.

  So today I do something not out of necessity but because I want to. In hindsight I’m realizing I probably should have started with something more basic like a table, but what the hell…I like a challenge.

  I’m building a porch swing.

  I’m relying almost entirely on a template I found online, but I’m adding my own elements too. And the work is…it’s good. It’s really good.

  So good, in fact, that I don’t register that Jenny’s entered my workshop. Usually I see her. Smell her. Feel her. But today I’m so wrapped up in my work that I don’t register she’s there until she’s right in front of me.

  She looks beautiful.

  I’m used to Jenny looking cute in her jean cutoff shorts and tight T-shirts, or hot as hell in her bikini or black bra.

  But tonight her hair’s down around her shoulders, sort of full, like maybe she’s curled it. And she’s wearing a dress. Nothing fussy, just a light blue thing that looks more like an oversize shirt than anything else, but my guard goes up all the same.

  Especially when I see she’s holding out a cocktail, a sweet little smile on her face. The whole thing feels rather…domesticated.

  What game is she playing?

  “Sorry it’s not water,” she says, her eyes drifting over me. “You look…”

  I don’t have to glance down to know how I look. “Sweaty?”

  She merely smiles, drink still outstretched, and I reluctantly take it from her, letting my fingers brush hers just to see what happens. But if she notices my touch she doesn’t say anything, because she’s picked up my iPhone, where I’ve been referencing the instructions on the swing.

  Jenny glances from my phone to the worktable. “Is this what you’re making?”

  “Probably not a good sign if you have to ask.”

  “No, I see it,” she murmurs, running a hand over the wood. I tell myself it doesn’t matter what she thinks, but my eyes track hers hungrily anyway, wanting—needing—someone to validate that I’m not wasting my time.

  “Are you going to hang it?” she asks, looking back up at me. “Here at the house?”

  “Depends if it turns out.”

  “It will,” she says confidently. “My grandparents had a swing just like this. Sat on it every night while sipping their evening cocktail.”

  She glances down again, running a finger along one of the slats that will make up the bench seat. “So what’s the story here? You have one in your childhood?”

  My laugh is harsh. “No.”

  The trailer park didn’t have porch swings. Or porches. Come to think of it, this finished swing will probably be half as big as the “home” I grew up in.

  And as far as my dad’s house went, he and his ex wouldn’t have been caught dead with something as qua
int as a swing, or even a porch. Their house was a modern affair that would have been just as at home in California or Chicago as Baton Rouge. Not quite ostentatious, but big and generic as hell.

  Her eyes are studying me, and her gaze is too shrewd, too knowing, as though she senses that some part of me wants the picture she painted about her grandparents and the swing and watching the sunset on a lazy summer night.

  I’m not ashamed of wanting it, but I’ve got zero intention of spilling my guts to a girl who’s merely playing house for a few months until she goes back to Hollywood or wherever.

  And yet she wants to buy this house.

  I push the thought—and what it might mean—aside.

  “What’s with this?” I lift the glass in question.

  “Oh.” She blushes a little. “I just…it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

  I don’t let her off that easily. “Why’d you make one for me?”

  She takes a small sip. “Never drink alone?”

  Another evasion. She’s nervous.

  She’s also up to something.

  “What are you playing at here, princess?”

  “If you don’t want the drink, you can just say so,” she snaps, stepping forward to take it out of my hand. “I’m sure I can find another guy whose arm I won’t have to twist to have a drink with me.”

  Over my dead body.

  I lift the glass to my lips before she can snatch it back. It’s good. A little sweeter than I’d normally go for, but the whisky in there makes it tolerable.

  “It’s a whisky sour,” she says, watching me. “My grandparents had one together every night before supper.”

  “The porch swing grandparents?” I ask, before I can remind myself that I don’t care, and that exchanging small talk with Jenny Dawson over cocktails seems as strange as it does…nice.

  “Yeah,” she says with a little smile. “Ironic, really, that I decide to make this drink on the same day you decide to make the porch swing. Our timing is off—I should have waited to bring you a drink on the day the swing was finished and hung so we could have enjoyed it.”