by RC Boldt
The sound of a knock on the door has him perking up. I toss my friend a questioning look as I plate some of the slices of cooked French toast.
Normally, when I make this, I invite David, Vance, and Jed to join us. Today, however, I’d been so caught up in texting Logan and chatting with Matty that I’d been off my usual routine.
When Matty flashes a mischievous grin, I grow wary. “What did you do?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says in a hushed voice, his eyes darting around to land on Kane’s door. As if on cue, Kane opens his bedroom door and strides toward the suite’s entrance to answer it.
Without realizing it, my eyes catalog his casual attire; the short-sleeve cotton T-shirt that looks incredibly soft and well-worn pulled over his broad torso, his firm biceps stretching the hem of the sleeves. His jeans are distressed with a few frayed and worn areas throughout, and they mold his hard-muscled body, curving over his ass like a—
“While you’re drooling, your French toast is burning.”
I whip my head around, wide-eyed, before scrambling to scoop up the slices from the griddle and deposit them on the large platter with the others.
“I invited them to breakfast,” my best friend whispers.
When I meet his gaze, his amused expression is enough to have my muscles tensing. But it’s his next words that have my spine going ramrod straight.
“Thought maybe a casual day would help Rach and Kane get to know one another better.”
Eyes averted, as if my attention to each subsequent French toast slice on the griddle means life or death, I can only hum out an, “Mm, okay.”
Footsteps grow louder as they approach, and Matty whispers quickly, “Had to reassure the guy that you didn’t use cow or goat’s milk in the recipe.” My head snaps around to stare at him, caught off guard. He shrugs. “Must be an allergy or something.”
I offer, “Or maybe he’s dairy free like I am.” If that’s the case, having something in common with Kane, even something as small as this, shouldn’t give me a little thrill. Damn, that’s pathetic.
“Hey, guys,” Rachel greets us cheerfully and slides onto the other barstool, casting an expectant look at the other empty one beside her.
“Good morning, you two,” Matty drawls. “Have a seat while our diva here serves us like the royalty we are.”
Ensuring the last few pieces are finished cooking, I quickly remove them from the griddle.
“Can I help with anythin’?” Kane’s deep voice rasps from a few feet away.
I glance over and find him watching me with an indecipherable look. “I think I’ve got it covered, but thank you.” I try to offer a polite smile, but when I do, a crease between his brows forms.
Not sure what that’s all about.
I unplug the griddle so it can cool and step back from the counter, rushing to grab the container of orange juice in the refrigerator and set it beside the glasses, plates, silverware, and syrup. “Feel free to serve yourself.”
Rachel practically salivates over the heaping pile of French toast. “God, that looks and smells amazing.” She hops down from her chair, Matty following, but Kane remains where he stands, waiting his turn patiently.
Rachel and Matty pile their plates and pour their juice before settling back in their seats and digging in.
Matty moans around a mouthful of food. “So damn good.”
“This is why I can’t work for anyone else,” Rachel jokes.
“It’s why I can’t be best friends with anyone else,” comes his snappy retort, eyes shining with humor.
I glance over at Kane and find him studying me and recall what Matty told me a moment ago. Quickly, I offer, “I use almond milk in this recipe.” I tip my head, gesturing for him to go ahead and make a plate. “Go on. Help yourself.”
He lifts his chin at me, blue eyes watchful, softer, and much less brittle around the edges. His voice is gravelly, and the sound dances over my skin in a whisper of a caress. “Ladies first.”
Something inside me stutters to a halt, my brain whirring to a stop as a realization hits me from every one of my past relationships.
Not one of the guys I was in long-term relationships with—whether dating or engaged—ever waited for me to make myself a plate before helping themselves when I made my French toast recipe.
Not a single one.
“Miss King?”
Shit. I zoned out. I blink, forcing myself to regain focus. Then I meet his eyes and realize he’s taken a step closer, his brow furrowed in concern. Inwardly, I cringe at the worry within the depths. But more than that, I resent the formalness. Miss King.
Dammit! Get yourself together.
Antsy, I move to step past him, intent on heading to the door. “I should just check and see if Vance and Jed—”
“Jed’s cuttin’ out carbs, and Vance already ate,” Kane answers quietly. His eyes dart in Matty’s direction before returning to me. “We all got the group text from Matthias about breakfast.”
“Oh. Okay.” I internally scold myself for suddenly losing the ability to converse like a normal human. Hurriedly, I turn and make myself a plate and grab my thermos of water before heading around to the barstools.
Shit. I’ll be a total cockblocker for Rach if I sit next to her, which is why I choose the stool on the far end. After setting my plate and thermos on the countertop, for good measure, I scoot my stool a few inches away from Kane’s before sliding onto the seat, ensuring there’s plenty of room.
Of course, once he settles between Rachel and me, I realize those extra inches were futile at best. The clean, fresh scent from what I assume is his body wash wafts over me as I hurriedly cut into my breakfast. Taking a quick bite, I’m wishing for a distraction from the man beside me.
“Everybody lean in for a quick selfie.” Matty holds up his phone, arm outstretched and high enough to try to get us all in, before looking over at us. “You cool with that?”
I glance at Kane nervously before leaning in to whisper, “It’s okay if you don’t—”
His head turns, and I freeze, not anticipating how close our faces would be. The faint stubble along his jawline, the surprising length of his dark blond lashes, and eyes that I now notice have a faint hint of a darker, stormier swirl of blue in them hold me captivated.
“It’s fine.”
His lips move with the two simple words, and I find myself wishing for the opportunity to see him smile.
“All right…” My best friend’s voice draws me back to the present, and Kane and I turn for the photo. “I’ll take a few real quick. Smile!”
Once Matty’s satisfied with the photos, he tells me he’ll tag me on Instagram. Which reminds me... I grab my phone and hold it out to snap a photo of me with a massive forkful of French toast with my mouth open, looking silly. I start typing a text to accompany the photo.
“Who are you sexting over there, woman?” Matty demands.
I finish typing and hit Send before I set the phone on the counter. “A boy.” I lean forward in my seat to see past the others and flash him a mischievous grin.
His face drops, and a pained expression crosses his face. “Simone. You know you don’t exactly have the greatest—”
My smile vanishes, and I blow out a breath. “It’s literally a boy, Matty.” Exasperation lines my tone, and my appetite begins to wane from this conversation.
Matty gapes. “Sim…dude. That’s even worse. Underage shit will kill your career.”
I drop my fork to my plate with a clatter. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Matty! Seriously?” I stare at him in disbelief. “He’s, like, eight years old!”
Matty looks positively horrified now. “What the—?”
“And he’s from the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”
His jaw goes slack, and silence envelops the room before my friend’s face transforms into the widest smile. “You did that shit on purpose, didn’t you?” He jumps off his stool, and I follow suit, darting around the island as he advances.
I pu
t my hands out as if to ward him off. “The French toast will get cold if you don’t eat it right now!” I barely get the words out through my laughter as he speeds toward me, and I squeal and rush back around the island. Except I forget that Matty used to run track in high school and still somehow has speed even ten years later because he nabs me, arm slinking around my waist and starts tickling my side.
“Stop! Stop!” I beg through gales of laughter. When my legs give out and he follows me down to the hard floor, we’re both out of breath and laughing, sprawled in a heap.
I look up just in time to see Rachel snapping a pic of us. “This’ll be cute for your Instagram page.” She looks at the image on her phone and grins. “Perfect.”
Matty sits up, wearing a stern expression. “Be sure to include the detail that I was the champion of this tickle fight.”
I let out a groan. “They say I’m the diva, yet you always make it about you.”
Rising to his feet, he offers me a hand. I grasp it, and he hauls me to my feet. His perfect white teeth practically blind me when he grins.
“That’s ’cause I’m a diva in disguise.”
13
Kane
Edmonton
Alberta, Canada
The texts have escalated to calls now. I’m tempted to block her number, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not just yet. Regardless of how much it guts me to see her name on my cell phone.
I reckon I’m just a glutton for punishment.
Lucia. The name lights up the cell screen, and I send it straight to voice mail.
I have about a dozen from her now and haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to any of them. To hear her voice.
My fingers clench around the cell phone in such a punishing grip it’s a wonder the damn thing doesn’t crack.
Shoving it in my pocket, I stalk toward the door of my room, eager to escape these confines. As soon as I tug the door open, I stop short as the realization hits me.
The hesitance that plagued me before, the slight discomfort at the unusual living arrangement, is gone. Instead, the prospect of stepping into the common area of this suite almost feels…normal.
I scrub a hand down my face, unsure whether this new normality is a good or a bad thing. Dismissing my inner conflict, I walk through the luxurious space, following the sounds of Simone singing ‘Bad Love’ while she works out on the rented Versaclimber that was delivered here yesterday.
Turns out, you can do that when you’re a famous musician. After indulging in three days off in Vancouver, she rested and “was lazy and didn’t work out.” Apparently, that means she needs to make up for it by singing while working out. It makes sense, now that I watch her toned arms and legs move in climbing motions. Training so she’s able to sing without being breathless makes her aerobic-like performances where she uses the silks, the trapeze, or one of the harness contraptions that much more impressive.
Her voice carries, echoing throughout the spacious suite, along the tile floors, and I find myself paying closer attention to the lyrics. Especially after she shared that secret with Logan. Now that I know it’s about Jackson.
* * *
I’m on the edge
Hangin’ by a thread
I gave you the news
And you just shook your head
Like I don’t matter at all
Like I don’t mean a thing
Not worth a phone call
So I won’t wear your ring
You give bad love
Givin’ me all of your lies
B-b-b-bad love
Beggin’ for one more try
B-b-b-bad love
Now you’re sugary sweet
But I know better now
Your love is
Bad love
Your twisted lies
Your lame alibis
The love we have is gone
Let’s say our goodbyes
But first, you throw some shade
Show me the real you
Say I got played
Say I’ve got real attitude
But I know now
I can do better than you
Without your bitterness
I’ll find someone new
You give bad love
Givin’ me all of your lies
B-b-b-bad love
Beggin’ for one more try
B-b-b-bad love
Now you’re sugary sweet
But I know better now
Your love is
Bad love
Your sticks and stones
I let them hurt me
I let them snap my bones
Your words are knives
I let them slice me through
But, baby, that’s just you
You only give bad love
Sweat runs down her temple, her hairline damp and darkened, and her nape drenched. My eyes travel over her lightly muscled shoulders to the sports bra, lingering there before I jerk them away and drift down to the base of her spine where tanned skin disappears into her compression leggings. How she manages this while singing and staying in tune is impressive, to say the least.
I don’t want to interrupt her, but I need to let her know that Vance is out with a nasty stomach bug, and Jed let me know about thirty minutes ago that he’s now down for the count and sick as hell too. I don’t want her to be caught off guard by this later on.
Leaning against the wall, I slide my hands in my pockets and tip my head back, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes fall closed as I listen to Simone, and I realize I can connect with the lyrics. Shit, it could be my own personal fucking anthem at this point.
The faint knock on the door has me straightening and shooting down the short hall to the entrance door. Peering out the peephole, I find a hotel employee with the food cart I’d almost forgotten was due to arrive, so distracted by the issue with Vance and Jed. My growling stomach reminds me it’s now dinnertime.
Carefully opening the door, I nod at Parker and William, Jed’s and Vance’s stand-ins, before focusing on the room service employee. A woman stands off to his side, her stance confident, and something about her strikes me as familiar.
Accepting the cart from the hotel employee, I thank him, and he disappears into the elevator as I train my attention on the woman.
“She’s Simone’s aunt,” Parker quickly says.
The woman fixes her smile on me. “Well, hello there.” Her greeting is a shade too welcoming, but I dismiss it. It might just be her style.
Surveying the woman now, I recognize why she looks familiar. Her smile and the shape of her eyes are near duplicates of Simone’s. Quickly, my brain catalogs the differences. Where Simone’s hair is long, falling well past her shoulders, her aunt’s is much shorter, chin-length and perfectly straight. While still slim, her figure isn’t toned and athletic like her niece’s, and I reckon she’s dressed the part of the supportive aunt of a famous pop star in an expensive-looking pantsuit and sky-high heels that help her match Simone’s height. The woman reeks of money.
Well, that and high maintenance.
“Hello, ma’am.” I eye her suspiciously, keeping my stance wide in the doorway because no one’s ever mentioned anything about Simone’s aunt visiting.
“You must be new. Is David finally on his honeymoon?”
Instead of answering, I ask, “Is Simone expectin’ you, Ms....?” I tug out my cell, quickly pulling up the list David gave me of individuals never allowed to see Simone. Just to be sure.
“Mrs. Cline.”
When I scan the list and don’t find her name, I pocket my phone. The other guys would’ve checked her ID before allowing her up here. I need to remind them to give me a heads-up about something like this.
Addressing the woman, I lift my chin, gesturing toward the suite. “She’s been workin’ out, but since dinner’s here…” I push the cart the rest of the way through the door, holding it open for her to slip inside.
“Such a Southern gentleman.�
� She beams at me before gliding past, her stiletto heels clicking on the tile floor as she goes in search of her niece.
Ensuring the door is securely locked behind me, I carefully push the cart down the hall and head toward the dining table.
That’s when the singing comes to a complete stop, mid-syllable.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Filled with fury, Simone’s demanding tone is lethally sharp.
I quickly sidestep the cart and rush around the corner to find Mrs. Cline leaning against the back of the couch, casual as can be, like this greeting is the norm. She watches, face placid, while Simone unstraps her feet from the Versaclimber.
“Now, honey. I’m allowed to come and check on you. I just wanted to ask you for—”
Simone storms over to her, bringing them toe-to-toe, and her aunt’s nose wrinkles as she takes in the sweaty state of her niece.
Jaw tense and eyes narrowed, each of Simone’s words slices with intense anger. “You wanted to ask me for what? For more money? Because what you have isn’t enough?” She sneers. “You’re a fucking joke of a mother! You need to get the hell out of here right now before I—”
Mother? What the hell? Regardless of whether this gets me fired, there’s no way I can stand by while she disrespects her own mother. It’s her mother, for Christ’s sake.
I shove an arm between them, partially in fear that Simone will assault the woman. Her eyes clash with mine, and I grit out, “That’s no way to speak to your mother.”
Simone’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You think not? You think she doesn’t deserve this?” She lifts her chin stubbornly, eyes bright with anger, and those multicolored eyes lock on to her mother. “He says I shouldn’t speak to you this way.” Her tone turns saccharine sweet. “Perhaps we should enlighten him. Should I tell him, or do you want to have the honors?”
The older woman crosses her arms defensively, the innocent expression leaving her face and replaced with wariness. “I didn’t do anything wrong—”