*****
Although she hadn't cut anyone's hair besides her own in several years, Patterson was pretty pleased with the way the job was turning out. After Trent's initial hesitation, he'd sat as quietly and still as one of the mannequin heads they'd practiced bobs and perms on back in beauty school. No directions, no complaints, no...nothing. “Blank” seemed to be his general demeanor, well, after the protests at the hospital, anyway. Quiet acceptance, mild disapproval. It was like he was almost neutral, with no strong feeling about anything. But she had a feeling there was a lot more going around in his head than this speech or actions indicated. He had sharp, intelligent dark eyes that didn't miss much at all.
At her bare feet, tufts of black hair mounded on the floor. She'd gone short around the neck and ears, probably shorter than he'd like, given the general shagginess of his look. But she'd left enough on top to cover the bald spot a bit. She'd retrieved a small electric razor from his bathroom to trim around his neck and ears. She braced her wrist on his bare shoulder to steady her hand as she trimmed, trying to ignore the feel of his warm flesh beneath her hands.
To be sure, his bare back and chest had been a distraction while she worked. His shoulders were broad, his flesh smooth and warm beneath her touch when she brushed stray tufts of hair from him. His neck, once exposed, was paler than his back, which told her he spent time outdoors shirtless. His upper body narrowed to slim hips and a flat belly. All that health food, she supposed, the stockpile of alcohol not withstanding. He ate clean and it showed in the way his skin glowed and the muscles bunched when he shifted in his seat.
She moved around him to check her work. His sideburns connected with his bushy beard, so she didn't have to worry about that, although she started to wonder what he'd look like clean shaven. Younger, no doubt. Moving to the front, she put the finishing touches on the top of his haircut, smoothing shocked strands into place, painfully conscious of how close her breast were to his face as she worked. Heat spread though her core as she imagined him leaning forward the scant few inches to but his face there, imagined his grabbing her backside and pulling her close. Imagined him putting his mouth on her.
Wait—what?
Where had that come from? No. Just, no. She was not getting involved with him. He hated her. And she...well, she was ambivalent towards him. Only her body wasn't. Her body was all yes, please whenever he got close, like now.
She swallowed hard and stepped back. She cleared her throat. "I think that about does it." His head came up and his gaze met hers. His face was perfectly expressionless but his eyes had darkened with some hidden thought. Was he as affected as she was by their closeness? No. He didn’t like her or want her here. It was her imagination, or maybe wishful thinking.
He ran his hands through his shortened locks, dislodging a shower of small hairs.
"It's short, I know," she said, biting her lip, hoping he didn't hate it. "But I left enough on top so that once the stitches come out, you'll be able to comb over the bald patch."
He didn't say anything, just brushed the hairs off his shoulders and chest, his gaze still on hers. It was like he could see right through her and suddenly she wanted to know what he saw.
Her gaze dropped to watch the sweep of his large, confident hands, almost mesmerized. He knew how to touch a woman, she'd bet her best pair of SOMEHTING on it. Knew how to use his hands and his mouth. And he was so reserved, so contained, that when he did groan or grunt or shout his pleasure it would be that much more arousing. A woman would have no doubt that he was pleased, expression of any kind so hard won. She swallowed and forced a grin.
"Here," have a look, she said, handing her a powder compact she'd plucked from her purse.
The small gold compact in his large hands looked ridiculous, but he dutifully opened the clasp and inspected himself in the tiny mirror.
As always, his expression was carefully neutral, but after staring for a moment at his reflection and rubbing a hand idly over his beard, he closed the compact and handed it back. Patterson couldn't tell if he liked his new haircut or not.
"Is it OK?"
"It's fine." He reached for his shirt and started to turn to leave the room, then paused. He turned slowly to face her. "Thanks," he said simply, and offered something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't a frown, either.
Patterson felt like she'd been given the key to the city and smiled to herself as he left the room.
She grabbed a broom and started to clean up the mounds of hair. He looked better, but she'd bet he felt better, too. She'd concussed him, given him stitches and then burned his lunch but she had been able to help him in this small way, at least.
Patterson finished tidying the kitchen and glanced at the clock. It was late-afternoon and the shadows were beginning to lengthen in drowsy surrender to the dying day. Above her she heard the shower turn on and hoped Trent was following her directions as far as not getting his stitches wet.
She imagined him naked and wet under the shower, his long, lean body glistening with hot water, steam swirling around him, soap bubbles sliding down the smooth wide expanse of his chest.
God. Again? This was ridiculous. She did not want to nail Trent Ryder. He was her patient, her reluctant host, her victim. Not her love interest. She needed to get out of the house for a few minutes. She as sure Trent could shower safely by himself while she grabbed a breather and tried to clear her head.
Patterson grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge. She was headed outside when she saw Trent's iPad with a set of bright green earbuds plugged, in lying on the counter. She felt so disconnected since her phone had taken a dive into Hank’s swimming pool and killed it. She'd put the phone in a bowlful of rice over at Uncle Hank's, but didn't have a lot of hope the rice would be able to draw out all the pool water. Replacing her phone was another expense she didn't need, especially since her future was so uncertain at the moment.
She had several freelance job graphic design jobs waiting on her that she'd work on later tonight or tomorrow. She had a week or so before the first was due—a demo album cover for a friend in LA. She was becoming known for her album cover design and with any luck, she would find some business here in Nashville. If she stayed, that was.
Trent wouldn't mind if she jumped online to check her e-mail for any new potential work and see what her friends were up to on Facebook. What did Trent use it for, anyway? He didn’t seem like the social media type and she just couldn’t see him playing Flappy Bird. Music, she supposed, since he did have earbuds hooked in, but still. She’d borrow it and return it before he ever missed it.
Patterson took the iPad and her drink outside to the pool deck. There was only one chair there, so Patterson scooted it closer to the edge of the pool. The late afternoon heat made her feel like she was in a sauna, but the cool blue of the water rippling gently with the light warm breeze, no doubt generated by the lake below. She could hear motor boats and under normal circumstances, the holiday weekend meant she would have been at the beach with her friends, drinking beer, getting tan, flirting with cute guys and maybe lining up a party to attend afterwards.
Her relationship with X had always been casual and easy. They lived together, sure, but they weren't attached at the hip. She cared about him a lot, but she did her thing and he did his. It was easy and fun. No pressure. Well, until last week when X had rocked her world by pulling out a diamond ring and dropping down on bended knee. And then she'd panicked and hopped the next plane to Nashville.
But she didn't want to think about that now. She needed a few weeks to figure all that out and today had just been too messed up to even think about anything more taxing than what color bikini top she was going to wear.
She switched on the iPad and checked her e-mail. Nothing but spam trying to sell her diet drugs or a future as a paralegal. Been there, done that. She signed in to her Facebook account and smiled at the pictures her friends had posted from the beach, doing exactly what she'd predicted they'd be doing—laughing, drinking, flirtin
g, having a great time, extending the weekend party one more day.
She fingered the earbuds. What did Trent listen to? Classic country, she figured, since he was a songwriter and lived in Nashville. Hank, Willie, Merle, stuff Uncle Hank liked. She opened his iTunes his play lists and was surprised. The old-school country contingent was well represented, sure, but there was also a lot of new country. And pop and even a little heavy metal. Classical, jazz, new age. A music lover all the way around, then. There were some artists she hadn't heard of. After only a moment's hesitation, she put in the earbuds and hit the plug button.
She laid the iPad on her lap, letting the music swirl around her, taking her far away. This was some sort of new agey type music with lots of harp, a touch of electronica and what sounded like acoustic guitar. A woman’s voice rose high and clear over the swell, weaving in and out of the music playfully. It was relaxing and Patterson’s stress and worry over her future swirled away on the tides of soaring Celtic bliss. Her eyes dropped closed. The warmth of the sun on her skin and the swirling music made her drop off into semi-sleep. She was hardly aware of the breeze on her bare skin or the sweating can of Diet Coke in her hands.
She became vaguely aware of the shadow blocking out the sunlight over her, but it didn't register that she was no longer alone until a warm hand touched her shoulder. Patterson started and the iPad went crashing to the pavement.
She pulled the earbuds form her ears and twisted around the see Trent standing over her.
"You scared the crap out of me." Her heart was pounding and even now she was discombobulated.
"You have a phone call," Trent said. "X."
That sent Patterson's heart into unnatural rhythms. How did he get Trent's number, anyway? Maybe something had happened to one of their friends. Or a fire had burned up everything she still owned back in L.A. She shot to her feet and scampered into the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
The woman had to have stock in Apple. It was the only thing that made sense. First she'd sent her iPhone on a SCUBA expedition to the bottom of Hank's swimming pool and now she'd tossed her iPad to the pavement trying to get to the phone. Wait, was that his iPad? He bent to pick up the tablet as the menace to technology scampered into the house to take her call. Yep, sure was. The screen seemed to be intact, and his Skull Candy ear buds were still hanging from the port. Trent picked up the tablet and hit the ON button. Blinking stripes of different colors flashed on the screen, but clearly the innards were not so lucky.
He thought of his iNotes files and grimaced. Not that the stuff he’d had on there was Grammy material. Mostly is was just bad poetry he pecked out on the virtual keyboard when he was having a really dark moment. It was easier on his liver than drinking. He wondered if the woman had opened those files when she'd filched his tablet. A tickle of irritation ran through him. Those songs weren’t meant for eyes other than his. He felt a little violated, more so than having an unwanted houseguest tramping all around his place and touching his stuff or when the occasional photographer got it in his head to do a "Whatever Happened To" feature on Trent and started hanging around the house trying to get unflattering shots of him getting his mail or leaving in his Jeep.
If she'd read this sad-sack stuff, she would no doubt think he was the sorriest SOB on the planet and the last thing he wanted from her was more sympathy.
Well, maybe she hadn’t read it. She’d been listening to music, after all. It was easier to believe that she hadn’t seen it so he didn’t have to stress over it. She wasn’t going to unsee it. Trent was very good at compartmentalizing the stressful parts of his life these days and that’s where he shoved this new worry now.
He went back into the house, stroking his newly shorn beard. True, he hadn't been able to wash his hair, but getting clean after his ordeal had put him in a happier mood. And he had to admit, his facial hair had gotten pretty out of control. Trimming it down to about a three-day growth felt a hell of a cooler, too. He rubbed his nearly naked face and wondered if the woman had noticed the new look.
Trent stopped when he heard the honey-whiskey voice rising in irritation. He didn't mean to eavesdrop on her call. Ok, he did, because the way she had run into the house with that panicked look on her face made him wonder what her deal was.
"I told you. I need time."
Trent stood stock still.
"I don’t know....yes. Of course I do. I’ve always cared about you."
Ah, boyfriend trouble, no doubt.
"Well, because...I just don't know when I'll be back.”
“No. No, don't come out." There was a note of desperation now. "I need space, X. Time to figure all this out—"
"There's no one else....Him? He lives here."
Trent stiffened. "Trent Ryder....yes, the singer...what do you mean do I think he's hot? He's like 50 years old.”
Her voice rose in irritation now. "I am not sleeping with him."
Another long pause on the woman’s part. Trent could just hear murmurings from the other end of the phone, but no words.
"I told you. Uncle Hank's house has issues and I can't stay there until the door is fixed. You want some psycho to break in and murder me in my sleep?"
"No. I'm sorry. It's just. It's been a long day....probably tomorrow. I'll text you when I get the new one....alright. Bye."
As soon as she hung up, Trent felt like he could move again. “Like 50”? Did he look or act 50? Probably. And why would it bother him what Hank's niece thought of him, anyway? If he was an old man, she was a child. A child with boyfriend issues, apparently. One more reason to steer clear of her. As if he needed even one more. Starting something with her was not an option on the table, or under it, or even in the same country as the option table.
Trent downed the bottle of water and tossed the empty in the recycle bin just as his house guest entered the kitchen. She seemed startled to see him there.
"Oh. Sorry. Thought you were outside, still." She handed him the phone. "My, uh, friend was worried when he called my cell and it went to voice mail. I’d left him Uncle Hank’s info when I left and Uncle Hanks gave him your number and told him I was staying here."
She was clearly upset and although the last thing Trent felt like doing was talking boys with her, he felt like he needed to throw her a bone. Women liked talking, especially about men. He searched for some neutral topic, like about how men sucked or some such but he came up blank. So he just blurted out what he had been thinking: the boyfriend had gone to a lot of trouble to track her down and then given her a lot of crap about nothing. "He's the possessive type."
"No, not really. Well, he hadn't been. That's what I liked about him. But recently that changed."
"When you left town?"
"No, when he proposed."
Something big and heavy hit Trent square in the chest with a sold thump. She was engaged. It shouldn't matter. It didn't. Just one more thing to make sure Trent didn't cross the line and do something stupid like start thinking of her as anything but an annoying pest of a house guest and Hank's niece.
"And you said..."
"I said I didn't know. And then I flew to Nashville to think things over."
Trent winced. "Ouch."
"Yeah. But he totally sprung it on me," she said testily. "There we were chugging along just fine, having fun, keeping it light and then boom! He pulls out a ring." It was an accusation as if he'd pulled out small weapon instead of an innocent piece of jewelry.
She was pissed about it, though. In his experience, women got mad when you didn't produce a ring after a certain amount of time, not when you actually did. Suddenly images of Amy and how happy she'd been when Trent had proposed popped in to his mind. It had been at X Beach in (Hawaii?) X. She'd cried and said yes and they'd made love in the sand, the last rays of the ocean sunset painting her smooth skin pink. He'd felt like the weight of a hundred tons had been lifted off his shoulders. They were on tour but hadn't wanted to wait to plan the wedding, so they'd hopped the red-eye to Vegas and bee
n married that night. It was impulsive and wild and crazy. And perfect. And Trent knew he would have been crushed if she'd said "I don't know" and flew halfway across the country to "think things over". Crushed and mad as hell.
Trent's jaw tightened. "You're stringing him along."
"No. I just haven't decided."
She was looking around to see if there was something better out there. He knew, he'd been that guy before he met Amy. It pissed him off a little. "Marriage isn't like comparison shopping for a car. You know. If the answer that springs to mind isn't 'yes', then the answer should be 'no'. There is no 'I don't know'." He stared her down. "Tell him 'no' and move on."
She stared at him for a moment, her mouth hanging open.
"What?"
"That's the most words in a row I've ever heard come out of you. I didn't even know you could speak in full sentences."
He shrugged. "I hate to see a guy getting walked all over by his girl."
"I'm not his girl."
"Does he know that?"
"Of course he knows that." But she bit her lip and focused on the peeling pink polish on her fingernails.
Trent crossed his arms over his chest. "He doesn't seem to know that."
She let out an exasperated sigh. "You don't know everything about women. In fact I'd be willing to bet you don't know much about women at all. X and I—we just needed a break. And then we'll figure things out."
Her skin was flushed and her breathing fast as if she was about to have a panic attack.
He stepped forward, close enough to catch her if she tried to take a nosedive into the Spanish tile. "Are you OK?"
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