by K. A. Tucker
“No, I can’t see them doing that. But I’ll stay here tonight and I’ve got the guys keeping an eye out. She’ll be fine as long as she stays put,” Keith says.
Brett nods, sizes him up with a curious gaze before turning to his bodyguard. “How fast can V.S.S. get a body out here?”
I frown. A body? Does he mean a bodyguard?
“Two hours,” the hulkish man answers in that rumbling voice. “I’ll call it in now, if you want.”
“Yeah. Please.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Why don’t you take a stroll outside and see for yourself?” Keith dares me, and the look on his face tells me that’s the last thing I want to do.
“Just for a few days, until the attention dies down,” Brett offers, his voice soft. Almost pleading. “I’d feel a lot better. So would my family.”
I picture the front of my little cottage adorned with a giant armed man in a suit, and I nearly laugh. But his concern for me keeps the amusement at bay. “So what exactly will this ‘body’ do?”
“Keep people who aren’t supposed to be here off the property and away from your door.”
“Think of Brenna, Cath,” Keith reminds me, going straight for my weak spot.
“If you think it’s necessary.” I hesitate. “Thank you.” God only knows what one of those guys will cost.
“He’ll come to the door and introduce himself within the next two hours. We’ll send Officer Singer his name beforehand so you know who to expect.”
“Okay.”
Brett hesitates. “Could I have your number?” It’s a simple request, and yet there’s something timid and boyish in the way he asks.
Just as there’s something altogether giddy and girlish in the way my heart flutters when I nod and reach for the pad of paper on the side table. I manage to scrawl my number using my injured right hand—it’s sloppy but legible—and then gingerly hand it to him, feeling Keith’s eyes on me the entire time.
I’m so wrapped up in Brett’s presence that I don’t hear the bare feet padding on the floor until it’s too late.
“Mommy?” Brenna’s standing in the short hallway in her bubble gum–pink pajamas, her sleepy eyes blinking as she tries to focus on the strange men in our house. “It’s noisy out here.”
“Get back to bed. I’ll be there in a sec,” I whisper, trying to shoo her before she fully wakes.
“What happened to his leg?” She points at Brett’s cast, ignoring me completely.
“He broke it,” Brett answers with a grin, watching her little face scrunch up.
“How?”
“In a car accident.”
She frowns. “There’s been an awful lot of car accidents around here lately.”
I can’t help but chuckle. She’s too sleepy to connect the dots.
“’Kay. Come on, Squirt. ” Keith spins her at the shoulders. “Say good night, Brenna.”
“Good night, Brenna,” she mimics, giggling all the way to my room because she thinks she’s being clever.
When I turn back, Brett’s looking at me strangely.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Have a good night.”
Should we be saying goodbye instead? Will I see him again?
With one last glance over his shoulder at me, Brett struggles out the front door on his crutches. I turn the dead bolt and then scurry to the window to watch him ease down the steps with great difficulty. I’ve never been on crutches, but they don’t look easy to navigate on the best of days.
Lights flash from Rawley’s parking lot as he makes his way to the car. Photographers who have snuck back on foot. A few minutes later, the SUV drives off.
“So?”
Keith’s voice startles me. I hadn’t expected him out so fast, but of course Brenna went straight back to sleep for him. “So?”
“You just sat across the table from Brett Madden. How do you feel?”
I couldn’t have begun to describe what I feel right now, even if I wanted to. But I don’t, especially not to Keith. I pick up the remote to flip on the news, curious to see what they’re saying.
The front of my tiny white clapboard cottage rental is on the screen, with Keith standing in my doorway and Brett hobbling up the front steps on crutches, and a caption below that reads, “Brett Madden visits Catherine Wright at her home.”
A fresh wave of shock rolls through me. I won’t be sleeping tonight.
Keith yanks the remote out of my hand and, turning it off, tosses it to the coffee table. “Gin rummy?”
“Fine, but I’m an invalid, remember.”
He fishes the deck of cards out from the side table drawer. “Easy to beat. Just how I like it.”
I inhale the scent of Brenna’s shampoo—strawberries and cream—as she sleeps soundly with her back to me, her hot little body overheating mine. But I still don’t pry myself from her, content to have her close to me in the darkness while I lie awake and ponder Brett’s surprise visit tonight. It has sufficiently distracted me from the fact that my dirty laundry is now being aired across national television.
For the first time since the accident, all I can think of is him.
Of his beautiful aqua-blue eyes and his warm, genuine smile.
Of how relieved I am that he’s going to be fine.
Of how much I enjoyed my brief time with him, as shocking and overwhelming as it was.
Of how it felt having his strong arm wrapped around my body.
Of what it would feel like to have him hold me close, not because I’m the woman who saved him but simply because he wanted to.
When I finally drift off to sleep, I’m reveling in that hopeless fantasy.
Chapter 11
“So when’s he coming back?” Keith asks, his back to me as he peers through the blinds, a cup of coffee against his lips.
“When is who coming back?” Brenna chirps, adding with exasperation, her tiny hands grasping her playing cards, “I’m ready!”
“Uncle Jack. Next Sunday, after his trip to Cancún.” My phone conversation with my brother lasted twenty minutes—the longest I’ve ever had with him, as we mainly communicate through texts. “How’s the guy doing out there?”
“Seems fine.” Keith takes in the rigid military man standing outside next to my front porch. He’s the second shift and he looks eerily similar to Hawk, the deep-voiced man who arrived last night, dressed casually in a golf T-shirt and dark wash jeans and wearing a gun. “You sure you even need me here?”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” I grumble, picking up my cards for another round of go fish.
My phone buzzes again. Brenna’s annoyed groan is louder than mine.
Keith chuckles. “Misty?”
“Probably.” I powered my phone back on today and found twentyseven text messages from her. Once the expected “It’s tomorrow! CALL ME” and “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” and “You’re all over the news!” lines were out of the way, the influx of questions and inappropriate comments started, because I’m pretty sure she’d have spontaneously combusted if she couldn’t get them out in one form or another.
Is he as hot in person as he is on TV?
Are you going to see him again? Can you call me so I can come over?
What was he wearing?
What did he smell like?
Did you get to touch him?
Did he touch you?
I hate you so much! Can you ask him to come to Diamonds?
Do you think he’d be okay with me hugging him?
I won’t lie, when I read that last one—Keith’s favorite—I pictured a cute big-breasted Misty with her arms wrapped around Brett’s chest and a spark of jealousy flared.
Then, because I hadn’t answered her messages, she started flooding my phone with pictures of him. I don’t know where she found them, but suddenly, I had photos of Brett in tuxedos and swim trunks and everything in between. Of him alone, and of him arm in arm with plenty of beautif
ul women.
Women I could never compete with.
Keith turns and flashes those dimples at me. “Oh, come on! Read it out loud. I need some entertainment while I’m cooped up in here with you. Let me guess . . . she wants to know what color his boxers were.”
“I wouldn’t put that past her.”
Brenna’s face pinches. “Why would she want to know that?”
With a sigh, I reach for my phone.
How are you doing?
It’s not from Misty. It’s not even from this area code. Could it be . . .
Nervous flutters explode in my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Keith asks, turning to see my frown.
“Nothing. Be back in a sec.” I duck into my room to fish out the lined piece of paper, my thumb sliding over his neat scrawl.
The numbers match.
Brett Madden is texting me.
I sit, perched on the edge of my bed, staring at the four simple, innocuous words, and I’m at a loss for a response. What so many women would give to have Brett Madden texting them.
And all I had to do was pull him out of a burning car.
What do I say? That things suck? That I’m a prisoner in my own home? That the news is dragging my skeletons out of the closet and parading them down the street? Between the inappropriate questions, Misty also informed me that Raven News had run an in-depth five- minute clip on Scott Philips—on his family, his college education, and his years teaching. Thankfully, they haven’t interviewed him yet. I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say about me.
I don’t want to make Brett feel bad, though.
I’ll live.
As soon as I hit Send, I cringe. Seth Grabner didn’t live. Brett almost didn’t. Will he see that as a callous response?
“Ugh . . .” I’m such an idiot. I wish I could retract that.
I quickly punch out, How are you?
I bite my thumbnail and wait until three dots begin dancing on my screen.
I’ll live (thanks to you). Are the police still on guard?
I smile.
If by “on guard” you mean washing my dishes and playing go fish with Brenna, then yes. It’s like Fort Knox around here.
V.S.S. reported that it’s under control.
So he’s keeping tabs . . .
Their guns are awfully persuasive.
I hope you offered them SunnyD.
I stifle my giggle.
I only offer that to my favorite guests.
And now it seems like I’m flirting.
Sounds more exciting than my life. I have a doc visit this afternoon, but I’m laying low otherwise.
How is your leg?
Based on what he said about his injuries yesterday, he must be in a lot of pain.
My mom is spoon-feeding me drugs because she doesn’t trust that I’ll take them. If I suddenly stop responding, it’s because I’ve passed out.
I can’t help myself.
I have to ask, what’s it like having a movie star for a mother?
She’s just Mom to me.
I guess so.
Since we’re asking questions . . . Did you and Officer Singer date at some point?
I frown. Why is he asking me that?
No.
Never?
Nope. He’s one of my best friends. Why?
It just seemed like there was more to it than a cop doing his job.
Well, we did kiss behind the gym when we were twelve.
That must be it.
I can’t believe I just told you that.
And why are we even talking about Keith?
BTW, my other best friend is in love with you.
I roll my eyes at myself. Yes, that’s much better.
There’s no response from Brett for a moment. I wonder if he passed out. Where is he right now? On his couch?
In his bed?
Thoughts of him sprawled out on a mattress are interrupted by three dots.
Oh?
It’s a single word, and I’m not sure how to take it. Does he like hearing about women obsessing over him, or does it annoy him?
Yes, she flooded my phone with all kinds of pictures of you.
There’s another long pause, and then, Did you see this one?
An image follows quickly, of Brett in a French maid’s outfit at least two sizes too small, his muscular, hairy legs on full display, a wide, goofy grin on his face, a beer in hand. From the other costumes around him, I’m guessing it’s a Halloween party.
It’s a terrible, unflattering picture. I burst out laughing.
Oddly enough, this one was not included.
I think my publicist suppressed it. Not sure why.
For the life of me, I can’t figure it out either.
I’m going to regret sending that to you when I’m not high on Percocets.
It’s saved for future blackmail.
Brett Madden clearly has a sense of humor. And he can laugh at himself.
And I’m not sure, but I think he might be flirting. Or he’s just heavily medicated.
I’m still giggling as I watch the three dots bounce, wondering if I’m going to get another ridiculous picture.
I was so out of it yesterday that I forgot to ask you how much you had to pay for your truck. I owe you.
And just like that, my bubble is flattened.
You don’t owe me anything.
I owe you everything, actually. Starting with a new vehicle, and help with all the shifts you’re missing.
Tension creeps into my shoulders. Is this why he texted me to begin with? Is this the only reason?
That’s very generous of you, but I’ll manage. I always have.
Even as I type the words, I can hear my mother yelling at me for being stupid and stubborn. How do I explain that it just doesn’t feel right to accept money from him? That just picturing the entire transaction—him handing over a check, me accepting and cashing it—makes me uncomfortable in my skin.
I wait five minutes for a response, but it doesn’t come.
“Mommy! I want to play!”
I sigh, setting my phone on my bed, hoping I didn’t piss him off. “Coming . . .”
“Brett Madden was here, in your house, and you didn’t think to call me?” Misty glares at me, not bothering to veil her hurt. “Or even tell me about the accident?”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking straight . . . I’m sorry.” As much as I wasn’t ready to deal with Misty’s exuberance, when she showed up on my front porch with a box of cupcakes from the Sweet Stop—bribery, so she could grill me about Brett in person—I found myself sighing with gratitude. Misty has stuck by me through everything. She was there when it felt like everyone else had turned on me. She was there in the delivery room with me when I had Brenna, alone and terrified and screaming in pain. Whenever I’ve needed help, she’s showed up.
Though I’m not sure how much she’s helping me now. With a folder on her phone dedicated to pictures of Brett Madden, she isn’t exactly unbiased, swept up in the romance of the story.
“You should tell him you want to see him again. I’ll bet he’d drop everything and come.”
“I’m not going to do that! He’s at home, resting. He barely survived a car crash.”
“But he did, thanks to you.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s at my beck and call.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice.” Misty licks the buttercream frosting off her fingertips while she lounges in the La-Z-Boy, her legs folded up beneath her. “He owes you everything.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“So . . . now what?”
“Now . . . we wait for the reporters to give up or get bored and leave me alone.” A few more days, perhaps? I mean, I know Brett and his family are a big deal, but there are way more important things to be reporting on than this.
The steps outside creak, and a moment later, Keith lets himself in with his key, his arms laden with grocery bags.
“How is it out there?�
�
He shoots me a “don’t ask” look as he unceremoniously drops the bags on the table. Three apples tumble out, but he rounds them up with his quick reflexes before they roll to the ground and bruise.
“I didn’t think it was that bad when I drove in.”
I take in Misty’s heavy eye makeup and the favorite black blouse she’s wearing. Even her blonde curls are smooth and springy today, care of a long morning routine that she doesn’t bother with too often. I’m guessing she was hoping to be caught on camera.
Keith’s smirk says he’s guessing the same. “Surprised you’re not warming the chair that Madden sat in.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I spent some time there.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, making Keith grin and me groan. She’s always flirting with him and he’s always lapping it up, though everyone knows she thinks he’s too boyish and he thinks she’s too flighty.
He nods toward the TV. “You’re actually watching the game. I’m impressed.”
“Too bad they’re losing.” Tonight will be the second loss. Two more and the Flyers are done for the season. I feel terrible for Brett.
Keith frowns, looking around. “Where is she?”
“In her room, coloring. Brenna!” I holler. “Keith is here!”
Her bed creaks as she slides off and comes running out. But instead of focusing on Keith, her eyes land on the box of cupcakes.
“As if you haven’t already had one.” Keith lifts it out of her reach.
“I haven’t!”
“Really?” He swipes a finger over the streak of chocolate icing marring her cheek. Evidence.
She giggles as she jumps and waves her hands, trying to reach the box even though it’s impossibly high.
“Man . . . these look good.” He peers in at the three that are left. “Which one will I have . . .”
“Not the double chocolate!”
“This one looks amazing.” He lifts the double chocolate one out and opens his mouth wide, pretending to take a bite.
Brenna stops jumping and her bottom lip puffs out.
“Keith, you’re so mean!” Misty hollers.
He grins, putting it back. “Fine. Red velvet it is.”
“No! I’m saving that one for Vince.” Brenna darts to the blinds, prying them apart with her little fingers. “Is he back yet?”