by Robyn Thomas
He gave her the sort of compassionate look people give when they’re lost for words. She fled. An early night would serve her well, and maybe Jake’s presence down the hall would be comforting.
It wasn’t.
When she wasn’t missing her mother, she mourned her father, her grandparents, and Brad’s father. Happy memories blurred with tragic ones as her pillow got soaked with tears. Thank goodness she was here tonight in the house that’d witnessed the best and worst moments of her life. The single sleeping tablet on her dresser mocked her, but she couldn’t take it with a stranger in the house.
Exhausted and hollow, so alone that she ached, she dozed and woke in a restless cycle. “Eleven o’clock. Twelve o’clock. One o’clock.” Annoyed at the sound of her own voice counting the passing hours, she slipped out of bed and pulled a fleecy cardigan on over her pajamas. She padded down the softly lit hall, past her mother’s room, and into the kitchen.
Keen to avoid the soup dishes and the dismal remains of her earlier burned dinner, she headed for the commercial kitchen on the other side of the hall. The crew from Maid-to-Sparkle had cleaned it after the wake, and its gleaming metallic surfaces welcomed her. There wasn’t a single trace of her mother in this utilitarian space. She could lose herself here. She flipped her MP3 player on and pressed random, relaxing as familiar music wafted out.
Dragging a heap of goodies out onto the counter, she cleared her mind and set her creative impulses free. The sweet scent of apples, raisins, and cinnamon battled with the comforting aroma of egg and bacon pie when she caught sight of a colorful reflection in the window.
“Miss Carlisle in the kitchen with Mr. Olsen,” Jake said.
She spun to face him.
He surveyed the loaded counters with raised eyebrows. “Is there a reason we’re up at this hour?”
Guilt settled over her as she took in his sleep-mussed hair and drowsy eyes. He was delightfully rumpled and his feet were bare beneath faded jeans and a Manchester United shirt covered in signatures.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. She could’ve easily sketched him in the time she’d spent staring. “Did I wake you?”
He snagged a stool from near the wall and carried it over to the counter. “You want a seat?” When she shook her head at his offer, he sat on it himself. “The smell of a cake my mum used to make when I was a kid drifted in and I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. It’s tea cake, right?”
Beth pressed her finger against her lips before she could stop.
“It’s a secret family recipe I’m not supposed to have. Caramel apple cake.”
His lips twitched. “Did you steal it?”
“Not personally.” She laughed at the partial truth. “I got Brad to get it for me. His family has a cookbook they hand down from one generation to the next—once they’re certain the new daughter-in-law is an indispensable member of their family. I’ve never dared to ask, but I think the only way to get it is to produce an heir. Brad copied this recipe when no one was looking because it’s my favorite.”
Jake looked more amused than horrified. “That explains the cake, but what about the rest of the food? It looks as if you’re running a soup kitchen.”
“That’s too accurate to be a wild stab in the dark.” She frowned. “Something’s wrong here. I couldn’t place you when you turned up at my door, with the world’s most recognizable hair, yet you seem to know everything about me. How come?”
He spread his hands wide. “Your ex-husband loves to talk about you.”
“Not to strangers.”
He went very still and a guarded look came over his face.
“I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Skyla recently.”
“But why have you been discussing me? Skyla’s usually very discreet. I don’t even know what she does for a living. She seems to spend most of her time writing letters. I’ve always wondered how she earns so much for doing so little.”
“Skyla works for Five Awesome Emperors. She has the ability to write personal replies to our fans that we’d be proud to have written ourselves. We can’t afford to lose her. Finding someone who is competent and gets along with every member of the band is almost unheard of.”
“So you think she’ll resign from her job if she’s not happy in her personal life?” Why does it feel as if there’s something you’re not telling me?
“We all agreed that someone should look out for her. She lost her mother and stepfather in an auto accident years ago so she doesn’t have any family, and working from home here in Melbourne means she has no colleagues to rely on either.”
He pushed out of his seat and spoke in a tone laced with disgust. “She and Brad are about to tie the knot, yet she jokes about him not being able to go sixty seconds without mentioning you. I’ve talked to Brad and it’s worse than I imagined. Her husband-to-be is still preoccupied with you. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about your habits and your whereabouts and what remains on your to-do list for the wedding. He knows when you last ate and slept.” He threw her earlier words back at her. “How come?”
Feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck, she curled her fingers over the edge of the counter and tried to steady herself. “That’s why you’re here? To distract me so I won’t have a fling with Brad before he remarries? What makes you think—?”
“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s him.”
“Stop worrying. Brad’s a pain in the ass most of the time, but I love him like a brother. We got married because it was an adventure and our families expected it. There was no leap of faith and no chance of heartbreak, yet it was doomed to failure right from the start. Neither of us were happy, so I pulled the plug and we went back to being friends. Best friends.”
She summoned a smile and ordered her shoulders to lift in tandem. “I’m the wedding planner, the ex-wife, the maid of honor, and the groom’s best friend, but I’m not a threat. If you’d shared your concerns with Skyla, she’d have told you that and we could’ve avoided this nightmare.”
“The engagement nightmare could have been avoided if you’d taken care to limit how much time you spent with your ex-husband.”
Picking up a spatula, she sliced a generous wedge of caramel apple cake. She set it on a clean tea towel and spoke. “Brad’s like my shadow, impossible to get rid of but relatively benign. I don’t encourage him. There are days I can barely tolerate his constant presence, but I know he’s transitioning from one marriage to the next. It will get better. He and Skyla are planning a two-month-long honeymoon and I think that distance will be good for him— and me.
“Now that you know I’m not a threat to Skyla’s happiness, you can put a lid on this engagement nonsense and we can both get back to our regular lives.”
“It’s too late. The story will run in every major newspaper across Australia this morning. I’d already committed to running it before I rang your doorbell.”
“How nice for you to dictate the future without regard for anyone else.” She held the cake out. “It’s still warm.”
He dipped his head to inhale the cake’s aroma, then nibbled the corner. “So good.” He grabbed two spoons out of the drawer next to her. “Want some?”
Confusion swamped her. “You’re playing host again. Why does it feel as if you’re trying to trade my cake for information? Is there something you want to know?”
He set the cake on the counter before she had time to blink.
“Can you honestly say there’s no love between you and Brad?”
“You saw my message. You know I can’t. There’s loads, but it’s not romantic.”
He didn’t answer. He took a bite of the cake in silence. He’d set himself up as her fake fiancé, so that probably gave her the right to use him as a sounding board.
“We got married young, thinking friendship would be enough to hold us together. But it wasn’t.”
Jake’s half-muttered response didn’t sound very complimentary, and she wondered if Brad’s ears were burni
ng as he slept.
She met Jake’s gaze head-on. “He’s been offering my heart to random men ever since our divorce came through, because he wants me to be happy. Does that sound like someone who is still possessive?”
“You guys get divorced and you praise him for helping you through it.”
He was practically shouting at her. His bronzed cheekbones and the gold flecks in his eyes made him look like someone had lit a fire inside him.
She stepped closer to him. “I didn’t need help to get through it. I asked for the divorce. He didn’t argue.”
“You could be too close to see what’s going on.”
She sipped from her bottle of water before answering. “I think you’re aligning Brad with somebody else and blaming him for their mistakes. I’m not sure it’s possible to be too loyal. Skyla is a very lucky woman.
“If Skyla was home he and Skyla would be here now, standing where you are, eating that cake.” She shook her head when he would’ve spoken. “I’m grateful for your company, but I’d give almost anything to have Brad here. He and his mother are the only family I have left.”
Jake frowned. “He’s not family. You’re not even married anymore.”
“It’s more of an honorary bond. I guess you could say he’s the son my father never had.”
“He was the golden boy and you played second fiddle?”
She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed. “Not at all. He was a welcome addition rather than a replacement, and eventually I wore his family down too. For a long time we were the glue that held everyone together as one big family, but now it’s down to Brad and me because I sometimes go an entire week without catching up with his mother.” She shook off the gloom and aimed a grin at Jake. “He’ll be proud of me for handling this situation without him.”
“Making your ex-husband proud is important to you? It’s time you got some new faces in your life.”
“I have a new face in my life. You have one of the most recognizable faces in the world, and lots of awards and millions of adoring fans. I’ve just buried my mother, and I have an empty house and a terrible feeling I’m going to fly right off into space if I don’t hold on tight to the few people I have left who really matter to me.”
“Brad is one of those people?”
The raw emotion in his voice threatened to unravel several hours of successful kitchen therapy, but she refused to let it.
“Yeah. And his mum. And Skyla. It’s, um, probably best if you change the subject and pretend this conversation never happened.”
He regarded her in thoughtful silence before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be much of a fiancé if I did that.”
Dread built within her. He seemed to think he had to step up and offer support, but random kindness was the one surefire way to undermine her. “You see that raspberry meringue roulade?”
She pointed and waited for him to drag his attention away from her face. “If you continue this discussion you’ll risk wearing it.”
He thrust both hands through his hair and made an impatient sound in the base of his throat, frustration radiating out of him and charging the air between them. The effect was instantaneous.
Testosterone combined with protective instincts was her greatest weakness, and her kitchen hummed with both. “You miss your mother too much for us to ignore it. You told Brad you had an alternate shoulder to lean on.” He smacked one broad shoulder and angled it toward her. “Go ahead and lean.”
So tempting. “It’s not the same. Brad and I have a history. He cares about me.”
“More than your fiancé?”
“Please don’t use that word again. It implies a connection we don’t have.” A wave of utter hopelessness threatened but she held it back. “The biggest problem I have right now is being famously engaged to you. I’ll be fine once you are gone.”
“You’re not fine, Beth. Look at all of this food you’ve made in the middle of the night. And that feathery pink robe you were wearing earlier, that was hers, wasn’t it?”
She tried to give him a dismissive once-over but a sense of awe swamped her. For a fleeting moment he was too famous and too gorgeous to argue with. Thankfully the moment passed, and she reached for the roulade.
The heavy platter accentuated the shakiness of her hands, but she didn’t want to abandon her last line of defense. “It’s gooey and sticky. It’ll mess up your rock-god hair.”
“Never mind that.” He took one step toward her and then a second one. “Your fluffy jacket will be at risk and it looks like another precious hand-me-down.”
Was he being sarcastic? Her cardigan was the last gift her mother had given her and, until a moment ago, it’d brought great comfort. Unsure how to respond, she felt the platter waver in her hand, and she calculated the distance between the cake and his face, in case throwing it became necessary.
“I wasn’t expecting company tonight, let alone a rock god and fiancé all rolled into one. And having your own fashion label doesn’t give you the right to comment on how I dress.” His silent brooding made her fumble for something else to say. “You should probably take your impeccable taste and move out straightaway or I’ll never find time to have that pre-wedding affair with Brad.”
“That’s no great loss.”
“Or you could stay and we’ll chase some love triangle headlines. What do you think? Genius, or a touch too far?”
An almost-smile flirted with the corners of his mouth, but the authority in his tone cancelled out the hint of levity. “There are two shifts of three men patrolling the perimeter. I can’t leave without further security, and I’m not convinced you’ll be safe here alone. Staying together gives us an advantage because no one knows I’m here.” The weight of his thoughts made him hesitate.
“I’ve made your life public fodder at the worst possible time.”
Not a question, a statement of fact. He was accepting responsibility for his actions in a way that seemed out of character for an arrogant rock god.
“Right house. Wrong time,” he murmured, his voice so low she had to strain to hear him.
A rogue tear spilled over her lashes and slid down her cheek.
Dammit, she couldn’t handle sympathy from strangers. She put the roulade down and snatched the industrial oven mitts off the counter, her hands scrunching the material tightly, then releasing it, as she tried to vent her frustration. “Your timing’s perfect. Four in the morning is likely to be the high point of my day.”
“It’s bound to get worse.”
She shot him a glare, then waved her hand at the counters loaded with food. “I think you’re wrong. We haven’t eaten yet and a day that starts with a breakfast like this can’t be all bad.”
Chapter Three
Jake stared at the stubborn set of Beth’s shoulders as she stalked toward the twin ovens. Her back was turned but her green eyes, brilliant with tears, were etched on his memory. Weeping women were nothing new. Generally they wept in public, for hefty appearance fees, at the end of his acquaintance with them.
Beth’s tears were genuine and heartfelt, and she was doing her level best to swallow them. Damn his manager for finding out everything about her except the one thing he had most needed to know.
She slid another trio of fragrant, golden-brown apple cakes onto a wire rack and waved one hand in his direction. “Stop entertaining such heavy thoughts, famous man.”
Famous man? Why did that make him smile?
“Being engaged to me is a temporary nightmare,” she said.
“You can call it off immediately or you can hide out here and relax for a few days, eating well, taking it easy, and soaking up some alternative fashion sense.”
He studied the outfit she’d put together. “The media would go wild over a shot of you dressed like that.”
“Like this?” She looked down in confusion. “In my PJs?”
Jake’s hands ached to know if she felt as soft as she looked.
Skimming his knuckles over her neck and sli
pping his hands around her waist were harmless pleasures he could indulge in.
And if he did happen to overstep, she’d probably cream him with the raspberry meringue roulade.
He put his hands on her shoulders and slid them slowly down to her wrists, his callused fingers catching on the impossibly soft fabric of her fleecy jacket. “I’d say this is more of a fancy dress costume than pajamas. Dispose of the starchy white apron”—he reached behind her to undo the ties—“and you’re dressed as a baby chick.”
She gasped and he used the distraction to slip her apron off.
“No need to feel embarrassed. As far as chicken suits go, this is a good one.” His fingers toyed with one of the tiny pom-poms that served as buttons, then slipped down to circle the one below.
“It’s soft. It has rainbow plumage in a range of pastel colors.”
“Allow me to predict another headline.” She batted his hand away. “Jake Olsen’s penchant for farm animals.”
He shook his head and released her hair from its bouncy ponytail. “They never print the truth, and I’ve recently discovered I have a thing for chickens, one in particular.”
She winced, then spoke with quiet dignity. “If you’ve exploded into someone’s life, allowed their personal details to be randomly dispersed, and linked their name to yours in a way that makes them look like a pathetic desperado, then you might want to avoid poking fun at something that brings them a small measure of comfort.”
Her hands shook a little as she discarded her jacket, pajama top, and fluffy socks. “There,” she said. Her color was high and her breathing agitated as she stood before him in a clingy white tank top, low-rise pajama pants, and bare feet. Her straight dark hair spilled over her shoulders. “No fluff or fleece or feathers. Nothing but cotton. Does that suit you better?”
Her tank top was three sizes too small for public viewing, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. The gap between her top and pants showed an enticing strip of milky white skin that was bound to be softer and smoother than anything she’d tossed aside. Did it suit him better? Hell no.