by Ava Miles
“That is pretty incredible,” Beau said. “I like things that last and are made thoughtfully. Today, everything seems to be made so cheaply and poorly because it’s more cost-effective. Chaps my hide.”
“Exactly! That’s why I thought we needed something unique. Master blenders are like the rarest of diamonds, and this guy I’ve brought on has the background and the vision to make this work. He’s a true artist. Combining the ancient ways with the modern French style for perfume, the current gold standard, will take it to a whole new level. Plus, we’re using flowers and other ingredients from organic farms, and that’s really important to people these days. Besides, I like the notion of using the pure essence of flowers in our perfume. The less pesticides, the better. Although scents don’t only come from flowers, of course.”
“Good point,” he said, leaning forward again. “Pure essence,” he said, rolling the words over his tongue. “That’s a lot like honesty, it seems to me.”
There was that word again. Honesty. It mattered to him. “Yes, perfume is like wine in many ways. It doesn’t lie, so to speak. Take it out of the casks too early, you’re going to taste it. Store it improperly, you’ll want to spit it out. With perfume, it’s much the same, I’m learning. Add too much of one thing, and it overwhelms everything else. It’s an incredible art.”
“Sounds like it,” he said in that sexy drawl. “I support a lot of farmers through concerts and fundraisers. I like to joke that if I hadn’t wanted to sing so badly, I probably would be planting seeds in the spring and driving through my fields in a John Deere tractor come fall, harvesting my crops. I value what farmers do. They work hard for their living and aren’t appreciated enough, if you ask me.”
She wanted to applaud. “You’d love the farm I bought in Provence. It’s mostly lavender—my favorite scent—but it has other flowers we’ll likely use for the perfume. A fragrance has so many scents blended together, and we’ll be searching for the highest quality organic ingredients. We’ll be working with other farmers around the world, I expect, but you should see the way they pick flowers in Provence. It’s all done by hand. Some of the women bring their young children to work with them. I’ve seen their new babies lying on a blanket or in a basket as they pick the May roses or jasmine. The families take lunch together. It’s magic.”
“Sounds like quite a sight. Families need to eat together more.”
“We always did growing up,” she piped in.
“I imagine it’s a nice change for a mother. Raising children can’t be… Never mind.”
She wondered why he’d cut himself off. When he didn’t finish the thought, she said, “That’s why I think you’re a perfect fit for this. You understand the story I’m trying to tell. Farmers sow seeds for flowers every year—well, not all flowers because some are already rooted, but you get the idea. They have to believe those tiny little specks they’re sowing will bloom into something beautiful. That takes a lot of faith, if you ask me, especially in our culture of instant gratification.”
His blue-gray eyes scanned her face, and she tried to stay still under his intense regard even as her heartbeat kicked up. She’d known he was handsome, but in person, it was insane.
“I couldn’t have said it better, Caitlyn. In fact, the reason I decided to meet you was because you said in your proposal, and I quote, ‘perfume connects us to our roots. To the land, to people we’ve never met, and lastly to ourselves. In those special notes of fragrance, we begin to understand who we are and what we want to project in the world.’”
Her hand dropped off her chair, her body tingling. “You memorized all that?”
“It struck me here,” he said, bringing his hand to his heart in the sweetest, most earnest gesture she’d ever seen. “Hard. My new album is about roots. The ones we know. The ones we think we know. Even the ones we’re afraid of.”
She couldn’t imagine Beau Masters being afraid of anything. But of course, he would be. He was just as human as the rest of them. “I think I’m going to love this new album.”
“I’m just starting to write it, but what you said… It got me to thinking. Heck, it was almost like you read my mind.”
“Kindred spirits,” she breathed out loud.
Before she could kick herself for being too forward, and so unprofessional, he nodded. Holding her gaze, he said, “Exactly. Tell me more about my contribution.”
She wanted to high-five him. And possibly hyperventilate. “We’d want to use one of your songs in our marketing. Something that fits the perfume and the story we’re telling. It sounds like you’ll have something—”
“On my upcoming album,” he finished for her.
“That would be awesome. We’d want both TV and print advertisements as well.”
His brows winged up. “That’s not the favorite part of my career, let me tell you. Now, I dress up okay for photos, but in the beginning I was a mess.”
“You were discovered young,” she said. “Trust me, you did better than I did back then. I didn’t find my groove fashion-wise until I moved to New York after college. Before that, I was known to wear plaid pants with a striped shirt because I loved the way the lines intersected. My brother Flynn likes to pull out the pictures to remind me.”
He leaned toward her as if confessing a secret. “Well, I could barely tie a tie, and it really didn’t look great with Levi’s and work boots. My mama thought… Her opinions figured in strongly, I suppose. Dressing me like a simple man seems to work the best.”
He was wrong. He’d look good in anything. “You’re being modest. And I haven’t seen any photos of you wearing a tie, although I imagine you likely bust one out for church.”
He laughed. “We still dress up pretty formal for church in these here parts. I always say you’ve gotta stop trying to do something you’re not good at after a while, so I stopped trying to dress up. I’m more comfortable in jeans and a work shirt. Although I do get a little tired of being so buttoned up and boring all the time.”
Boring? He was talking crazy. Sure, she’d never seen him wearing the tight jeans and blingy belt buckles favored by some country singers, and the only hat he’d ever been photographed in was a baseball cap, but simple worked for him. He was as wholesome as apple pie and just as tempting. Not that she could say so.
“Your style works, trust me. What else can I tell you?” She wondered if it would be crass to talk compensation yet. Her initial offer had been included in her pitch.
“Why do you really think I’d be a good fit for this? Be completely honest with me.”
Her specialty. His fixation. “Because you care about people, and the women who see these ads are going to pick up on that. Maybe they don’t feel good about themselves, especially after a long day of worrying, working, and taking care of the kids, but you’re going to assure them that they should. That they matter. That they deserve to feel sexy and fabulous just as they are.”
He made a humming sound that sounded like a note from a cello.
“Women need to hear more of those messages. If you let all the media get to you, you’re going to feel like you can’t ever be pretty enough or skinny enough or smart enough.” She stopped, realizing she’d gotten way too personal. This was about women in general. Not her in particular.
“Is that how you feel, Caitlyn?” He covered his mouth with his hand, studying her.
Damn. “Sometimes. That’s part of the reason I want you to be our spokesperson, not a glamorous actress or model. I want to tell a different story, make a social statement or two, and I think you’re just the man to do it with me.”
Okay, that was really personal, but it was also honest. She wasn’t just making a perfume. She was making a stand for women, one she’d already made for herself. Once again, she thanked Jace the Jerk. They’d been dating for a few months, on their way to serious, when he’d offered to pay for a boob job, saying she’d look so much better, sexier, with bigger breasts. If she hadn’t been so hurt, pissed off, and generally insulted by
his offer, she might not have pushed forward with this venture. Starting anything new was risky, and perfume was an established market. But she had a new angle, and she was going to ride this train to success. She was a Merriam, after all. They never did half measures.
“I think I’d like to be that guy too, Caitlyn.” Beau lowered his fist and smiled. “Talking to people through my music is important to me. I can envision this campaign working the same way.”
“Yes! Awesome!” Terrible business words, but God help her, she was excited.
“I’d really like to do this with you,” he said, slapping his knee as if to punctuate it. “But I’m going to need a few things.”
“Brass tacks time. Being a Merriam, I love this part. Tell me.”
“I’d like to come stay at the farm in France with you for a spell. Get to know the land and the people involved in this venture. Like your perfume guy. Connect to the roots, you know. Smell the air.”
“The air smells like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”
“I can’t wait. Also, I’d feel a mite more comfortable seeing what kind of perfume you come up with before signing the contract. You understand.”
Her brother Quinn wouldn’t like that, but she couldn’t deny it made sense. “That’s to your credit. Some celebrities don’t care what they hock so long as they get paid. Oops, did I say that out loud?”
“It’s refreshing,” he assured her. “I have lots of people wanting me to ‘hock’ things, but few care to tell me why I should in a way that works for me. Your proposal was one of the best I’ve read—and yes, I do read them even though Mama handles that side of things—which is why I pushed to meet with you myself.”
“Great!”
He leaned forward almost conspiratorially, and she followed suit.
“Between us, my mama doesn’t get this roots thing. In fact, she’s not happy about the theme for my upcoming album.”
“Family!” She waved her hands in the air dramatically. “They love you, but sometimes they just won’t let you fly.”
“Nice to have someone get that,” he said. “Usually she’s fully behind me, but…”
“You’re growing up.” She winced, gesturing to his big body. “Not that you’re not grown up or anything. You just turned thirty, after all. I only meant that sometimes parents want to keep thinking of us as dependent children. It’s a comfort and a pain in the ass.”
“Did you say ‘kindred spirits’ earlier?”
She could die right now, she decided. She’d never had a kindred spirit outside of her family before, she realized. What a happy surprise. Michaela was never going to believe her.
“I figure once I get the lay of the land and smell this incredible perfume you’re planning, we’ll be good to go.”
She tapped her feet under the table.
“You have happy feet,” he said, grinning.
“What?”
“Musicians always hear the beat.” Then he winked at her, and what a wink. Pure charm. “Caitlyn, it’s been a pleasure.”
When he extended his hand, she clasped it. He held it, his touch warm and friendly. But his eyes were shining, and she felt like the center of his world.
She’d picked the perfect spokesperson! This perfume was going to be the hit she’d envisioned. That thought was followed by another—she’d never been so attracted to a man, inside and out, as she was to Beau Masters. Did he feel the same way, or was she letting her imagination get away from her?
“Thanks again for the meeting,” he said. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
“Me too!”
“And thanks for telling me your story,” he added, walking her to the door.
His hand was gentle against the small of her back. “What story?” Her brain had gone blank at his touch. First, kindred spirits and now this…
“Roots, Caitlyn.” He opened the door to the suite, leaning his shoulder against the frame. “Roots.”
“Yes! Roots. Well, I have to get back to France. Poor me, right? See you, Beau.”
“All right now,” he said as she walked backward. “Have a safe trip back.”
She probably looked like an idiot, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on him. The way he stood, all tall and manly against the door, made her mouth water.
“I’ll be in touch when my schedule opens up,” he said, “and I can pop over to the farm in France.”
Her right foot came out of her heel, and her ankle wobbled. She bent down to straighten her lucky Manolo Blahnik pumps, the shoes she’d been wearing when Quinn had agreed to fund her perfume venture. Suddenly a masculine hand took her arm to steady her. Those long, tapered fingers trailed down to her ankle, helping her back into the shoe. Warmth followed them.
Oh. My. God.
She raised her chin, and Beau Masters was inches away from her on bended knee. There were gold flames in his blue-gray eyes, she saw. His scent washed over her again, all woodsy and male.
“Ah…thank you. I must be the clumsiest person on the planet.”
“I don’t think so.” He ran a finger over the lace pattern on her arch. “These are some shoes.”
“They have flowers on them. I thought it fitting since perfume—”
“Comes from flowers,” he finished for her.
He was finishing her sentences again. She was in trouble. “Yes. Well, thanks for being my Prince Charming, but this Cinderella has a plane to catch.”
She didn’t, not really—the private jet would leave whenever she was ready to leave—but if she didn’t get away from him now, she was going to do something stupid.
“Any time, Cinderella.” He took her elbow gently, and together they stood.
He didn’t remove his hand. She didn’t want him to.
They stared at each other, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She wanted to keep talking with him, keep looking at him, keep being with him.
Her brother Trevor had told her that he’d fallen for his now-wife Becca after only a brief encounter. The idea seemed ludicrous, the kind of thing that only happened in storybooks and rom coms, and yet her mom and dad had a similar story about love at first sight. The Merriams weren’t conventional in other ways, so why should they be when it came to love?
“Maybe…” Beau trailed off, his voice husky.
She froze, feeling the vibration in that single word. Was he going to ask her out? Her brain exploded. Could she say yes as a professional?
How could she tell him no, feeling like this?
He made an unidentifiable sound and then looked away from her. “Ah, maybe you could…send me some pictures of the farm. The process. Even…a video or two of you making the perfume with the master blender. Your business ideas. I’d…ah…like that.”
It felt like her heart had dropped to the soles of her feet. He was asking her to text him about business? She was so dumb. “Of course. Sure.”
He started walking her toward the elevator, his hand still wrapped around her arm like a delicious hot pack for muscles needing TLC.
“Your door is open.” She gestured to his suite.
Chuckling, he kept walking with her. “I guess I’m forgetful.”
“And I’m clumsy. What a pair.” Keep it light, Caitlyn.
“You’re too sure of yourself to be clumsy,” he said, surprising her.
He punched the down button, but his hold on her hadn’t relaxed. Hot tingles coursed out from where the pads of his fingers touched her skin. She firmed her ankles so they wouldn’t buckle in her shoes again.
“I really should get going.”
He rubbed her arm. Just once. “I wish…”
Her whole heart leapt in that pause, but the elevator door opened, and the moment was lost.
“Never mind,” he said softly.
“I’ll send you some pictures,” she said, taking a step toward the elevator.
Except…he didn’t seem to be letting her go. She was so confused. Was he interested, or was she completely
misreading him?
“Don’t forget about that video.”
“I won’t.” She gently pulled on his grip despite her soul-deep desire to stay put.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I still had you.” That compelling smile of his almost sent her to her knees in sheer bliss. She needed to get on that elevator before she did something she’d regret.
The elevator started to shut. He lurched forward and stopped it with the hand that held her arm. She already missed its warmth.
“I’m keeping you.” His low-pitched voice made her belly tighten, like he was singing a song just for her.
I wish. “No, I’m keeping you.” She forced herself into the elevator and punched the lobby button. “Bye, Beau.”
He raised a lone hand in the air, almost a wave. “Bye, Caitlyn.”
Her throat was tight. It made no sense, but she suddenly felt deeply sad. Bereft, even. Like she was saying goodbye to someone she didn’t want to be without. They watched each other as the door closed, and she memorized the way his crooked smile smoothed out, the way his eyes seemed to stare into her soul. When the elevator started to descend, she took a few steps back until she hit the back wall.
She felt like the door had closed on something that might have been beautiful.
Chapter 2
Roots.
Beau sank into the chair Caitlyn had sat in, feeling oddly uprooted from their meeting. No, not a meeting. That was the wrong word for something so magical and unexpected.
Her warmth still burned his hand, and he rubbed his palms together, not wanting that heat to dissipate. What a woman! Sure, he’d known she was special from her proposal. Being a singer, he knew the power of words and the union they created between the person delivering them and the one receiving them. Usually he was the one delivering, so when someone moved him with words—especially not in a song, his normal medium—he paid attention. Caitlyn had riveted him with her talk of roots and seeds. Of the importance of knowing where something came from. It was as if she’d opened the book of his soul. Now he knew her voice too, the way she clipped her vowels and consonants, talking as fast as a speeding car at times. Suddenly he heard guitar and fiddle, and lyrics started to form in his mind.