by Ava Miles
His mouth curved, bitterness burning his lips. “If that isn’t the nice guy you like, so be it. Now, tell me who my real daddy is.”
She lunged for the phone. “I will not!”
“You’re really not going to tell me?” He evaded her as she reached out for the phone again.
“No. I won’t. When you’re ready to apologize for making me so upset, we’ll forget all about this little incident and talk about some ‘appropriate’ ideas for your new album. You’re behind in the songwriting as it is, Beauregard.”
That infernal name again. Anger shot through him. “Because I didn’t have the material I needed to write something real. I knew something was wrong. I’ve always known.”
Her brows shot to her hairline. “Don’t raise your voice to me.”
“Mama, I can’t write anymore because I don’t have the truth.” He held out his hand in a silent plea. “I need the truth.”
“Well, you won’t get it from me,” she said, her eyes turning predatory. “Enough of that… If you’re having trouble writing, honey, I’ll find a songwriter for your new album. We’ll ensure they’re the kind of songs you do best.”
When she put her head against his chest, his heart thundered like a summer storm. He didn’t want her to touch him. Least of all manage him like this.
“No, Mama.” His voice carried across the room.
They locked eyes. “I won’t have you ruin everything we’ve created over this. It’s nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, then why are you acting like this? Mama, this isn’t nothing. It’s everything.” His whole life was rotten to the core, and he’d been too dazzled by the shiny outside to realize it.
“Asking these questions will serve no one,” she said, pushing her hair back behind her ear. “You’ll be nothing if you keep going down this road. I love you too much to let you.”
“It’s my career, Mama,” he said, planting his feet. “And my life.”
“Try doing anything without me,” she said. “See how far you get. Heck, son, you don’t even have a bank account or credit card I’m not on.”
She’d always paid his bills and taken care of money things. It had made sense before. Now it made his insides liquefy. “I can change that.”
“Come on, honey,” she said, patting his chest. “Let’s not fight anymore. We’re both talking crazy. Mama will handle things. Like I always have.”
“You can’t handle this, Mama,” he said. “I’m doing this album, and I’m doing the perfume too.”
He turned and walked out of the room. She wasn’t the person he’d always thought her to be. Walt Masters wasn’t his daddy.
What did that mean for him?
“Where are you going?” she asked, hurrying after him. “Beau!”
He kept walking.
“Honey, think. You need to stay here with your mama. Get over these crazy ideas.”
Crazy ideas. Leave it to her to act all Southern in a moment like this.
“I’m making my album, Mama.” He pivoted and faced her in the foyer, the one he’d consented to remodel for her at an exorbitant price. “You best think on that while I’m gone.”
“Beau, wait! Don’t think I won’t find you. When you’re acting this crazy—”
He slammed the door behind him, praying her newfound sense of breeding would prevent her from making a scene for the neighbors in her front yard. Wrenching open the truck’s door, he pulled out his phone. Started memorizing numbers. Caitlyn Merriam was at the top of his call list.
He needed to get a new phone, one his mother couldn’t track.
He needed to take her off his bank accounts and credit cards, grab his passport, and his song notes.
Then he needed to get the heck out of town.
Chapter 3
Caitlyn held the plane.
How could she do otherwise after receiving Beau’s text? From a new number, no less. This is your KS. Mind if I come along to France early? What’s your flight number? I’ll buy myself a ticket and see you there.
She’d knocked over an entire display of boots after reading that. She’d found the perfect pair of teal cowboy boots embroidered with flowers at a famous shop downtown. After righting the fallen boots, she’d texted him right back, doing a little happy-dance shimmy as her fingers flew across the phone. Awesome! You’re kidding. What a surprise.
Sending off more texts directing him to her private jet area at Nashville International Airport, she headed to the cashier and finished her purchase. He was coming with her! Holy hell.
Maybe he’d regretted leaving things unfinished and unspoken. She was going to have to figure out a way to ask him. They could have a forthright talk about keeping things separate on the business and personal front.
The first person she texted was Michaela: Beau Masters is coming to France with me.
She’d already updated her sister and Flynn on their meeting minus the whole kismet moments where she’d felt like she’d fallen through a wormhole into an alternate reality, one where she and Beau really could fall in love. But maybe she didn’t need to be so circumspect. His text seemed to suggest he’d fallen through the wormhole too.
Were they still crazy if it was a shared insanity?
Her sister responded: No effing way. Did you throw him over your shoulder or something? Way to make things happen, Caity girl. Keep me posted.
But when Beau set foot in the cabin, where she eagerly awaited him in one of the cushy white leather seats, he didn’t look happy to see her. In fact, he looked like downright blue.
She started to wonder if she’d misread the situation. Again. His trademark smile looked like a poor reflection of itself, and even his shoulders were stooped. Maybe something else had happened to prompt this quick turnaround.
“Hey!” His voice was as flat as the tire on an old bicycle. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me so soon.”
She jumped out of her seat, noting his single leather duffel scuffed from age. So he was coming only for a few days. Had she expected more? Yeah, she’d hoped this was some grand romantic gesture. No denying it.
“No, this is great. I’m so happy you could come this soon. But I’m a little embarrassed. I have mixed feelings about using the company planes. I love the ease and the quiet, but when it’s just little old me… You’re saving me from a heap of guilt.”
“Then I’m happy to be of service,” he said as Joris, their flight attendant, stepped out of the cockpit.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Masters. Can I take your bag?”
“I can stow it myself if you show me where,” Beau said, stepping farther into the cabin.
Joris simply nodded and opened one of the roomy compartments. That man was the epitome of calm, but then again he was accustomed to her oldest brothers, Quinn and Connor, who used the company planes more than the rest of them. She loved her brothers to bits, but they could be downright difficult sometimes.
Beau chuckled darkly as he stowed his bag in the compartment. “You went boot shopping.”
“It’s Nashville,” she said, swinging her hands at her sides, nerves racing over her skin.
“Next time you’re in town, I’ll take you to my favorite place. They have some boots in the back that would blow your mind.”
Next time? That sounded more promising, but again, she cautioned herself. She didn’t want to presume. “I can’t wait. Come sit. Joris, tell Frank we can take off whenever he’s ready.”
“You’ve got it, Caitlyn,” Joris said. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Masters?”
“Beau, and water’s just—” Before he could finish, some emotion flashed in his gaze. “No, wait,” he called. “How about…”
He closed his eyes like he was working on the biggest decision of his life, and she held her breath. What in the world?
Those stormy eyes were dark gray when he opened them again. “Vodka. With a lime if you have it, Joris.”
Her mouth dropped open. One piece of info had been consistent acros
s all of the articles she’d read about Beau: he never drank. Everyone knew he stayed away from the sauce since his dad had been a drunk. Should she ask him outright what was going on? No, she’d let him tell her if he chose. She still couldn’t be sure he was here for business or personal or both. He should set the boundaries.
“Surprised?” he asked her, coming down the aisle toward her. “Me too, but the reasons don’t…. Never mind.”
She didn’t take offense—he was using ‘never mind’ almost like she and Michaela used ‘whatever’ when they didn’t want to finish a thought. Rather than press him, she nodded and said, “I’m celebrating our meeting with champagne. Come sit. It’s about a twelve-hour flight to Cannes. Then about a forty-minute drive to the farmhouse. Ah… Our perfume maker is staying in the small guesthouse, so you’ll have to bunk in the main house with me. Ibrahim—that’s his name—insisted even though I won’t be staying there full-time, and—”
“Will that make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all.” She waved her hand, hoping he couldn’t tell she was even now fantasizing about what might happen in that house. “It’s a big house and we’re both adults. Professionals.”
“Exactly. I’m glad you feel that way. I want to be where the action is. Please don’t make a fuss. I just need a bed. Although when I first moved to Nashville, I slept on the floor in my sleeping bag. I can do that again, I suppose, but I’m not a spring chicken.”
“If you’re no spring chicken, then I’m in trouble. I’m two years older.”
“Are you? I wouldn’t have guessed.” His mouth twitched again. “You look pretty spry to me.”
There he went again, making another comment that had her wondering what he was thinking. And feeling. “Thank you. Seriously though, the farmhouse isn’t luxurious or anything. If you’d prefer something else—”
“Nah, I get fidgety if anything is too luxurious. I figure they have something to hide.”
“Then this plane must be making you incredibly nervous,” she joked.
That teased a genuine smile out of him. “The company is keeping me pretty calm. Thanks for letting me come along, Caitlyn. I…needed to get out of town.”
“I wondered when I saw you. Bad day, huh?”
“Meeting you was the best part so far,” he said, trying to smile. “But the part that came afterward was pretty awful. Since we’re to be company, you should know that I had a horrible fight with my mother, and I need to clear my head.”
Was the fight over him wanting to be the spokesperson for her perfume? “You mentioned she wasn’t as eager for you to work with me. Was it over—?”
“The antecedents were much bigger,” he said, his face darkening. “Again, thanks for letting me come along. I figure it’s the best thing for me right now. Everything is…messed up. I’ll stay out of your way. Sorry if I’m imposing. Maybe I should—”
“Stop,” she said gently, and compassion drove her to take his hand even though she knew it was unprofessional. But he surprised her by curling his fingers around hers. They exchanged a look, and she said, “Kindred spirits help each other in moments like this.”
He sighed, and her belly stopped jumping. “Thank you. I’ve never had a kindred spirit until today.”
Her heart soared. “Outside of my family, I haven’t either.”
He squeezed her hand, and she returned the gesture. She was starting to believe she’d read him correctly after all. He was interested, only he was preoccupied by this argument with his mother, and it was vexing him something fierce.
“Family fights are the worst. We had an epic row recently, my two oldest brothers against the rest of us siblings. My mom had to come in and mediate, which translated into her whacking them both on the backs of the heads, reminding them of what’s important, and then telling them to make nice.”
“She sounds like a mighty fine lady.”
“She is,” Caitlyn said. “I can call her if you need her. Maybe she can become a family interventionist in her retirement.”
His laugh was harsh. “I’d need to hire her full-time right now.”
Joris cleared his throat, arriving with Beau’s drink. Caitlyn almost snatched her hand back out of reflex, but Joris was discreet. He wasn’t going to tattle to Quinn that he’d caught her holding hands with her celebrity spokesperson. If her brother found out, he’d call her out on it for sure, reminding her of all the reasons it was unprofessional. Like she didn’t already know.
But Beau was the one who pulled away, and when he eased his hand from hers, she felt oddly bereft again.
“Thanks, Joris,” Beau said, gripping the crystal tumbler with both hands.
“Frank says we’ll be taking off in fifteen.”
She made her mouth move. “Great, Joris. Thanks.”
Joris made himself scarce, which was a good thing since Beau’s face had tightened into a mask of agony. He was staring at that glass as if it were a gateway to hell.
“Tastes just like water, right?” he asked. “I thought if I was going to try alcohol, vodka would be best. I can’t stand the smell of whiskey.”
His jaw clenched, and she wondered if his father had been a whiskey drinker.
“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” she felt compelled to say.
“It’s always been on the ‘never’ list, but that list needs to be blown to kingdom come.” He met her eyes, and in them she could see storm clouds. “Never mind me. I’m acting a little…”
Crazy? Somehow she knew that was the word he’d stopped himself from saying. Should she caution him against drinking to drown his sorrows? God, they barely knew each other, and she wasn’t sure what to do.
“How about a toast then? That always lifts my spirits.” She extended her champagne flute. “To new friends and grand adventures.”
His knuckles were white as he lifted the glass to touch hers. “To truth.”
Whoa. She nodded, awash in the emotion radiating from him. He hadn’t just fought with his mother, she could tell, but a rift had opened up between them. That kind of thing could tear a person’s heart in two. Taking a sip of her champagne, she felt the bubbles touch her lips. Man, she loved that feeling. Joy in a glass, she liked to say. But Beau was feeling anything but joy, and it was painful to watch.
He was staring at the glass still, and then he drew it to his mouth slowly. Took a tepid sip. Pulled a face. And then set it down on the table between them with a thunk. He shook himself.
“Not to your liking?” she asked hesitantly.
He wiped his mouth with his free hand. “I’m acting a little…”
Again, she knew he wanted to say crazy. “Want to try some of my champagne?”
“No, I’m good,” he said, a brick wall in his tone.
“Do you want to talk about your fight with your mother?”
He waved out as if to say no way, the gesture going awry and knocking the vodka glass off the side of the table. She caught it, but the liquid sloshed down the middle of her dress and the table.
“Oh, crap, I’m so sorry,” he said, already wiping the table with the edge of his T-shirt. “Your dress.”
“Let me find some paper towels.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and rose to go to the galley in the rear of the plane. “It will dry in a jiffy.”
Joris, who’d buckled in for takeoff, looked up from his magazine. She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a couple of napkins. “You know me. Klutz.” Oddly, she wanted to protect Beau.
“We have towels in the bathroom,” Joris reminded her.
“This is fine.” She headed back to the main cabin only to find Beau standing in the aisle, hands clenched at his sides.
“Again, I’m so sorry.” He looked at her middle and then back up, his perusal oddly sheepish. “A pity. Your dress looked real nice up until I ruined it.”
“It’s not ruined.” He’d liked her dress? She’d tried on three before choosing it this morning.
He dug into his other pocket and handed her someth
ing. A handkerchief.
“For your dress. Those napkins will leave a trail.”
His initials were embroidered in the corner in baby blue thread, and they were…
She wasn’t going to be able to use them in a marketing campaign.
“You laughing at my initials?” he asked, his mouth curving.
“No, of course not.”
He snorted, and it transformed his fractious energy. “You have a terrible poker face, Caitlyn.”
How embarrassing. “I do and I am sorry. I also have a juvenile sense of humor.”
He laughed harshly. “Nothing wrong with it that I can tell. My initials are funny, and so much more than I knew until now. BM. My mama…”
She waited when he broke off, his jaw clenching.
“She wanted me to change my last name, Masters, to her maiden name when I decided to be a singer. That’s when she changed her own name back. Huh. I’d forgotten that.”
His eyes took on a far-off quality, and again she waited, totally on eggshells.
“She said I ought to take her name since she’d mostly raised me by herself. And she joked about seeing those initials flashing in neon lights on stage. She said it might remind people they needed to go to the bathroom during my set.”
“Or the doctor,” she said, trying to bring him back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke.”
“No, I’m glad you can. I kind of need it right now. You know…it’s funny, but I always kept this handkerchief from my nana so I’d remember where I’m from. Who I am. She was my…daddy’s mother.”
“Roots,” she said. This was somehow tied to his new album, the one he’d told her about in the meeting.
“A good joke. My initials. Perhaps I should change my name, after all.”
She was horrified. “Don’t you dare! I love Masters.”
His stormy eyes locked onto hers. “You do? Why? It’s just a name.”
“No, it’s not. It’s your name. Besides, it sounds elegant.”
“I thought so too.” He covered the hand holding the handkerchief. “Keep it. A memento, if you like.”
Oh, how could she refuse him when he gazed at her that way? “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”