by Kelsie Rae
Rhett
Signature Sweethearts Series Book Four
Kelsie Rae
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Chapter One
Also by Kelsie Rae
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 Kelsie Rae
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. The reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Cover Art by Sly Fox Cover Designs
Editing by AW Editing
Proofreading by Stephanie Taylor
October 2018 Edition
Published in the United States of America
To anyone who’s comfortable being miserable. Like Iago from Aladdin. Come on man, get rid of Jafar. You’re way too good for him.
Blurb
Indie
I’ve never believed in fairy tales. Sure, I was raised with Disney movies and princess stories, but I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for them. The can’t-eat, can’t-sleep kind of love doesn’t exist. And that’s a fact.
My relationship is realistic. Convenient. Solid. I thought I was happy.
And then I met him.
My new neighbor.
The guy who’s starting to make me question everything. Making me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could be wrong.
Rhett
I've never been afraid to go after what I want. After all, my job is solely based on seeing opportunities and capitalizing on them.
And then I met my new neighbor.
Our chemistry is off the charts, our banter is on point, and her body is out of this world.
So why does she turn to ice as soon as I mention a date? Even when her eyes linger longer than necessary?
She's hiding something.
And I'm going to find out what it is.
Chapter 1
Rhett
The blade cuts across the packing tape like butter as I open yet another cardboard box. I’m currently sitting on the cold kitchen tile in my new apartment, attempting to organize my belongings. The labor is tedious, and my right ass cheek is starting to go numb from being in the same position for way too long.
Groaning, I stand to stretch my legs and give my lower back a break then scan my tiny new apartment that’s a few blocks from Central Park. It isn’t much to look at. The walls are white, the cabinets are brown, and the counters are chipped, but it suits my needs just fine. Despite the image I portray with my crisp Armani suits and shined Neiman Marcus loafers, I’m not a man of things. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d happily wear a pair of my favorite jeans and a T-shirt all the time. But that doesn’t cut it in the business world. It’s all about your image. And I display mine with absolute precision.
I had hoped to get a run in this evening, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. Not with all the stuff I still need to take care of before tomorrow. Unopened boxes are stacked four high and three deep in the corner, but the thought of opening them exhausts me even further.
Instead, I grab the stack of mail on the counter and begin to sort through the copious amount of junk. It amazes me that the majority of important documents seem to get lost whenever I move, but my subscription to Men’s Health always seems to find me. I scoff as I pick through the thick stack of coupons then roll my eyes when I get to the seven welcome packets from the post office.
Ridiculous.
A piece of mail grabs my attention during my perusal. It’s addressed to an Indie Peterson in apartment 407, which is right across the hall from me.
I huff out a breath.
Looks like I’ll be meeting the neighbors this evening.
My front door hinges squeak obnoxiously as I open it. The sound reminds me to get some WD-40 at the store tomorrow. After stepping across the hallway and over to my neighbor’s apartment, I glance down and chuckle to myself. A welcome mat with “welcome” written in fancy gold cursive sits beneath my Nikes. I’m wearing a ratty old T-shirt, worn jeans with a hole in the knee, and a pair of running shoes. An old baseball hat covers my messy, dark hair, and I adjust it before knocking.
Then I wait.
And wait.
After an uncomfortable amount of time passes, I rock back on my heels, preparing to disappear back into my own apartment as if this never happened.
I’m two steps from my neighbor’s door when it opens a few inches. Casually, I turn back.
“May I help you?” a groggy voice croaks from the other side. Ashy blonde hair, porcelain skin, a white tank top, tiny sleep shorts, and legs that go for miles. Or at least that’s what I think I see. It’s hard to tell. My mind tries to piece together the masterpiece in front of me like a painter who was only given two of the three primary colors.
I clear my throat. “Hi. I’m your new neighbor.” I point my thumb over my shoulder to the door directly behind me. “It looks like I’ve received a bit of your mail by accident.” Lifting the white envelope in my hand, I show her the letter.
I’m still speaking through the tiny crack in the door, but I understand her hesitancy. Stranger danger and all that shit.
She looks me up and down before deeming me safe. Or safe enough, anyway. When she opens the door, I’m given the full image of the gorgeous woman across the hall. It’s as if I just stepped into the Met and am seeing true beauty in its rarest form. It hits me like a sucker punch in the gut. Seems my night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Hi, I’m Indie.” My neighbor reaches out her hand, and I take it in mine. My palm practically swallows hers as I shake it twice. Her skin is like silk. There’s no other way to describe it. I’m reluctant to let her go, but holding on would land me right back in the not-safe zone, so I release my grip.
“Then it seems I’m in the right place. The letter is addressed to Indie Peterson. You have a really unique name,” I note, as my lips tilt into a crooked smile.
She grins in return, her nose scrunching in the cutest way possible.
“I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Supposedly, the nurses all commented on my unique eyes and the name stuck. Thankfully, my parents didn’t actually go with Indigo, just Indie.” She wipes her hand across her forehead dramatically. “Phew!”
I chuckle. “I like it. Reminds me of Indiana Jones, which was my favorite movie growing up.”
“No way! Me too! I ate ravioli one summer during the monkey brains scene in Temple of Doom, and now I gag every time I think about it.” She proves this firsthand by literally gagging.
Booming laughter escapes me.
“Remind me to never take you out for ravioli,” I tease, and a light blush spreads across her cheeks.
Brusquely, I clear my throat and pretend as if I didn’t just imply that I’d be taking her out. “I’m Rhett, by the way. Rhett Jacobs.”
/> “Nice to meet you,” she responds shyly before peeking up at me through her thick, blonde lashes.
Not knowing what else to do or say, I hold out the envelope, which she takes with a grateful smile.
I slide my empty hands into my front pockets and rock back on my heels. I know I should probably head home, but the girl in front of me is the most interesting thing I’ve found in this city so far. I’m not quite ready to leave her yet.
“So what brings you to New York, Rhett Jacobs?” she asks. Her fingers fiddle with the letter as she looks at me.
“Work,” I answer simply. I don’t usually go into detail about what I do. Women’s eyes glaze over almost immediately any time I try.
She grins. “Care to expand on that?”
I shrug. “Not much to tell. I’m somewhere between an investment banker and a recruiter. I search out companies that have a low risk of failing and help them expand their business while hooking them up with investors and making sure they have the funds to succeed.”
“Really? That’s fascinating!”
“Thanks,” I reply, surprised that she looks intrigued instead of bored out of her mind. “What do you do?” My posture is relaxed as I lean against the doorframe.
“I own a bakery, which was why it took me so long to open the door. I turn into a pumpkin earlier than most since I have to be up at three in the morning to get the croissants into the oven.”
“Now that’s fascinating! How long have you been doing that?”
“For as long as I can remember. I started baking when I was little and would visit my grandma every weekend. I fell in love almost immediately. You know Ratatouille? I’m Remy.” She points to her chest proudly, while my brows furrow. I have no clue what she’s talking about.
“Rata-what?”
Her jaw drops in pure shock. “For real? You’ve never seen Ratatouille? The Disney movie? About a rat that loves to cook and works in a French restaurant? And follows his dreams?” She peppers me with questions, and her face is so animated I could pop some popcorn and watch her for hours. Indie’s brows are pinched. Her arms are crossed over her chest as if she’s ashamed to call me a neighbor because I don’t know about a rat that likes to . . . cook?
She’s beautiful when she’s passionate, though. Even if what she’s saying is going in one ear and out the other.
“Apparently, I need to watch it,” I concede with a giant grin plastered on my face.
“Damn right, you do!” she agrees wholeheartedly, accepting my surrender.
Leaning forward, she whispers, “I happen to have it on Blu-ray. Do you want me to loan it to you?” From the devious gleam in her eyes, you’d think she was slipping me a bag of weed instead of offering a children’s cartoon.
“Why don’t we make a date out of it? I’ll bring over something that isn’t ravioli, and you can introduce me to this rat chef. How does tomorrow sound?”
I know I’ve crossed a line when Indie’s face falls. “Oh . . . um . . . I can’t.” Indie’s eyes are suddenly very interested in her freshly painted toenails as she shifts from one foot to the other.
Her dismissal catches me off guard. I’m usually very observant and can read a situation perfectly, so how did I read her so wrong?
“All right then . . .” I pause, wondering if I should attempt to salvage the conversation or call it a loss and head back to my apartment.
She clears her throat, sensing the awkwardness of her dismissal. “Here, let me go get it for you, though. It’s a really good movie, and it’s definitely worth watching.”
She disappears into her tiny apartment and leaves the door wide open. I can’t help but watch her curvy hips as they sway back and forth.
A masterpiece, indeed.
Because she left the door open, I’m assuming I’m allowed to enter, so I do. When she bends over to search in the cabinet beneath the television, I know I’m a goner. The girl before me is hands down the sexiest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her heart-shaped ass is enough to bring a grown man to his knees. But before I have the chance to get down on said knees and worship her like a goddess, she straightens.
I do my best to look like I wasn’t caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar as I was drooling over her. I don’t think I fool her, though. Lazily, I glance around her apartment while trying to act innocent. The floor plan is almost exactly the same as my own.
“I like your place.” While my walls are still a blank canvas of white, hers are a soft blue. The overall atmosphere is soothing and homey. It makes me want to lounge on the yellow couch in the family room and put my feet up on the Birch wood coffee table.
“Thanks. I have a thing about beaches,” she admits, walking back over to me. She carries the Blu-ray case with her.
“Really? Which one is your favorite?”
“California was fun but cold.” She shivers as if the frigid temperature is still touching her. “So, I think my favorite has to be Kaanapali Beach on Maui. The water was so warm and crystal clear, and the snorkeling was out of this world!” Indie’s face turns dreamy, as if she’s been transported to the fish and sea turtles.
“Maui’s amazing,” I agree. “Hell, all of the Hawaiian Islands are insane, but you need to go to Maldives one day. They have some amazing resorts, and I’ve heard that the islands are going to be swallowed up by the ocean within the next thirty years or so.” I find myself rambling, but I’ve always been a sucker for the beach. “Anyway . . . you’ll have to go sometime. You won’t regret it.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind for my next adventure.” She smiles softly before stifling a yawn and handing me the Blu-ray case.
“I should probably let you go. Thanks for the movie,” I add, lifting it slightly.
“And thank you for returning my mail.” She mimics my behavior, lifting the envelope and waving it at me.
I dip my chin in silent acknowledgment then send her my signature crooked smile.
She drops her gaze to the ground as a light pink spreads across her cheeks. “Umm . . . I’ll see you around,” she adds, as I step over the threshold and into the hallway.
“You too, Indie. If you ever need anything, I’m just across the hall.” I give her one last cocky grin as my eyes scan her from head to toe.
Gorgeous.
I leave her apartment and enter mine. She watches me the entire time.
Oh, I will definitely be watching Ratatouille in the near future. After all, my job is mainly research and paying attention to little details. And the gorgeous woman across the hall has definitely caught my attention.
Chapter 2
Indie
Why do I feel guilty? For real. I did nothing wrong. I would’ve lent Ratatouille to the old, smelly guy down the hall if he’d asked for it too. Is it my fault my new neighbor is an insanely sexy businessman who rocks the backward baseball cap better than anyone I’ve ever seen?
No. No it is not.
I groan inwardly as I try to justify my not-so-appropriate thoughts about the guy. Yeah. There’s no excuse for my attraction, and I need to keep myself in check.
And why did I not mention Tony?
I groan.
I’m still in bed . . . alone . . . as the minutes tick by at a snail’s pace. I need some sleep, but I’m struggling to get my head to shut off for the night. At least I got a couple of hours in before Rhett woke me up. I almost didn’t answer the door, and I still can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse that I rolled out of bed when he came knocking.
Burying my head under the pillow in anger, I finally throw in the towel, get up, and jump into the shower.
The water is steamy, melting my muscles in the most delicious way as I lather my hair with shampoo. My mind is on a never-ending carousel of guilt and sexy images as I shower. The former being the only thing keeping me from taking matters into my own hands.
I finish getting ready for the day then head to Get Baked, the bakery I’ve owned for the past five years. It’s been a dream c
ome true from day one.
My bakery is about a block away from the apartment, which is great for these early mornings. I flip on the lights, grab my apron, and get to work. There’s something so soothing about mixing flour and sugar together with a few eggs and butter to create a masterpiece. Whether it’s a decadent German chocolate cupcake or a freshly made croissant, they have a way of transforming the worst of days into bearable ones. And that’s my whole goal in life. To sprinkle something sweet into everyone’s day. One delicious morsel at a time.
I’ve just finished with the white chocolate brioche buns when the door opens out front. I wipe my floured hands against my stained apron and head to the front of the shop to see who’s here so early.
I hired a couple of girls a few days ago and will start training them later today, but they shouldn’t be here for a few more hours. Without them and Julio, my weekend worker, I’d be here every waking minute, and I don’t think I’d survive that for more than a week.
“Hey, babe.” Tony walks behind the counter and grabs a cup of coffee like he owns the place. He doesn’t, by the way.
“Hey, Tony,” I mutter before turning to the back area. He’s kind of on my shit list after bailing on me last night, and he knows it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come home. There was a product line issue, and Steve needed me to stay late,” he apologizes, though I’ve heard it all before.
Steve is Tony’s boss and has been pushing him around for the past ten years. Why he doesn’t quit and find a new job, I’ll never understand. In the beginning, I tried to be patient, but now I’m just numb to the whole thing.