Harlequin Desire June 2020 - Box Set 2 of 2

by Karen Booth

  He motioned to the windchimes hanging from a wooden post. “Those are a great touch. They’re beautifully tuned,” he added, as a light breeze stirred them.

  Curious to know more about his creative side, I asked, “What made you want to be become a songwriter?” I’d never questioned him about his goals and dreams in the past. But he was always so reluctant to talk about himself then, he probably wouldn’t have told me, anyway.

  He swigged his tea. Was he gathering his thoughts?

  Finally, he put down his glass and said, “I’ve always been good at writing, at putting words together. It was one of my outlets when I was growing up. I used to write short stories and poems. My writing got pretty dark after my mom died. Sometimes it still is.”

  I nodded. He’d become known for penning the lyrics to some very famous, very tragic songs. “Do you sing fairly well? My mother used to say that it helped if songwriters could sing their own songs.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to make my living as a vocalist, but I sing well enough to make my own demos.”

  “What about the actual music part?” People in the industry praised him for being a brilliant composer. “How did that come about?”

  “My aunt and uncle forced me to take piano lessons.” He scooped up some of the casserole. “I hated it in the beginning. My teacher was brutal, and my aunt and uncle made it feel like punishment.”

  “Were you being classically trained? Chopin and Bach and all of that?”

  He ate the food on his fork, then replied, “Yes, but classically trained doesn’t just mean the type of music you’re taught to play, it’s technique, too. And I was good at it, really, really good. So good, my teacher was trying to prepare me for a music conservatory. She told my aunt and uncle that I could have a career as a concert pianist, if I put my heart and mind to it.”

  I tried to envision him, young and troubled, being forced to do something he didn’t want to do. “How old were you when you first started to play? When the lessons began?”

  “Eleven. I appreciate the classics now. But back then, they were torture.”

  “When did you change your style?”

  “When I was fourteen, I saw a movie about Jerry Lee Lewis. And that was it for me. I started playing old rockabilly tunes. I loved the sound, but I was also doing it to piss off my aunt and uncle.” He laughed a little. “I’d pound out those songs first thing in the morning, giving them a whole lotta shakin’ going on.”

  I laughed, too. “And hence your days of being a bad boy began.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t just about being bad. I was trying to soothe my soul, too.”

  I gently asked, “When did the drinking start?”

  “It was around the same time. But even before that, I used to watch my aunt and uncle mix their favorite nightcaps. When I finally got the urge to try it, it became easy for me to raid their liquor cabinet. I only did it a little at first, though.” He paused. “Then a lot later on.”

  “I guess it makes sense that you became a bartender, since you grew up in a house where cocktails were being served.”

  “I suppose so. When I turned eighteen and moved here to Nashville, I got a job as a barback in a restaurant. Then later, I started tending bar at the club where I met you in person for the first time.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to talk about that night or how sinful it was. I ached in all the wrong places just thinking about it.

  As Spencer fell silent, I watched him eat. He mixed up everything on his plate, whereas I was keeping each dish separate. Was I trying to control my urges, even with my food? Normally I did what he was doing, letting the flavors seep together.

  Before things turned too quiet, I said, “I got ice cream for dessert. I’m not a baker. My sister is a pastry chef, but I’m no good at it.”

  “Ice cream works for me. What flavor did you get?”

  “I got two. Banana chocolate chip and cookies and cream.”

  He smiled. “Then I’ll take some of each.”

  “That’s what I plan to do, too.” His laid-back, sexy smile was making me weak. Everything about him was dragging me under his spell, just like last time.

  We finished dinner and cleared the dishes, taking them inside. The dogs didn’t follow us. They stayed on the patio, but I left the sliding glass door open for them.

  I served the ice cream in the living room, placing our bowls on the coffee table and offering Spencer a seat on the sofa. Before I sat down, I streamed some music, and he grinned when “Great Balls of Fire” started to play. It was the title song for the Jerry Lee Lewis movie he’d mentioned earlier.

  “Great choice,” he said.

  I joined him on the sofa. “I aim to please.” But not too much, I thought. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about pleasing him in other ways.

  “Will we be listening to any of Kirby’s songs tonight?” he asked.

  “Not a chance,” I replied.

  “Not even the songs I wrote for him?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid not.” I dipped into my bowl. In some way or another, he always managed to bring Kirby into it.

  “I wonder if they’ll ever make a movie about his life.”

  I heaved a sigh. “They probably will when he’s dead and gone. Or maybe they’ll do it before. As arrogant as he is, he’s probably shopping his book for movie deals as we speak.”

  “He stayed with me when I was going through withdrawals. He took care of me the entire time.”

  I tried to picture Kirby as Spencer’s nursemaid, but it was tough for me to see him in that role. “Was it really bad?” I’d heard that alcohol withdrawal could be serious.

  “It sure as hell felt bad to me. I had the shakes something awful.” He held out his hand as if to check his steadiness now. “I was sweating and sick, you know, the whole shebang. It comes in stages, and it seemed like it was never going to end.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “About a week.”

  “You mentioned before that you’re involved in an outpatient program, but couldn’t you have checked into a treatment center, instead of having Kirby stay with you?”

  “Going to a place like that would have made me feel trapped. And I like that Kirby took care of me. He made me feel valued. He still does.”

  “It’s weird that the man who helped you is the same man who destroyed my childhood. Don’t you think there’s a warped sort of irony in that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.” He shifted beside me. “Maybe I should get my stuff out of the truck now so we can do the fitting.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.” We were both done with our ice cream, and I didn’t want to keep talking about Kirby.

  He got up and left, and I shut off the music. The dogs came inside. Cookie looked around for Spencer and started to whine.

  “It’s okay,” I said to her. “He’s coming right back.”

  She kept whining, so I picked her up, hoping to comfort her. But then Candy and Pete pawed at me, wanting affection, too. I sat on the floor and let all of them climb onto my lap.

  Spencer returned and marveled at the sight. “Look at you.”

  “What can I say? I’m the new dog whisperer.” Cookie remained with me, even though her beloved owner was back. Candy and Pete stayed put, too, determined to keep me close.

  “More like the new dog spoiler. I should have hired you to be their stylist, too. You could put them in ribbons and bows. Or leather jackets or whatever.”

  I got up off the floor. “I think I better stick to getting you ready for your shoot.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  We went to my room so he could try everything on. The dogs came with us, finding cozy spots to relax.

  The fitting went well, with Spencer standing in front of my closet door mirror while I checked each outfit. But w
hen we took a break, he sat on the edge of my bed, and the moment turned painfully intimate. He looked so big and broad, wrinkling a delicate corner of my bedspread.

  “There’s supposed to be a makeup and hair person on the shoot,” he said.

  I tugged at the edge of my camisole. “I assumed there would be. I was going to talk to them about tousling your hair for the rebel looks I created.”

  “I’d rather do it myself.” He stood and moved away from my bed. “Or let you do it.”

  “I guess we’ll see how it goes.” For now, I was just trying to keep my perspective. “You need to change for me one more time.” I gestured to the final outfit.

  He grabbed everything and went into my bathroom.

  I glanced at the dogs while I waited. Pete was leaning against a decorative pillow that was propped in a corner, using it as a cushion. The girls were curled up next to him. All three were fast asleep.

  Spencer returned. The last ensemble was sporty: a plaid shirt, cargo pants and brown chukka boots. It was perfect on him. But everything was. I came up beside him, so that both of us were reflected in the mirror.

  “Do you need to make any modifications?” he asked.

  I gazed at him in the glass. “I got a beanie to go with it, but it’s up to you if you want to wear it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I removed the knit cap from its labeled box and gave it to him.

  He tried it on. “If they do any pictures outdoors, I could wear it for that.”

  I adjusted the cap a little lower on his head. “I like it this way better.”

  “Yeah, but don’t pull it down over my eyes. Or I won’t be able to see how sexy you are.”

  “You shouldn’t be looking at me that way, anyway.” But it was too late. He already was.

  He reached out to skim his thumb across my cheek, and I leaned into him, my mind spinning like a pinwheel. He moved closer, making me even dizzier.

  We nearly kissed, until I came to my senses and pulled back. My hand slipped, knocking the beanie off his head.

  “Sorry,” we both said at the same time. A mutual apology, for a shared mistake of getting too close.

  He crammed his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. I didn’t know what to do, either. If we’d kissed for real, what would have happened afterwards? More kisses? A desperate night of forbidden sex?

  He frowned. “I wish I wasn’t so damned attracted to you.”

  “I’m feeling the same. It’s torture.” My pulse pounded, between my legs, where I wanted him most. I even pressed my thighs together.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m not going to sleep for shit tonight.”

  “I’ve barely slept since we’ve gotten to know each other again.” I picked up the beanie off the floor, returning it to its box. “But what do two celibate people know? We’re probably making more out of it than it is.”

  “I hope so.” He shifted his stance. “But I should go now.”

  He headed to the bathroom to change into his regular clothes, and I leaned against my dresser, struggling to breathe.

  While I was still dragging air into my lungs, he emerged and handed me the outfit he’d removed. I hung everything on the rack, and he woke up the dogs.

  We went into the living room, and he gathered the leashes. Once the animals were secure, we all stood at the front door.

  The shoot was a few days away. Then this job would be over, and I wouldn’t have to see Spencer again. But how was I supposed to cope with my feelings until then?

  He thanked me for dinner, and we said an awkward goodbye. He left, the dogs falling into step with him.

  After I shut and locked the door, I returned to my bedroom to reorganize his wardrobe. But handling his clothes only intensified my unfulfilled ache. As I smoothed the pants he’d just worn, running my hands along the fabric, I closed my eyes.

  And imagined that I was touching him instead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alice

  On the day of the photo shoot, I did whatever I could to impress Derek Jordon, the world-renowned photographer I’d been so eager to work with. Thankfully, he loved all of the looks I’d created. But I didn’t want to get overly confident.

  Derek was a perfectionist, with his own unique sense of style. He sported a shaved head and a nose ring. The hair and makeup person, a chipper brunette named Nellie, was his college-aged daughter.

  Spencer asked her if I could style his hair for the rebel pics. Even after our close encounter at my condo the other night, he still wanted me to do that. Nellie was agreeable. She backed away, letting me handle it alone.

  Spencer settled into a director’s-style chair in the dining room, which was where Nellie had set up her kits and portable mirror. I intended to work from behind him, looking into the mirror, but he invited me to stand between his legs. He made room for me, and I moved into place, facing him, with my heart thumping in my chest.

  I used a dollop of gel and ran my hands through his thick dark locks, tousling each strand just so.

  “Are you enjoying this?” I asked.

  “This?” he replied, his gaze roaming over me.

  “The shoot,” I clarified. I wasn’t referring to me doing his hair.

  “Yeah, it’s been fun so far.” He was still looking too closely at me.

  I sucked in my breath. “Candy and Cookie did well.” The dogs had already been in a couple of pictures with him. They were at the rescue now, to keep them from getting underfoot. But they were the least of my worries.

  I finished his hair, but I didn’t want to stop touching him. I glanced toward the living room, reminding myself of the importance of this job. “You should go. Derek has the next shot lined up.”

  “Are my clothes okay?”

  “You look great.” I loosened his tie a bit more. “But you really should go.”

  “You need to let me go, Alice.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I realized that I was still standing between his legs. I mumbled an apology and stepped out of his way.

  Mercy me.

  Spencer rose from his chair, and I watched him pose for the next round of pictures. With the shadows playing across his face, he was a sight to behold. I could’ve drooled all over myself, especially when Derek had him straddling his piano bench.

  Spencer’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing part of his tattoo. I could tell that Derek was fascinated with it. Soon, he asked Spencer to change into a tank top so he could photograph the tattoo in its entirety. Spencer made the switch, and his body art became a focal point. Derek used diffuser boxes to light it, making the details more pronounced.

  Following the tattoo pics, we broke for lunch. While we ate, Derek and I talked shop, Nellie texted her boyfriend and Spencer listened to music with headphones on.

  After lunch and a wardrobe change, we moved to the garage. In this setting, Derek shot Spencer in his biker gear, using his Harley as a prop. Spencer caught my gaze from across the garage, leaving me in a rush of unwelcome heat. He looked damn fine, perched on his shiny new bike. All that chrome, all that male muscle.

  Trying to distract myself, I shifted my gaze to Nellie. But that didn’t help. She smiled and winked, letting me know that she was wise to what was going on. Apparently, she could tell that Spencer and I were hot for each other. By now, I figured that Derek knew, too, and had been channeling Spencer’s desire for me into the shoot. I could only imagine how sexy the pictures were going to be.

  Derek took the final ones outdoors on the lawn. Spencer wore the plaid shirt and cargo pants for those. Rain was in the forecast, and Derek was hoping for a downpour. He wanted to catch Spencer in it.

  I provided disposable rain slickers for Derek, Nellie and me, in case we needed them. Spencer didn’t get one.

  When it started s
prinkling, he crammed the beanie on his head, and Derek caught some candid poses.

  The rain intensified, and the photographer got the shots he’d been hoping for. I adjusted the hood on my slicker and stared lustfully at Spencer. He was getting drenched, his shirt clinging to his skin.

  A short time later, it was over. While Spencer changed into dry clothes, Derek and Nellie packed up their gear. I exchanged business cards with them, and Derek and I agreed to stay in touch. Apparently, I’d made a positive impression and now had the important industry contact I’d hoped for.

  After father and daughter were gone, I stayed to wrap things up with Spencer, helping him put away the wardrobe.

  “I can wash your wet clothes,” I said, still acting as his stylist. “Or take them to a service, if you prefer.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wash them later. For now, I just threw them on top of the dryer.”

  “Well, you certainly nailed every shot.” I was genuinely impressed with his modeling skills.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. It really helped having you here.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Should I head home now? Or keep finding things to talk about? Clearly, I was struggling to leave. I glanced down at the floor. Now I wished that we would’ve kissed at my condo. At least then, if I never saw him again, I would have a memory of a recent kiss.

  “Do you want some hot chocolate?” he asked.

  I lifted my gaze. “That sounds nice.” I was glad that he’d offered me a legitimate reason to stay. But the urge to kiss him hadn’t gone away, and that was dangerous.

  I followed him to the kitchen, and he poured the instant packets into our cups and heated the water in the microwave.

  Neither of us spoke. It was still raining outside and I could hear it beating against the roof.

  When the hot chocolate was ready, we drank it where we were, standing at the counter.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  For food, no. For him, yes. I waited an anxious beat before I replied, “I’m still full from lunch. But if you want to eat, go ahead.”

  He shook his head. “I’m full, too. I was just checking on you.”