Baby Surprises 7 Book Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  “I mean, I can imagine that song on the radio, on streaming,” I said. “Hell, I can even imagine it remixed and put to a beat for the club charts.”

  He let out a dry laugh. “You sure know how to butter up an artist. Figures you would, considering your line of work.”

  “I’m not buttering you up,” I said honestly. “And yeah, I know how to encourage artists when they’ve got a killer sound on their hands. But I also know how to be straight with them when they don’t. You don’t have to worry about me holding back when it comes to matters like this.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  Then he tried to peek around me to get a good look at the ingredients.

  “Hey now,” I said, spreading my arms in front of them. “You’re going to ruin the surprise.”

  He flashed me a smile. “Fine, fine.”

  He stepped over to my laptop and began scrolling through my music player.

  “You want me to put something on while you cook?” he asked. “I’m taking requests.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got one—keep playing the new stuff you’ve been working on. I want to hear what your manager’s been depriving us of.”

  Another laugh. “Sure. What the lady wants, the lady gets.”

  Johnny plopped down onto the couch, heaved the guitar onto his lap, and began tuning the strings down to a deep, low tuning.

  I turned back to the ingredients as he began playing. Johnny’s next song was just as good as the first. It was a melodic, fingerpicked folk-inspired sound, the lyrics about what sounded to me like memories of growing up in eastern Oregon. And unlike the grinding, aggressive rock of Memphisto, this work was calmer, more mature. You could tell that it was written by someone who’d been in the game for years.

  It was so good that I found myself stopping in the middle of getting the ingredients ready and just listening, swept away in the poetry and the beautiful guitar work. Johnny was a genius, the kind of talent you dream of finding when you run a label. Songwriting and melody and catchy hooks came naturally to him, like he couldn’t help but write a song and have it be amazing.

  And he was being wasted at Redemption Records.

  I flipped open the cookbook and started preparing. But my mind was focused on getting Johnny, on what I could do to bring him over to my label. Strangely, I was having doubts about it. Not whether I wanted to have him signed—that was a no-brainer—but whether or not I wanted to ruin this wonderful day we were having by bringing my sales pitch into it.

  It was odd. Normally I had no issues about making the hard sell. But Johnny was different.

  I knew I needed to step carefully, but I wanted to make him mine. In more ways than one.

  Chapter 12

  Johnny

  I continued to play, and before too long the delicious scent of cooking food filled the air.

  “I can smell what seems to be some amazing marinara,” I said, setting the guitar down and picking up my glass of wine.

  “Damn,” she said, flashing me a smile over her shoulder. “You know, there’s something to be said about waiting to be surprised.”

  “There’s also something to be said about guessing right,” I said.

  “Let me guess—you were the type of kid who went through all his wrapped presents at Christmas and shook them until he could figure out what they were.”

  “You got me,” I said before tipping the glass back and drinking down the rest of the wine. “Never one for surprises.”

  “This will be a good one,” she said. “Promise. And there might even be some dessert in it for you, too.”

  She turned back to the kitchen counter, and I watched her work. My eyes drifted over her figure, and I realized that there absolutely was something sweet that I was craving.

  I got up and poured myself a fresh glass before topping off Kendra’s. Then I stepped up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and kissed her softly on the delicate slope of her neck.

  “Oh,” she said. “Tingly.”

  “In a good way, I hope,” I said, taking my lips from her for long enough to speak.

  “In a very good way,” she said. “In fact, too good—you’re going to get me to mess this dinner up.”

  But her body told a different story. She closed her eyes, letting my lips move along her neck, down to her shoulder. My hand went up her shirt onto her bare belly, and I felt her ass begin to grind into my package.

  Then a low, growling rumble sounded out from my stomach. Looked like my body was telling a different story, too.

  “Your little friend down there wants one thing,” she said. “But your gut’s saying something else.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough. We can finish this later.”

  “We most certainly will,” she said with a coy, sexy grin before turning her attention back to the food.

  I picked up my glass and headed over to her vinyl. After some sifting, I took out an album by Tech Noir, one of my favorite 80s electro-pop albums. I set it on the player and got it spinning.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, over the opening thump of the beat. “Is this Tech Noir?”

  “You know it,” I said, plopping back down onto the couch, kicking off my boots, and laying back.

  “I get so much crap from my friends for loving this stuff,” she said. “But I don’t care—it’s awesome.”

  “That’s the problem of having good taste,” I said, crossing my legs as I got comfortable. “You get out of synch with other people very quickly.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “And it’s so weird—this stuff was on the top of the charts. That means people had to know it was good.”

  “Some people like stuff just because it’s popular. Then when it’s not popular anymore, they move onto the next thing they’re told to like.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got some experience with this,” she said.

  I chuckled.

  “You could say that,” I said. “But the good stuff is timeless. You could put on this album in a hundred years, and those who know what’s up would be dancing along with it in their space boots, or whatever it is people wear in the future.”

  She let out a chiming laugh.

  I watched as Kendra shook her perfect little booty to the music, the swaying of her hips putting me into something like a trance. I let the sight of her body in motion and the wine do their work on me, a smile spreading across my face as they did.

  Soon the apartment air swirled with delicious scents, my stomach now growling nonstop.

  Another thought occurred to me as Kendra made dinner. What I had now—a beautiful girl making me dinner, a cozy little apartment where I could relax and listen to music, and an acoustic guitar to pick away at—this was the closest I’d ever felt to being at home in years.

  “So,” she said. “How does my humble pad compare to your place?”

  I couldn’t help but grin. It was like she was able to read my mind.

  “Truth be told,” I said. “I barely spend any time there. I’m on the road so much it’s more like an occasional crash pad and party venue.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “It’s one of those giant LA apartments in some new condo, one with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, white floors with occasional black accents, stainless steel furniture, and modern art and contemporary furniture that someone else picked out for you.”

  I pictured my place, and she had it dead-to-rights. “Now how on earth did you know that?”

  She sent another smirk my way. “I’ve met a few musicians who’ve made it big. All the guys end up getting the same type of apartment.”

  I sat up and took a sip of my wine.

  “It’s funny,” I said. “Having a cool LA pad was one of those things I dreamed about when I was just getting started. I pictured a place with a killer view, giant TV, and all the instruments I could ever want. And then when our first album started selling like crazy, and Redemption forked over more money than I’d ever seen to sign us, it was the first thing I bo
ught.”

  “Yeah?” she asked. “And how was it?”

  “For the first few weeks, it was amazing,” I said. “But then I got used to it, and the novelty wore off. I remembered thinking after the first month ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with all this space?’ Not like I had a family or anything to use it. Now it feels more like a hotel that I don’t have to pay for.”

  Another sip.

  “So,” I said, looking around her apartment. “It may be bigger than yours, but yours feels more like an actual home.”

  “Good answer,” she said. “Makes me feel better about living in a shoebox.”

  The album ended right as Kendra put the food into the oven.

  “Okay,” she said. “Help me pick out what we’re going to listen to next.”

  “You’re on,” I said.

  Kendra and I hurried over to her stacks. We spent the next half hour as the food cooked talking about her music, going over bands we liked and finding out that our tastes were more similar than I would’ve guessed. The girl knew her music, and I was pretty damn impressed.

  And whenever she’d turn her attention to the albums, I found myself glancing over at her, unable to stop staring at her flawless, stunning features. She was something else.

  Right as we settled on an album, the timer went off.

  “Done!” she said. “You put the tunes on, and I’ll get the food ready.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “And set the table while you’re at it,” she said with a good-natured grin.

  I gave a little salute before setting to it.

  However good the food smelled before, now that it was done, it was so intense that my mouth was watering like crazy.

  “I can’t believe how hungry I am,” I said as the album played and I set the table. “Must’ve been all that hiking.”

  “Well, there’s more than enough for the two of us,” she said. “So don’t be shy.”

  Kendra squatted down in front of the oven, the heat from inside rushing out as soon as she opened the door. She took the tray out, turned around, and set it in the middle of the table.

  “Ta-da!” she said, spreading out her oven-mitted hands like she’d just performed a magic trick. “Chicken parmesan.”

  “My favorite!” I said. “How did you know?”

  “You mentioned it earlier.”

  “And you remembered,” I said.

  “Of course, I did,” she said. “I’m in the artist-pleasing business, you know.”

  I watched as she scooped a heaping serving onto my plate, the mozzarella molten and delicious.

  “Consider this artist pleased,” I said.

  She smiled, and I could tell that she was happy that I was happy. Once she had her plate loaded, I dug in and eagerly shoved a forkful into my mouth.

  “How is it?” she asked as I chewed.

  “As good as it looks,” I said. “Better, actually.”

  “You know just what to say,” she said with a cheeky grin.

  “I’m not being nice,” I said, going in for another bite. “This is so good I want to cry.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t think less of you if you did.”

  We ate, chatting about nothing in particular. And as we did, I found myself thinking about what I’d said back at the park, about how I wasn’t boyfriend material, and how the day that Kendra and I were sharing would be nothing more than a nice memory.

  I began to think about maybe…wanting more. A girl like her wasn’t a groupie who happened to be decent company in addition to being cute. She was more than that. First of all, she wasn’t a groupie, and second, she was more than just good company. There was something special between us, a connection that I couldn’t deny despite only knowing her for a short time.

  But I realized that while I was now being honest about what she and I had, I was also right about why it wouldn’t work. I was a musician living a life on the road. What could I actually hope to have with her—a long-distance relationship where I could occasionally pop in for a day here and there?

  No, it wouldn’t work. Maybe when my contract was up in a couple of years, when I had more free time and didn’t need to spend nearly every waking minute of my life either on tour or coming up with music for the next album.

  Two years. I knew it would go by in a flash. But I also knew that a woman like Kendra was a catch, through and through. There was no way that a woman like her wouldn’t get snatched up in the meantime. Hell, she could be married by then.

  I polished off my plate and went back for more. No, I was right. This would all have to be nothing more than a pleasant memory, despite me wanting it to be much, much more.

  Chapter 13

  Kendra

  “Okay,” I said, approaching Johnny with two plates. “The tiramisu isn’t homemade—not by me, at least—but it’s pretty damn good.”

  “Tiramisu’s tiramisu,” he said, taking one of the plates and setting it next to his coffee.

  “Local bakery,” I said. “And they do a pretty damn good job.”

  He sliced off a corner and popped it into his mouth. I watched him eat, eager to hear what he had to say.

  “Well?”

  “Just great,” he said. “Remember, I’m used to fast food and those little cut-up sandwiches that come served on plastic trays with clear lids. So all of this is like manna from heaven.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Happy to give you a little break from life on the road.”

  The folk music played as we ate our dessert and sipped our coffee. When we were both done, I took the plates and set them aside before laying back and resting my head on Johnny’s leg like I’d done in the park. Despite the man being made of solid muscle, he still managed to be very comfy.

  But as comfy as I was, as much as I loved the feeling of his arm wrapped around me, I hated the elephant in the room. Soon he was going to be gone, and I’d be alone again.

  It was funny—I’d always told myself that being alone was fine, that it was normal for a woman like me with the career that I had. And I’d even managed to convince myself that it was true. Hell, it wasn’t hard with the string of shitty dates that I’d been on over the last year or so.

  Now that I was with someone like Johnny, someone with whom I had an actual connection, I was realizing how lonely my life could feel sometimes, and how I’d used work to ignore all of that.

  It was going to be hard going back to my normal routine, but there wasn’t any other option. After all, Johnny had even gone out of his way to make sure that I knew anything more serious between us simply wasn’t possible. And that was a lot from a man who surely had loved-and-left more girls over the years than I even wanted to think about.

  No, I needed to get my mind right. Enjoying the time we had left was important, but I knew I had to keep in mind that it was going to be over soon, and to get ready for that moment tomorrow morning when he stepped out of my door, never to be seen again.

  But then there was the other matter—the business one. Johnny had said enough about how disappointed he’d been with his current manager and the rest of Redemption Records. Maybe there wasn’t a chance of us being anything more romantically, but what about professionally?

  That music he’d played—it was so good that it almost seemed like a crime to keep it hidden from the world because of some contract and some tasteless manager.

  “Sun’s setting,” said Johnny, his eyes on the window. “You don’t happen to have a way to get onto the roof of your building, do you?”

  “Why yes, I do,” I said. “Come on. I’ll lead the way if you grab the wine.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

  Johnny grabbed the second bottle of wine along with the corkscrew and followed me out of the apartment. There was a pull-down ladder on my floor, and I gave it a yank, a wooden staircase descending from the ceiling.

  He gestured for me to go first—still being a surprising gentleman—and soon the two of us were up on the roof.

/>   “Damn,” he said, stepping toward the edge. “Not a bad view you’ve got up here.”

  He wasn’t wrong. From my roof I could see the towers of downtown Seattle, the lights of the skyscrapers twinkling on one by one. The Space Needle loomed overhead in the other direction, and the sky was a gorgeous orange all around us, wispy clouds streaking here and there like cream poured over orange sherbet. Directly above us was a deep, dramatic purple, the faint outline of the moon visible and surrounded by glittering stars.

  “This is something else,” Johnny said. “I’d be up here all day if I lived here.”

  If he lived here… I shook my head, finding it hard to believe that I was already thinking about such a subject.

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” I said. “I forget about it sometimes. But don’t you have a great view of LA?”

  “It’s not bad,” he said. “But you can only look out onto winding highways so many times before it loses its charm.”

  We sat down near the edge of the roof, Johnny’s arm slipping around my shoulders as he poured the wine.

  “You like living there?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said. “It has its ups and downs. Sometimes it feels like living in the center of the universe, but other times it’s like living in a dirty, congested hellhole.”

  He shook his head. “Got no other choice, though. Part of my contract requires that I at least have a place in the city.”

  “They can make you do that?” I asked.

  “They can make you do damn near anything with the right legalese,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like I’m trapped there—I could rent out a studio while owning a real home wherever I wanted. But like I said, it’s not like I spend that much time at home anyway. Having two places wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

  There was the issue of his contract again. I’d told myself that I wasn’t going to broach the subject and that I’d try to keep business out of our day. But I couldn’t help it any longer. After all, this had all started because I wanted to get Johnny onto my label. With what he’d had to say, I realized that I’d be stupid to not at least give it a shot.