by Kara Isaac
“You think?” Uncertain eyes, searching for reassurance. Surprising. She wouldn’t have picked Lucas Grant to have any insecurities. It was nice. Made him more human.
“I know.” The way his eyes widened with gratitude, as though she’d given him an unexpected gift, warmed her right through.
He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I was freaking out. I’m a radio guy. Used to being trapped in a small closet with Ethan. The lights, the cameras, it just all seemed so . . .” his hands stretched out, “. . . big. Like the whole world could be peering in at me. On radio it’s just voice. If you get that right, nothing else matters. On TV—some wardrobe assistant tried to make me change my shirt based on the image they wanted me to project. My shirt! Apparently the one I was wearing was ‘too country.’ ” His fingers bunny-eared the words, his expression somewhere between wonder and disillusionment.
A giggle burst up from inside of her. A girlish one. She couldn’t even remember when that had happened last. The poor guy. Should she be the one to break it to him that the shirt was just a cube off the iceberg?
“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell?” She leaned in, breathing in his woody, spicy scent. What was it about this guy that made her feel like she could tell him anything and it would be safe?
“Scout’s honor.” He placed a hand over his heart, his shirt pulling to emphasize his broad chest.
She tore her eyes away. Lordy. She needed to keep herself away from Lucas Grant. No good could come from this. “About five years ago, when the publisher realized Donna was becoming a big deal, they brought in an image consultant. For about three years she dictated everything from Donna’s hair to her weight.”
“Her weight!” Lucas looked genuinely offended for Donna.
“Well, apparently she couldn’t be too skinny because Middle America wouldn’t relate, and that is her core demographic. But too heavy and they would be put off. Would ask themselves why they should trust someone’s advice with relationships if she couldn’t manage her own weight.”
Lucas leaned back against the booth and took a long pull of the Coke that had appeared in front of him. “Man, it is one messed-up world we live in.”
“Tell me about it.” And he didn’t even know the half of it.
He leaned forward, slipped the wooden chopsticks out of their paper packet, and snapped them apart. “So, um, today . . .” He didn’t look at her, focusing on spinning the flimsy sticks around his fingers.
Rachel’s lungs contracted. What was she going to say? There was nothing more she could tell him that would make sense of the total meltdown he’d witnessed. She didn’t even know what he’d heard, if anything. Wasn’t even sure what she’d said in that hysterical moment when she’d stormed the stage and pretty much thrown the phone at Donna.
He stood the two sticks in front of him, like sentries at attention, and looked up. “Look, I know it’s none of my business and I’ll understand if you tell me to butt out; I just want to check that everything is okay.”
It was the way his eyes probed her, as if uncovering secrets she didn’t even know she had, that undid her. She couldn’t add more lies on top of the ones that were already between them.
Placing her palms flat on the wooden table, she forced herself to look at him. “The woman who was dying, she had young children.” Her voice stalled at the last sentence. Stop it, Rachel, don’t cry. Not again. Unable to withstand his concerned gaze, she took a slug of the wine that had appeared in front of her.
“How many?” Something about the way his voice wavered forced her to look up.
She nodded, sucked in a breath. “Three. Two girls and a boy. I just . . . when there’s kids involved, losing their mom . . .” Like hers. Stolen away in the middle of the night. No final good-byes. Thanks to her father being passed out unconscious on the sofa when the hospice rang to say she wasn’t going to make it to morning. “My mom died of cancer when I was twelve. She asked for me and I wasn’t there.”
She didn’t even register what she’d said until her words resounded in her ears. When they did, it was like the world screeched on its axis. She was hot, she was cold. Waves surfed across her wineglass as her hand shook. What had she done? She had never told anyone that. Not even Lacey or Anna.
Her hand was empty. She watched as Lucas set her wineglass to the side, safe from harm’s way.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to land that on you.” She grasped for a way to take back the words. Why him? Of all people, why did it have to be him?
The tips of his fingers tilted up her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. They crinkled at the corners, like messy sheets on an unmade bed. “Hey.” His words were soft. “It’s okay, I get it.” He took his hand away, returning his attention to the chopsticks. After a couple of seconds of spinning them on the table, he looked back up. “Mine died when I was nineteen.”
The sadness in his gaze sucked her breath out of her chest. How was it possible? How could he keep getting better, when it just made everything so much worse?
• • •
LUCAS’S HANDS clenched around his chopsticks as he plunged them into his Massaman beef. This was a spectacularly bad idea. He’d known it from the second he’d seen Rachel and been mesmerized. The booth, the flickering shadows thrown by the candle, her brow furrowed, rosebud lips pursed at something on her phone. She was wearing some sort of blouse with filmy sleeves that highlighted her lean arms. For a second he’d let himself dream that this was a real date. That this beautiful woman was waiting for him. Lips pursed because he was late, wishing he would hurry up and arrive.
Which, clearly, was about as far from the truth as it was possible to get. When he’d finally made her aware of his presence, Rachel couldn’t have looked more unimpressed if he’d been a process server slapping court papers on the table. Which was fine. Because he wasn’t interested in anything with anyone anyway. Though the words rang hollow, even in his own head.
He was supposed to be trying to see if he could dig up any information that might suggest Brad’s hunch was right. He had to at least report back with a clean conscience that he hadn’t been able to find anything. Rather than admit that he didn’t even try because her assistant had mesmerized him with her quick wit and take-no-prisoners approach that hid a sadness that ran as deep as the Pacific.
He wasn’t even going to begin to analyze what had compelled him to tell her about his mom, because he knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Fortunately, the arrival of dinner had diverted them onto much safer matters. Well, for one of them anyway . . . He struggled to keep his smile under control.
“Stop smiling, it’s not funny!” Rachel’s splutter merged with the tears streaming from her eyes, as she tried to stem the river running from her nose. Either she could not handle her curry or she’d been served up something hotter than the surface of the sun.
With her spare hand she forked rice into her mouth, sucking in air between bites. She leaned over the table, whether because it hurt to sit upright or to minimize the distance between the rice and her mouth, he wasn’t sure.
“Here.” He pushed his Coke toward her.
She waved it away. “Bubbles worse, need milk.”
Her eyes landed on his plate. And before he knew what had happened, she’d reached over and swiped the yogurt-dip thing that had come as a side to his appetizer.
And it was gone. Down the hatch. Thrown between her lips like it was the elixir of life.
Finally she sagged back against the booth, trying to mop up her sweat-beaded forehead with the tattered remains of her napkin.
“Here.” He offered over his.
“Thanks.” She used it to blow her nose with an almighty honk. “I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room.” She bolted from the table faster than a green filly.
Lucas studied her dish from across the table. It looked innocent enough. Chicken, some vegetables, and some kind of sauce. Nothing to suggest it contained the kick of a small cannon.
He reached over with his fork, spearing a small piece of broccoli. Popping it in his mouth, he received something mighty reminiscent of the time one of Scott’s calves had hoofed him in the mouth.
His lips tingled, eyes watered, and he knocked back the last of his Coke in a gulp. And she was right: bubbles made it worse.
If he’d had a whole mouthful of this stuff, he wouldn’t have been weeping, he would have been on the floor begging the good Lord for mercy.
His breath came out in puffs, tongue hanging out. Air, he needed air. Something, anything. Ice—there was ice in his glass. He crunched down on a cube, tongue wrapping around the broken shards. Ahhhh. Relief numbed his blazing taste buds. More, need more. He poured the rest of the ice into his mouth.
What had they done? Pureed chilies and just poured them straight on? He was sorry for smiling now. He was lucky she hadn’t clocked him. He deserved it.
He waved down a waitress. “Excuse me?” His words came out in a croak. “What is this?” He waved toward the dish of torture.
The waitress glanced over and a smile started up her face. “That is Pezang Curry. Our spiciest meal. Most people, they think they like hot food, but that dish—” She pointed toward it and shook her head. “I won’t even eat that. But it’s great if you have a cold—it will blow it right out!”
She wasn’t wrong there. Someone needed to call NATO and tell them the next weapon for their arsenal could be found in downtown LA. “Do you happen to have any milk? Two glasses.”
The woman nodded with a smile that notched up into gleeful.
Rachel returned and slid back into her seat. Her eyes and nose were still dripping, but her face had lost some of its fire-like flush. Lucas sucked air through his curled tongue, still trying desperately to cool it down.
Rachel looked at her plate, then at him. “Really? After watching me almost spontaneously combust you still just had to try it?”
Two glasses of milk appeared in front of them, and he grabbed his and gulped it down in three chugs.
“You probably don’t—okay, you did.”
Lucas looked at Rachel over the rim of his empty glass. “What?”
“Adding a quarter gallon of milk to the mix may pay dividends you’re not expecting, but too late now.” Rachel took a delicate sip of her milk and right as she did, Lucas’s stomach let out an almighty grumble. “We should probably get you some Pepto-Bismol on the way back to the hotel if you don’t have some. Just in case.”
“It’ll be fine. I only had a piece of broccoli.”
Rachel tipped her glass at him. “To each his own indigestion. Just don’t come knocking on my door at two a.m. begging for some of mine.”
The thought of knocking on Rachel’s door at two a.m. for any reason sent his mind to places it shouldn’t be going. “So, what do I need to know about tomorrow?”
Rachel shrugged. “Nothing really. The setup is pretty much identical to the first one. Sellout crowd again. Lacey wasn’t sure with it being an afternoon event, but tickets sold out in a couple of days. Oh, I got her to plant a couple of sports questions. Just so, you know, there’s at least one mention of football among all the feelings. No need to thank me. I’ll just add it to the tab of all the things you owe me for.”
“I have a tab?”
“Yes. The present for Donna. That’s a lot of debt right there just for that. The questions I’m getting Lacey to plant for you. My flying you in style. Plus tonight, you turned down my aunt’s kind offer of a date with my spinster self, watched me leak snot all over my dinner, and somehow got me talking about my dead mother. Which, for the record, I never do. So that’s a pretty long tab already and there’s still two weeks to go.”
“Okay, Miss Awesome Assistant, I know you have a pen and paper in that bag, so why don’t you get them out and we can settle this tab right here and now.” She gave him a look under her eyelashes.
“Go on.” He nodded toward her bag. “I know you have them in there. Get them out and write down your list.”
Lifting up her purse, Rachel rummaged through and extracted a notebook and pen. She scrawled down her list and pushed it across the table. “There you go.”
Picking up the pen, Lucas looked at the items listed neatly in a vertical line down the left-hand side of the page in precise handwriting.
“Okay. So, I sent you the best ribs in Texas. I’m going to say that cancels out the planted questions. I loaned you my phone last night so that you could hide in the bathroom and ruthlessly decimate my high scores. So I’m pretty sure that cancels out the gift. I also told you about my long-departed mother who I never talk about, so they cancel each other out. And yes, you did snot all over your dinner, but I procured your milk, so I think we’re even there. And you did fly me in style, but last night I raised over fifty grand so that underprivileged kids can have access to sports. I feel like they balance out quite well.” He put lines through her list as he spoke. “And that one . . .” He circled the last item and pushed the pad back over to her. “That was Donna, not me. But even if it was mine, it wouldn’t count. Which means we’re even.”
Rachel looked down to where she’d written Mortifying attempted setup. “Why wouldn’t it count?”
He smiled at her confused expression. What he should do was say something safe like it doesn’t count when you don’t know about it. But there was something about the booth and the way the candlelight was flickering across her confused face that made playing it safe distinctly unappealing. “Because I didn’t turn her down.”
- 22 -
“The guy is a rock star.” Lacey murmured the words to Rachel as they stood backstage in San Francisco and watched the live feed of Donna and Lucas onstage. Lucas held two thousand women in the palm of his hand. Again. “And that face. Wasted on radio. He’s so made for TV I could just cry. And he’s actually a stand-up guy. It’s not often in this business those things combine.”
Onstage, Lucas leaned back on the couch, ankle tapped to knee and a relaxed smile on his face as he turned some woman’s question about dating into a sports analogy.
“I still can’t believe he actually swapped his seat.” Rachel had almost choked on her champagne when a heavily pregnant woman lowered herself into seat 1B next to Lacey. A few passengers later, Lucas had strolled past with a wink and a grin on his way back to coach.
“That baby is totally going to be named Lucas if it’s a boy.” Lacey whipped out her phone and tapped open her Twitter app. “She didn’t know who he was, but I made sure to fix that. All going well, it will be all over social media before the day is out.”
Rachel snagged a cookie off the catering table in the green room. She side-eyed their publicist. “When are you going to put feelers out? Or have you already done it?”
“What do you mean?” Lacey turned to her all wide-eyed and innocent.
“Come on, Lace. I know you better than you think. You have the future New York Times bestseller look glowing in your eyes.”
Lacey pivoted on her heels. “Lucas couldn’t write a book by himself. Not even with a ghostwriter. He doesn’t have enough to say. But . . .” She let her words linger.
“But what?”
Lacey raised her eyebrows at Rachel. “He could do one with Donna.”
Rachel said nothing. Just stared at her as she ate her cookie.
Lacey leaned back against the edge of the couch. “Just think about it. You still don’t have an idea for your last book, do you?”
“I’ve been working with a few. Donna and I have brainstormed some.” She’d also watched a lot of reality TV. Which had sparked the idea for their fourth book, but apparently that was a one-time-only deal.
“And how many of them have gotten past five thousand words?”
Rachel didn’t say anything.
“Exactly. I bet if Max took it to Randolph, he could renegotiate a better deal and an extension on your deadline. There is no way Randolph would let something this big get away. Especially if he knew it was going to be
the last book.”
“What would this book even be about?” Rachel asked the question grudgingly. Her pride wanted her to insist that she would get the book done. Just like she always had. But she’d never been this close to a deadline and not had the high-level concept well advanced.
Lacey shrugged. “We could use a whole lot of material from the next two weeks. Then you, Donna, Lucas, and his writer could hole up in a room for a couple of weeks and hey, presto. A number one bestseller is born. Straight to the top of the charts. Guaranteed.”
“Lucas has shown absolutely no interest in doing a book. He’s only on this tour under protest.”
“Lucas would make a basket load of money. Who’s going to say no to that? Plus you and Donna get to go out on a high with the last book.”
Rachel grabbed a bottle of water. Twisted the top off with a crack. “I really don’t want to involve Lucas in all this any more than he already is.”
“If it helps your conscience, we can tell him that you’re Donna’s ghostwriter. It’s really not a big deal.”
“It’s not the books I’m worried about. It’s the other stuff.” She could be wrong, but somehow she instinctively knew that while Lucas might not give peanuts about Donna having a ghostwriter, he would give a whole lot more if he found out it hadn’t been Donna calling in to his show.
I didn’t turn her down. Lucas’s words from the night before had her tossing and turning half the night. Trying to work out what they meant. The moment interrupted by a phone call he’d had to take.
“Anyway, let’s talk about it with Donna when we get to Sacramento tonight. I’m sure she will have a view.”
Given this whole tour was Donna’s brainchild, she knew the woman would leap at it. “Fine.” At least that bought Rachel a few hours to process it herself and decide what tack she wanted to take.
