I don’t want Southern Guy thinking I drink something he refers to as guinea pig pee. “Oh, it’s not for me.”
He smiles, looking completely unconvinced. “Sure it’s not.”
“It’s not! I work for a band. It’s for one of them.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You’re with the band?”
I nod. I wipe at my face once more. More goop. Super.
Southern Guy offers me his shirt once again. This time, I take it with an embarrassed smile. It’s warm and I’ve got to resist the urge to press it against my face and breathe in his scent. Instead, I use it to remove the smears from my face.
“You’ve missed a patch there.” He gestures at my jawline. “May I?”
Rendered dumb, I simply nod, my eyes riveted to his face—despite my brain screaming at them not to be. He takes the shirt from my hand and wipes along my jaw from my ear right down to the corner of my mouth.
It’d be pretty darn hot if it wasn’t so freaking mortifying.
“There. You’re not quite as good as new, but it’s a whole lot better than the Kermit impression you were doing a couple moments ago.” Our eyes lock as the corners of his mouth twitch into a fresh smile.
My blush turns nuclear. “Thank you.”
“So, you said you’re with the band? Is that Rex Randall’s band?”
I shake my head. “The Pop Princesses. They’re the support band for the concert at The Garden next week. They’re with the same label.”
His face drops. “Oh.”
My eyes slide from him to the guitar on the floor at his feet. “Are you part of Rex Randall’s band?”
Despite my mortification, a seed of an idea begins to formulate in my mind. Sylvia has once again let me down. Who knows? The guy I just crashed into may be my way in to meet Rex Randall’s powerful and influential people, perhaps even the man himself.
“Yeah. Kinda,” he replies.
Kind of? What does that mean?
“You done with that?” He bobs his head at the shirt I’m still holding in my hand.
“Oh, yes. Here.” I pass it back to him. “And, ah, sorry about crashing into you like that.”
“Yeah, me too.” His smile crinkles the skin around his eyes in that oh-so-sexy way again. I think about guinea pig pee to stop myself from wanting to reach out and touch him.
Geez. What has gotten into me today?
But here’s something about this guy that makes me feel safe. Protected. And that’s not something I’ve felt in a long time.
I clear my throat. I can’t go thinking that sort of thing about some random guy I’ve just met. And anyway, even if he does elicit those feelings in me, I know he’ll just end up leaving, like Dad, like all of them. Fantasizing about hot guys I’ve literally just crashed into can be only that: a fantasy.
I arrange my features into what I hope is a confident, breezy smile. “Look, I need to get this cleaned up before my, err, the band manager gets here.”
“I’ll help. I’ve got some time.”
“Thanks.” I collect the can of Diet Coke and slip it into my purse for safe-keeping. “You don’t need to be any place?”
“I’m waiting around for someone.” He shifts his feet, clearly uncomfortable. He reaches down and collects the empty teacup and hands it to me. “Here.”
I take it from him, making sure our fingers don’t brush up against one another. My hormones are already on high enough alert without amping things up a notch or fifty.
“And don’t forget this.” He holds the cucumber out for me, and I wrap my fingers around the other end. Both holding what can only be described as a long, green phallic symbol, our gaze locks.
This is not sexual in any way.
Only it so is.
I mumble my thanks and look down, stuffing the cucumber into my bag, when a voice pierces our awkward moment.
“What do you think you’re doing, Gabriella?”
I leap back from Southern Guy. He shoots me a confused look. I turn to see not only Sylvia, but Kylie and Britney also, all tottering on their heels toward us.
Just what I need.
I offer an explanation before Sylvia tears a shred or two off of me. “I was bringing you your order, and I, ah, dropped it. But don’t worry. I will totally get this cleaned up and get you all fresh drinks.”
Sylvia turns her cold stare on me. “You did this?”
“I’ll fix it really fast.”
“Hmmm.” The look on her face is disapproving, to say the least. Her eyes rove around and land back on Southern Guy. “And who are you?”
“Oh, this—” I press my lips together and say out of the corner of my mouth, “what’s your name?”
He turns to Sylvia, offering her his hand. “I’m Cole. Cole Grant. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Ma’am?
Kylie and Britney both giggle and flick their hair, preening themselves for Southern Guy’s—Cole’s—benefit.
He smiles and nods at them, which only encourages them more. “Ladies.”
Will he recognize them? They have just had their images in that magazine, a small photo toward the back as it may be. Something stirs inside me as I watch the spawn fawn over him. Envy? Irritation? Resignation?
Probably resignation.
I’m so used to being the one overlooked, the dull girl next to my glamour-puss stepsisters. Everything about them screams “Look at Me!” And people do. Men, women, everyone. Only this time, with this guy, I want him to look at me.
Only me.
In that moment, I regret my daily jeans and T-shirt combo, the way they make me virtually invisible. Usually, they’re my armor, my refuge. Dressed as I am, I can’t be accused of trying to outshine anyone.
“Cole’s with Rex Randall’s band,” I blurt out.
Sylvia turns her gaze on him, this newfound information clearly increasing his appeal. “Are you now? Do you know Rex well? Are you playing in the concert next weekend?”
All four of us await his response with interest.
“Ah, no,” he says eventually.
“Oh.” Sylvia’s mouth settles into a line. “So, you don’t know him personally?”
Cole shakes his head, looking uncomfortable.
“Are you a sound guy?” Kylie asks.
“Or a roadie?” This from Britney. She turns to Kylie and adds, “Roadies can be totally hot. I know.”
Kylie titters as she eyes Cole up. “My guess is he’s a roadie, then.”
Cole rubs the back of his neck. “I guess what I am is undefined right now.”
Sylvia looks like she swallowed a dead bug. I can tell she’s lost complete interest in him. I’m surprised she doesn’t take the hand she used to shake his and wipe off his “undefined” germs on her skirt.
“Get someone to clean this up. We need our drinks, Gabriella, and not all over your clothes this time,” Sylvia instructs.
Britney and Kylie snigger. I shoot them a look. They simply glare back at me, haughty as ever. I pull at my damp T-shirt.
Cole turns his hundred-watt smile on Sylvia. “I’ll help Gabriella, ma’am. I’ve got time to kill before my meeting.”
My eyes dart to his face. Is that nervousness or excitement I hear in his voice?
“Yes, well.” Sylvia returns her attention to me once more. “I’m not happy about this, Gabriella. We need our drinks. We haven’t got all day, you know.”
“I’m on it, Sylvia.” I can feel Cole watching me. I don’t risk looking up. Remembering the can of Diet Coke, I rummage in my purse and produce it. “I did get this.” I offer it to Kylie.
She takes it without a word of thanks. “It had better not be all shaken up.”
“Oh, it won’t be.” I picture her as she opens the can and bubbly brown liquid squirts all over her. I bite back a smile.
“Girls, let’s get back.” Sylvia throws another disdainful look my way. She walks off, trailed by her daughters.
I’m just about to go loo
k for a janitor when the clomp of retreating heels comes to a stop.
Uh-oh. This can’t be good.
I turn around to see Sylvia holding a yellow bag aloft in one hand, a silver shoe in the other. “Why do you still have this? And it’s still broken.”
The shoe? In all the drinks spilling, cute guy entangling, phallic cucumber exchange excitement, I’d totally forgotten I’d lost that darn shoe!
I blink a few times. Am I dreaming this? How the heck did that shoe get here when I know I’d left it in the cab?
“Is that your shoe? You’re the girl from the cab?” Cole asks me, surprise written across his face.
Before I have the chance to respond, Sylvia snaps, “What is he talking about?”
The last thing I want is for Sylvia to know that I left the shoe in a cab—even if it does make Cole a total hero right now. And, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone in a million years, but I do like the thought.
“Oh, I’m just about to take it to the cobbler for you. I wanted to get your drinks first.” I take a few tentative steps toward her. “Traffic to the dry cleaners was terrible. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
Lies lies lies. I hold my breath while I hate myself for kowtowing to her. I can feel Cole’s questioning gaze on me.
Thankfully, Sylvia doesn’t press me for anything further. “Drinks, shoe. That order.” Sylvia turns and the three of them totter off down the hallway.
I wait until they are out of sight before I heave a sigh of relief. That was close—too close.
“Where did you find that shoe?” I ask Cole.
“It was in my cab on the way here. I noticed it and asked the driver about it. I think my guitar knocked it to the ground when I got out.”
“Your guitar knocked it out?” I narrow my gaze. It sounds less than likely. Does this guy have a shoe fetish or something? I’ve read about people like that. Total weirdos.
“Tell me something. Are you into shoes?” I swallow. “Or ladies’ . . . feet?”
“Not especially.”
I contemplate him for a moment. He doesn’t seem the type, but I’d rather know than not. “Do you like to wear women’s shoes? You know, for kicks?”
He throws his head back and lets out a laugh. “You think I’m a crossdresser?”
I raise my hands, palms facing him. “Hey, dude, no judgment from me.”
“Well, aside from the fact it’s a few sizes too small for me, I prefer shoes like that on women’s feet.”
“Good to know.” I smile at him, thoroughly relieved the guy I’ve been crushing on isn’t a secret trannie. “You finding the shoe I lost makes you a total lifesaver.”
He chuckles. It’s low and sexy, and I try to ignore what it does to me. “Anything for a pretty girl.”
He’s not my prince, he’s not my prince, he’s not my prince.
No matter how often I repeat it, standing here with this super-hot guy, it’s hard to keep my mind from going there. I mean, he found my lost shoe!
I raise my eyes to his. They’re alight with fun, and I know I want to get to know this guy a whole lot more—my prince or not.
“Cole! There you are.” A man who looks like he spends most of his time preening in front of a mirror walks down the hall toward us, one of those man buns atop his head. Of all the trends I see in Manhattan, this look only works for a handful of men. Men who look like Jason Momoa. And this guy, all five foot six of him, is no Jason Momoa.
“Sorry about the wait, man. He’s ready for you now.” Too-Smooth stops and looks at the floor, then at me, taking in the disastrous state of my clothing. His face creases into a smile. “Nice whatever it is you’re wearing there.”
I shoot him a sarcastic smile while I stop myself from saying, “nice birds’ nest you’ve got on the top of your head.” Some things are better left unspoken, even to people like Mr. Too-Smooth.
“Sorry I gotta go. You gonna be okay to get this place cleaned up yourself?” Cole asks. I can tell by the way he’s leaning toward Too-Smooth that he wants to see whomever it is who’s waiting for him.
I wave him away. “Sure, yeah. Go. I love nothing more than to clean up messes.”
He hesitates.
“Cole?” Too-Smooth taps his foot impatiently on the polished floor.
I smile at him. “It was great to meet you. Cole.” I like the way his name feels on my lips.
“Yeah, you, too. Even if it meant,” he nods at my stained top, “you know.”
“Hope your grandpop’s horse gets plenty of kale today.”
He flashes me a dazzling grin I just know I’m going to think about as I fall asleep tonight—well, the rest of the day, too.
He steps over the green tea puddle and follows the guy down the corridor—and, quite probably, right out of my life.
Chapter 4
Cole
This has got to be the most surreal thing I’ve done in the twenty-four years I’ve been on this planet. Colliding with that cute girl may have been momentarily distracting, but now the reason I’m in this city is about to happen—and I know it’ll change my life forever.
Just as soon as Nashville lets me through those goddamn doors.
I pace, the butterflies that have been racing around my body since I got here doing overtime. Nashville has his hand on one of the doorknobs, his ear pressed up against the wooden door. Apparently, he’s waiting for just the right moment to open it and let us in.
Whatever. I just want to get in there.
I try to shake the tension from my hands. “What’s the holdup?”
“Give it a moment longer.”
My chest muscles feel tight, and the base of my skull is close to exploding from stress. I rub the back of my neck in an attempt to decompress. It usually works, but this is a whole different stratosphere of stress from the usual challenges of my life.
The last twenty-four hours have been like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The expression on Mom’s face when Grandpop told me the truth about my father at Granny’s funeral flashes before my eyes.
“You deserve to know. Losing my wife has taught me life’s too short for dishonesty,” he’d said. “I can’t lie to you any longer.”
And what a lie. The king of lies, a total goddamn doozy.
And then Mom, admitting the truth, telling me she’d done it to protect me, to give me a normal life. The way she’d told Rex to stay away from her, from me, his son. It’s like a stab to the belly. I’m a grown man. I could have made that call myself. Even as a kid, I had a right to know him.
I resume my pacing.
Nashville sizes me up out of the corner of his eye. “You look like him, you know.”
I’m not sure he knows I’m Rex Randall’s son, and I’m not about to go telling him. It’s private, between Rex and me. “What are you talking about?”
He flashes me a look that questions my I.Q. “Rex, of course.” He taps his chin, staring at my face. “Yeah, it’s the eyes, maybe the jawline too, I guess.”
I run my fingers through my hair, clench my jaw. This guy knows my private business?
“Rex and me are close,” Nashville offers by way of explanation. “I’ve been his assistant, his confidant from the very beginning. He tells me everything.”
I tighten my jaw. “Good for you.” I couldn’t give a flying crap about Nashville and Rex’s relationship. All I care about right now is getting through that door.
He nods at something behind me. “See what I mean? Check it out.”
I turn to see a poster of a young Rex Randall, posing in his cargo pants and tank top with four other guys, all dressed the same. They’re young and fresh-faced, with enough cocky attitude between them to fill a stadium. The Wrong Side of the Tracks, the biggest boy band the country has ever known. And my father was a part of it.
I take a step closer. His image gazes back at me. A sultry, “I’m too cool for school” expression on his youthful face. His brown eyes, the way he holds his head, the shape of his jaw, all familiar. I
t’s like looking at myself from a few years back.
Now that I know who he is to me, our similarities smack me right between the eyes.
How did I not know? My chest tightens further. I know exactly how: my mother kept it a secret from me all these years. That’s how.
“You know, he’s got those nineties frosted tips in that shot, but otherwise his hair’s your color, too.”
Frosted tips, whatever the hell they are. I study Rex’s hair. They’re Marilyn Monroe blonde at the ends, darker against his scalp. I exhale as I turn and lean against the wall beside the poster.
I hear some voices down the hall. I look up and see the woman the smoothie chick, Gabriella, works for bustle toward us. I push myself away from the wall and nod at her. “Hi again, ma’am.”
She barely glances at me and instead strides past, her heels tapping on the floor. She disappears around the corner.
Uptight bitch.
My mind wanders to Gabriella. She may have been as clumsy as a drunk bear, but her iridescent green eyes were oddly complemented by that green kale stuff. Petite and perfectly formed, she is beautiful. But unlike the Courtneys of the world, she’s not putting it out there. No way.
Sexy? Hell, yeah, especially the way the damp material of her T-shirt and jeans clung to her curves. She’s got that “girl next door” thing down pat. But there was something more to her, something that made me want to get under her skin, see what made her tick.
I clear my throat. What do people say? We had a moment. Yeah, that’s it, a moment. And I’d like to have a few more.
Screw it. She’s probably just another woman who appears to be something she’s not, keeping secrets, not telling the truth. I’d be best to steer clear of that one. With the way she looked at me, the way she made me feel, she could be dangerous.
The door behind us swings open, startling us both. Nashville jumps back. A short, bespectacled woman with cropped unnaturally red hair rushes out into the corridor. “Rex is finishing up. You can come in now.”
This is it; the moment.
“Thanks, Saffy.” Nashville gestures at the open door. “Ready?”
I give him a curt nod. As ready as I’ll ever be to meet the father I’ve never known.
Manhattan Cinderella Page 4
