by Lauren Layne
Her eyes flick over me, cool and disinterested. “And you are…?”
“Noah Maxwell,” I say, deliberately not going forward to shake her hand. “The caretaker.”
She wrinkles her nose and looks back at Vaughn in confusion.
Vaughn is staring at me in confusion.
“Problem?” I say before he can open his fat mouth and ruin my little game.
Jenny lifts her shoulders. “I guess I just assumed the Eddingtons would still live in the caretaker’s cottage. Foolish, I suppose. They were elderly ten years ago. Have they…are they passed?”
No idea. Who the hell are the Eddingtons?
A quick call to my father’s attorney had confirmed that there was in fact a property in my father’s name, but there’d been next to no information.
“They’re in a retirement home,” Vaughn says smoothly, apparently deciding to play along, although I don’t know why. “The family pays for it, of course.”
She smiles prettily at him, although the smile slips when her gaze slides back to me. “And Mr. Maxwell here is the replacement?”
“Truth be told, I’ve just hired him,” Vaughn says, giving me a cool, appraising look as though deciding whether I’m worthy of the right to be on my own property. How did I not know the guy was such a good actor? “But he seems competent enough.”
“Wonderful,” she says. “But the dog can’t stay.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“The dog.” She gestures with her chin at Ranger, who’s settled down, but barely. “Dolly will be staying here with me, which means your dog needs to go.”
“He’ll be kept on a leash,” Finn says before I can reply. He steps forward, apparently deciding that he too wants in on the game.
“Okay, but—”
“I’m Finn Reed. The electrician. Came out to fix a couple of wiring problems,” he says, extending a hand to her.
Electrician? That’s new.
Jenny shifts the cotton ball to her left arm and shakes Finn’s hand, either unaware of the way he’s checking her out or so accustomed to it that she knows not to show a reaction.
“Are the wiring problems all fixed?”
“Yes,” Vaughn says nervously, shooting me a quick glance. “But Ms. Dawson, I need to make it clear what bad shape the house is in. Worse than I realized when we first emailed, and—”
“It’s all right,” she says quietly. “As long as the walls stay standing upright, it’ll be perfect.”
She gazes up at the house with a faraway smile on her face. The guys glance at me, and I roll my eyes and shrug.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” she says, not looking at us. “But I wrote my first song here, and it felt magical.”
She turns back and looks at Vaughn. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. I never met him in person, but the fact that he opened up this beautiful space to young musicians without charging them a dime…he must have loved music.”
Vaughn’s smile is strained, and when Jenny looks away he gives me a what the hell shrug.
I don’t respond.
The truth was, my dad didn’t love music. I mean, sure, he’d go to the odd concert or have music playing on the car radio when he wasn’t barking on the phone, but he didn’t love music.
No, but he had loved Caleb, and Caleb had loved music. No doubt my father had hoped that one of his charity cases, someone like Jenny Dawson, might carry on with Caleb’s legacy in a way that I couldn’t.
Jenny was walking around the side of the house, a happy smile on her face despite the fact that all I could see was weeds and chipped paint.
“What the hell are we doing?” Finn says out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, what are we doing?” Vaughn asks me in a low voice. “Why’d you tell her I was you?”
“I don’t know. She pissed me off.”
My friends only look at me, their skepticism clear. I don’t blame them. It’s not the right answer. Or at least not the full answer.
The truth is, I didn’t tell her my name because for a crushing moment I didn’t want to be Preston Walcott Jr., heir to this, that, and the other thing.
I wanted to go back.
Back to a simpler time when I knew myself only as Noah Maxwell. Back when I believed my mother’s quiet claims that my father was dead. Back before he’d shown up on my fourteenth birthday, informed me that the brother I didn’t know I had was dead and that his wife had left him, and asked if I wanted to come live with him, though it wasn’t optional.
I hadn’t wanted anything to do with him or the life he offered.
But then the bastard had dangled the one carrot in front of my mother that she hadn’t been able to say no to: education.
I’d been enrolled at the Academy the very next day, and by the time I graduated and headed to LSU, my only connection to that former life was Finn and a fragile, strained relationship with my mother.
“I called off the wedding,” I say quickly, quietly, as Jenny and her dumb dog start making their way back toward us, her steps careful as she tries to navigate the uneven ground with those ridiculous shoes.
“Come again?” Vaughn says.
Finn swears and rubs a hand over his hand. “Shit, man.”
“Why?” Vaughn asks. “Yvonne Damascus is perfect.”
“For someone like you, maybe,” Finn mutters, earning a middle finger from Vaughn.
“Can we not?” I say wearily. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just…I need some time. Away.”
“So book a trip to the Bahamas. Don’t stay here,” Vaughn says, looking around in horror as he smooths a hand over the shitty purple tie.
Finn reaches for his cigarettes. “Country Club’s right. You’ve got money, man. Use it.”
I do have money. More than I know what to do with.
Jenny Dawson is back in hearing range, and as I find myself checking out those long legs, I wonder if Finn and Vaughn are right. If I need to escape, spending time with this diva is not the way to do it.
But here’s the douchebag part of all this, where I tell you I feel some weird connection to this place I haven’t ever been to before today—a place I didn’t even know existed until a few days ago.
My dad left me a shit-ton of property, more fancy cars than I know what to do with, and enough money to employ an entire fleet to take care of both. This is the one thing to my name that feels like it can be mine. Already my mind is racing with the sheer number of projects around here to keep my hands busy. To keep my thoughts off…things.
“I’m staying,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “And not a word to the pop princess here about my real name.”
“She’s a country singer,” Finn says.
I snort. “Barely.”
“Heard that,” Jenny says sweetly with a smile that doesn’t even pretend to be real.
She teeters over to her car in her sexy shoes, setting Dolly in the backseat before she rummages around for something in the front passenger seat, giving all three of us a rather prime view of her backside.
Ranger’s no longer the only one whose tongue is lolling out of his mouth.
“Here we go,” she says, emerging a moment later with some paper and a pen.
“What’s this?” Finn asks as she flutters a piece of paper in his direction.
“An NDA.”
“A what?” Finn asks.
“Nondisclosure agreement,” Vaughn supplies.
There’s no mockery in Vaughn’s tone for once, but I sense Finn stiffen anyway. The man doesn’t have a lot of soft spots, but feeling dumb is one of them. Especially when compared to Vaughn.
“Mr. Walcott here’s already signed one,” she says, gesturing at Vaughn, who’s signed no such thing.
I, of course, have already signed it, but I sign this one as well, as Noah Maxwell.
“Sign it,” I snap at Finn. “It just says that you can’t tell anyone you saw her here.”
“Well, that sucks,” he mutters as he scribbles his name acr
oss the bottom of the paper.
“Perfect,” she says with a little wink for Finn. “You never saw me. Got it?”
Finn shrugs. “Sure.”
She gives me an expectant look, and I glare at her. “I’m stuck here with you, princess. Who’m I gonna tell, the mosquitos?”
“Well, you’ll have to leave the property at some point,” she says pragmatically. “Surely you get a day off. How do I know you won’t tell people at the local Piggly Wiggly or whatever?”
I glance at Vaughn. “Boss? Do I get time off?”
“Sure. Whatever. Two days off,” Vaughn says impatiently, obviously tiring of the game.
Time to wrap this up.
“I’ll need to go get some food,” I say. “You’re a day early, and we weren’t prepared.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she says, sounding genuinely contrite. “I emailed and then tried to call, asking if it was okay, but the call went straight to voicemail.”
“No service out here.”
I say that with no small amount of glee, expecting her to freak out, but she sighs in relief. “Perfect. That’s perfect. And I stopped at the store on the way. Plenty for both of us. I‘m assuming you‘re living in that little cottage? The one where the Eddingtons lived.”
That little cottage.
As in the caretaker’s cottage that I didn’t know existed, much less where it’s actually located.
The reality of my situation is setting in, and I come very close to calling a halt to my little charade, but then I remember the stubbornness on Yvonne’s face when I tried to tell her the wedding was off.
Over my dead body, Preston, she said.
Yeah, no. I’ll be taking my chances here with the Nashville princess, thanks.
Jenny tugs the NDA out of my hand with two pink fingernails before going to the car and putting the papers back in the passenger seat. She retrieves her yapping dog and a guitar case.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Walcott,” she tells Vaughn with a smile. “You look nothing like your father, but you’re every bit as lovely.”
Finn snorts around his cigarette but covers with a cough when she turns her smile on him.
“Lovely to meet you as well, Mr. Reed. I’m sure Mr. Maxwell will be in touch if there are any further problems with the wiring.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, barely hiding a smile. The only thing Finn knows about wiring is how to hot-wire a car.
“Wonderful.” Jenny beams at us, although her smile slips when she looks at me. “I’m going to go take a look inside. Could I trouble you to bring my stuff in?”
“No trouble at all,” I say sarcastically. “I’ve been waiting for the honor.”
She either misses my sarcasm or ignores it, sauntering up the wide steps toward the open front door, and we all turn to watch, my mouth practically watering at the sight of the back of her thighs.
“No trouble at all, huh?” Finn says from beside me.
He’s right. I’m totally fucked.
Jenny
Okay.
Can we all please take a moment of silence to appreciate the sheer beauty that is southern men?
Or at least these three southern men.
Apparently I’ve been in L.A. too long, because the rough, hardened yumminess of the men below has me a little more aware than I like that the rumors about me and Shawn are the closest I’ve gotten to having any actual action in a long time.
It’s been six days since the story broke. The hype’s decreased, um, not at all, courtesy of the fact that four more married guys I’ve never even met have stepped forward and claimed intimate knowledge of my nether regions.
Let’s just say “Homewrecker” is seeing a resurgence on the charts, and for all the wrong reasons.
Hence…me and Dolly in the middle of nowhere. Just the way I want it.
I move the sheer curtain of the bedroom window to the side slightly so I can get a better look at the three guys. They’re all good-looking in their own way. Mr. Walcott’s about what I expected. My quick Google search only brought up pictures of his late father, but judging from the fact that the young Mr. Walcott is wearing a full suit even though it’s close to eighty-five degrees outside tells me he’s a chip off the old block in style, if not exactly in looks. Walcott Senior was fair with blue eyes, but his son has black hair and brown eyes and killer dimples.
The other one—the electrician—is equally yummy in a bad-boy kind of way. He’s all rippling muscles beneath a tight black shirt, close-cut brown hair, and hazel eyes. His quick smile promises a good time, just like his guarded gaze promises to leave you the next morning.
But it’s the third guy, the caretaker, handyman, whatever, that I can’t seem to stop looking at.
Of the three, he’s the least flashy. He doesn’t have Preston Walcott’s buttoned-up polish or the unapologetic sex appeal of Finn Reed.
His dark blond hair is a mess, his face is just a touch too narrow to be strictly handsome, and he needs a shave. His white T-shirt looks like the basic variety you’d buy at Walmart, but he fills it out nicely. Jeans too.
You know that feeling you get sometimes? Well, okay, rarely. That feeling when you meet a stranger’s eyes and something inexplicable and intense sizzles between you?
That.
That’s what happened between me and Noah Maxwell, at least on my end.
And then…
And then he had to go and open his mouth. It would figure that the first guy I’m attracted to in a good long time turns out to be a total jerk. It would also figure that I’m stuck sort of living with him for the next few months.
The three guys finish talking, and I’m tempted to take a quick pic to send to Amber so she can verify the masculine goodness until I remember,
(a) that’s creepy,
(b) I’m supposed to be off the grid, and
(c) even if I wanted to send a message, there’s no service here.
I brace myself for the sense of panic to set in, but am surprised to find that I only feel…relief?
Relief that exactly four people in the world know where I am right now: Mom, Dad, my little sister, and Amber.
I didn’t even tell my agent, which you can imagine went over really well.
It’s just me and Dolly for the next few weeks.
Oh, and Noah Maxwell.
And his dog.
I feel a little bad for being bitchy about the dog. Yeah, the big guy’s a little intense, and I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t going to eat Dolly or hump her to death, but it wasn’t the Lab I was responding to when I got snippy. It was the way the dog’s owner summed me up in about half a second and decided he didn’t like what he saw.
Fine.
If Noah Maxwell wants the spoiled diva, that’s exactly what he’ll get.
I move away from the window as I take in the bedroom. It’s exactly like I remember, although Mr. Walcott wasn’t lying about the house being in bad shape. The wallpaper’s more off than on, and though everything’s clean, there’s a definite air of disuse about the place.
A quick check of the connected bathroom confirms that there’s running water, but the tub is missing a shower curtain, and the faucet handle on the sink is one good turn away from being detached.
I hear the tap-tap-tap of Dolly’s claws against the floor, the sound she makes when she’s gearing up to jump onto the nearest comfy surface. In this case it’s the bed, and since I know from experience there’s no way her short legs are going to make it up on the first try, I pick her up and place her on the mattress.
The mattress is clean, but now I’m starting to wonder how old it is—and how many bodies have slept there. These are the things you don’t think about as a kid, when you’re half thrilled and half terrified to be away from home.
I make a mental note of things to get on a shopping trip to Baton Rouge, although I’m not exactly looking forward to donning my disguise again.
The auburn wig was fun for about two minutes before it g
ot itchy and hot. Still, the wig was worth every moment of discomfort when I got to the checkout stand of the grocery store and saw that my name was all over the latest issue of every tabloid.
Again.
Shawn Bates’s wife apparently wasn’t satisfied with her thirty seconds of fame and has been talking about her “broken home” to any reporter who will listen.
I don’t doubt for one second that her marriage is a mess.
I just know I had nothing to do with it.
Heavy footsteps are coming up the stairs, and I go to the doorway to let Noah know which room I’m in.
Any guilt I felt about playing the diva card and asking him to carry my stuff fades when I see the ease with which he’s hefting my two huge suitcases up the stairs, his muscles big and bunched, and…oh God. I’m drooling.
Noah pauses at the stop of the stairs. “What are you doing in there?” he snaps.
Let’s review: jerk.
“This is my room,” I say with a deliberately fake smile.
He nods in the opposite direction. “Master bedroom’s down this way.”
“I don’t want the master bedroom,” I say with what I think is admirable patience. “I want this one.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” I snap.
Dolly leaps down from the bed, poking her tiny head around the corner to see who I’m talking to before she begins yapping at him.
Good dog.
“Does it have a mute button?” he asks, glaring at Dolly.
I ignore him, stepping aside so he can maneuver my bags into the room. The room feels instantly smaller with him in it.
“Careful,” I say, my voice sugar-sweet as he drops my bags to the floor. “That’s Louis Vuitton.”
His dark brown eyes find me. “No, it’s not.”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. He’s right. It’s totally not Louis Vuitton. I don’t even know what brand it is—it’s just something I picked up at a generic luggage store—but I’m a little surprised the guy knows what Louis Vuitton is…or isn’t.
I give him a once-over, wondering if there’s more to the guy than muscles and a bad attitude.
“Your dog’s a menace,” he says, giving a disgusted look to the still barking Dolly.
“My dog isn’t out and about mauling strangers,” I say, just as Dolly decides that the guy doesn’t mean us harm and throws herself at his shin in a desperate bid to be picked up.
