by Alisha Rai
A schedule. She checked her watch. Too late for working on her latest project or the newspaper, not that she had one, but she could get to work on breakfast.
She walked through the house, taking stock. She’d lived in lavish houses for a long time, but this was about the size of her childhood home, and it was neither big nor small, but cozy, hugging her like Rhiannon’s sweatshirt.
A sliver of excitement rose inside her. Some city folks paid big bucks to go stay in a well–kept up honest-to-God farmhouse like this.
She ran her hand along the chipped, gleaming Formica counter in the kitchen and opened the fridge door. Completely empty, save for a box of baking soda and the small amount of food they’d brought with them. She pulled her starter out of the cold and placed it on the counter. “Been a while since we’ve traveled together, kiddo,” she murmured. “I’ll feed you shortly, once we get some good flour.” Was talking to sourdough starter a step too far? Possibly.
She closed the fridge and walked a couple steps to the back door, where the glass window was covered by gingham curtains. She’d see if Jas could give her an update on what the grocery situation was here, if there was delivery.
Also, she’d see Jas. Possibly doing manly things with a drill. Nice.
Back to logistics. If the food was going to take a while, she’d have to rearrange her new farm schedule, move breakfast to after a check-in with her investment team.
She turned the door alarm sensor off—Jas had used these in hotel rooms when they traveled—and tugged open the door.
And promptly screamed and jumped back.
Chapter Nine
HER SCREAM MADE the man outside also scream and dump the paper bag he held. It split open, food spilling everywhere. An apple rolled across the grass to stop at his feet.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed, and pressed her hand over her chest. “I’m—I’m—”
The man mirrored her actions and straightened to his full height, big brown eyes wide. The handsome twentysomething guy was about as tall as her, solidly built, and dressed in worn, faded jeans with a big belt buckle, a plaid shirt, and a black turban. “What the hell? You scared me!” he yelped.
She braced against the doorjamb. Most serial killers crouching outside of people’s doors probably didn’t scream or lead with chastisement. “I’m sorry.” She stretched her hand out to him. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t expecting anyone outside.” He gave her a suspicious once-over and grunted, and it was with that grunt that Katrina realized who this must be. “You’re Jas’s brother, aren’t you? Bikram?”
Before Bikram could answer, Jas came running into view, drill in his hand, fearsome scowl on his face. “What’s wrong? Why are you two screaming? Bikram, I told you to just put the bags outside the door.”
“I did not scream,” Bikram said with great dignity, and crouched to pick up the produce. “I yelped. I was startled by your . . . client.”
“So was I. I’m sorry I startled you. Everything’s fine, Jas.” Katrina stepped outside and picked up an apple. An inappropriate urge to laugh came over her. Hadn’t she thought yesterday that a solid meet-cute was someone dropping their fruit for pickup?
Well. She dusted off the dirt on the apple. That meet-cute didn’t take into account the toll on the poor fruit.
Bikram only harrumphed. She helped the men with collecting the dropped items and took them inside. Bikram trooped in after her and unceremoniously placed the rest of the food on the counter, Jas following with the other two still-intact bags that had been sitting on the grass. He spoke to his brother over his shoulder. “I asked you to stock the kitchen last night.”
“This isn’t some Airbnb.” Bikram placed his hands on his hips. With the three of them in here, the small kitchen was crowded.
She cleared her throat. “Jas, this is your brother, right?”
“Yeah. Bikram, meet Katrina King.”
Bikram nodded at her, and she didn’t think she imagined the frostiness in that one gesture. “Charmed.”
She linked her hands in front of her. What a great first impression she’d made. “Thank you for your hospitality in letting me stay here. And the food. Again, I’m sorry I screamed.”
“Yeah. Well. Jasvinder asked for a favor, and he doesn’t do that often.” He gave her another hard look she couldn’t interpret, but spoke to Jas. “Gotta go work. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait.” Katrina faltered when Jas’s younger brother turned to her. “Would you . . . can I make you some breakfast?”
Bikram blinked at her, then shook his head. “No.”
Jas grunted, a warning grunt, and Bikram straightened. “No, thanks. Bye.” He walked out the door, tromping across the grass to get to the front of the house.
Katrina made a face at Jas. “Does your brother dislike me? For something more than startling him?”
Jas went to the sink to wash his hands. His shirt and jeans were pristine, even though he’d been up a tree. His brother looked like a rugged farmer. Jas looked like a model on a shoot where he was playing a farmer. Both men were making those looks work for them.
“How could he hate you?”
“Uh, well, I said dislike, not hate. You think he hates me?”
He turned off the faucet. “He neither hates you nor dislikes you. He literally met you five seconds ago.”
That made sense, and she tried to shake off the vibe she’d gotten. A couple of times she’d asked Jas if his family would like to come for dinner, but he’d declined, so she hadn’t pressed, unwilling to violate his boundaries.
Has he told them I’m a terrible boss? Or friend? Or human?
Nope. Jas would never do that, he was far too steadfast and loyal.
She had enough things on her plate. She’d shelve Bikram’s odd attitude for now. She started unpacking the bags. “I saw you outside setting up the cameras.”
“Yes. Can you give me your phone? I’ll add the surveillance app to it.”
She handed him her phone and got to work putting the produce away, but not before admiring the lettuce. “So fresh.”
“Almost everything is locally grown.”
“When you told me all those years ago that you’d grown up on a farm, I pictured cows and horses, not peach orchards.”
“Prunes, too. Or plums, I mean. I don’t know why, we call them prunes whether they’re dried or not.”
She smacked her lips. “My favorites. I would have made you bring bushels back every summer.”
“I thought mangoes were your favorite fruit.”
“I have multiple faves. What’s your favorite?” She asked the question casually.
He considered that with great gravity, like she’d asked him to pick a favorite parent instead of a favorite fruit. “I should say peaches out of loyalty, but I very much like strawberries.”
She filed that tidbit away. Seriously, like a slow drip, getting stuff out of him. “Ooh, look.” She waved a jar at him. “Canned peaches.”
“We don’t lack for preserved peaches, for sure.” He held her phone out to her, his face expressionless. “I think you got a text.”
She navigated to her messages, and nearly dropped her phone.
Is it cold? Is the place nice? Is your hot bodyguard keeping your body warm?
Oh holy hell. Jia, to their group chat.
Her face flaming, she glanced up at Jas, but he’d turned away to put the rest of the groceries away. Normally she preferred doing that, but she was too mortified to say anything now.
Hot bodyguard. Oh, for crying out loud.
Her clumsy fingers managed to type one word, her cheeks aflame. Jia.
What? See the man without a shirt on and then get back to me.
Katrina narrowed her eyes at the screen. Rhiannon beat her to a response. When did you see Jas without a shirt on??
When I went to go get him last night. Answered the door shirtless. Hard not to whistle.
Katrina’s arm jerked, and she knocked something off the counter behin
d her. “I got it,” she said to Jas, breathless, but didn’t get it.
Rhiannon responded with a .
Katrina pursed her lips. She did not feel like rolling her eyes, she felt . . . jealous?
No, no way. Of Jia? No.
Jealous that Jia’s eyeballs saw him shirtless.
The place is very nice. I’ll call you after breakfast, Jia, for an update on #CafeBae. Hopefully that would keep her roommate from texting any more inappropriate things. She stuck the phone back in her pocket and faced Jas, who was putting the salt next to the sugar, even though everyone knew that the flour went next to the sugar.
She’d fix it later. The important thing right now was, had the text preview on her phone shown Jia’s whole message? “Ah, that was just Jia. You know her.” She did roll her eyes now. “Wild, silly Jia.” She couldn’t help it, her gaze darted to his wide chest. See the man without a shirt on and then get back to me.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. What?”
“You look flushed. Are you okay?”
She flushed harder. “Yes. I’m fine.”
He walked toward her, and she pressed back against the counter. He was so big and tall and masculine, and he smelled so good, like a combination of the outdoors and that cologne he used that she liked so much.
He crouched in front of her and then rose to his feet. “Your baguette, madam.”
She accepted the bread she’d knocked off the counter, her fingers digging into the soft dough. Maybe he hadn’t seen Jia’s text, or only read the first few words when the preview popped up. He wasn’t looking at her different or acting weird. She was the one acting weird.
She squeezed the bread harder. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
Standard response. She contemplated the ingredients Bikram had brought over and pulled out the flour and sugar Jas had put away and that would have to be rearranged anyway. There were strawberries and bananas and Nutella, as well as more savory fillings for Jas.
“I’ll make crepes.” That would eat up a lot of her time and delay her checking in on the internet. “It was kind of your brother to get us groceries.”
“Hmm.”
She suddenly hungered to fill the kitchen with words, like that might wipe out Jia’s untimely text. “This is such a lovely home.”
“I know it’s not what you’re used to.”
“Actually, when I woke up, it reminded me of the house I grew up in.” And my mother. Another pang. Now that she had flour, she’d feed the starter and think of the fond memories she held.
They lapsed into an easy silence as she made batter and cooked the crepes on the pan she found in the cupboard next to the stove. Behind her, she sensed movement and the sound of chopping. She almost told him to stop, that repetitive knife work was something she enjoyed because it calmed her, but it was possible he might need to work some energy off too. Besides, the two of them working together was also calming.
When the meal was ready, she placed a sprig of mint on her crepe and turned the plates around with a flourish. “Voilà, savory for you, sweet for me.”
“Thank you.” He accepted his plate and tipped his head to the round dining table, which he’d already set with silverware and coffee and orange juice. She followed him and sat in the chair he pulled out for her. They ate in silence for a moment.
“Good?” she asked, when he paused.
“Excellent.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I was hungrier than I thought. Must be the fresh air.”
She straightened up a little and smiled at him, warmth flowing through her at his enjoyment of the meal. “Good.”
“You seem . . .” he eyed her. “Fine.”
“I am, thanks.” Her tone was light, but she understood what he meant. She was doing well, jumpiness over spotting a strange man right outside her door aside.
She traced her finger around the green ivy encircling the white plates. The plates and utensils were as old and worn as the countertops and equally sturdy. “So you own this house.”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather doesn’t live here, though?”
“No, my grandfather has a bigger house, on the other end of the farm.”
“And the farm is . . .”
“Very large. Hundreds and hundreds of acres.”
“I definitely feel . . . far away from everyone.”
“In a bad way?”
“No. The internet, it has a way of making you feel like everyone in the world is in your living room. There’s no one here. I like it.” She smiled at him.
He polished off the last bite of his crepe. “Good. I’m glad you’re getting what you want.”
“Speaking of the internet though . . . Have you seen the hashtag yet? Are there any developments?”
He took a sip of his juice. “I checked. No one’s found out who you are.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else?”
“Isn’t that all you care about?”
She made a face. “You know I need more details.”
“Do you, though?”
If you look, then you can get on with the rest of your schedule. She pulled out her phone and opened the Twitter app. She clicked on the search button, but didn’t have to type in the CafeBae tag. It was still trending.
Her stomach sank. So much for someone or something else absorbing the internet’s attention.
She scrolled through, many of the tweets stuff she’d seen before. Becca the Witch’s original post had grown exponentially in likes and retweets. It took her a few minutes to discover what was responsible for the unflagging interest.
Ross.
His smile beamed out from his avatar, and he was as handsome as ever. His handle was RossAlwaysWins and she was glad, on the basis of that alone, that she hadn’t accepted his date invitation. The tweet after it cinched her certainty.
Haha, thought you were taking pictures. #CafeBae #itme
A layer of cold settled over her. This. Dick. “Did you see this? Ross, the guy I sat with, he revealed himself.” Her voice was dull. The sharp taste of fear came and went, but for the most part she was insulated by ice.
Jas’s growl would have surprised her if she weren’t so numb. It was so much louder and more ferocious than any grunt. “I did.”
“What the fuck?” She stared at Ross’s face, bewildered. “If he knew she was taking pictures, why didn’t he stop her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he know this was going to happen?” Ross’s tweet had been retweeted almost as many times as the original, and the numbers climbed as she watched.
“I don’t think anyone can predict what catches the internet’s attention.”
Katrina clicked on Ross’s profile and scrolled through his tweets, her ire growing as she read. His tweets were either retweets of other people virtually high-fiving him or more coy acknowledgments about him being the focus of the twittersphere. I didn’t realize I was internet famous til my mom told me, what a trip, haha, she read from one tweet, then clicked to the next. So #grateful for everyone who cares so much about our happiness. She looked to Jas. “Our? Who the hell is our?” She shot to her feet. “Is he implying that we actually went out? Or that it was the love match this . . . this Peeping Tina spun it as?”
“Seems like it.”
“This is bananas.” She paced and scrolled, and scrolled and paced, growing ever more agitated as she read.
She stopped when she got to a quote tweet. Did you really hook up with her?
And Ross’s gross, coy, winky acknowledgment. I don’t kiss and tell.
Katrina swallowed her bile, feeling vaguely violated. No, not vaguely. Actually, genuinely violated. “I don’t kiss and tell?” She shook her head. She’d been homeschooled for all of high school as she’d moved from modeling shoot to shoot, so she’d missed out on some experiences, but she imagined this w
as what it felt like to have the most popular guy in school tell everyone she’d gone all the way.
Only on a more massive, global scale. “Do you know what he’s implying? That we . . .” She dropped her voice. “Had sex.”
Jas’s nostrils flared. “Yeah. I know.”
“That’s disgusting. What kind of man implies something like that to hundreds of thousands of people?”
It was amazing how much she could hate someone who had seemed so benign. Your body knew not to zing. At least you didn’t go out with him. That’s something.
Jas shifted. “No good man.”
“We were only gone for a couple of minutes! Do these people know how sex even works? Have you ever had two-minute sex?” She bit her tongue as soon as she said the words. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
She swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, trying to sidestep from that intrusive question that placed Jas in the same world as sex. “This could have disappeared if he hadn’t revealed his identity. All these people will want to know who I am now, they’re already asking. He fed the beast.”
“You don’t know that.”
She didn’t hear him. “I was having a normal, innocent chat with a stranger. And he and this woman seem fine—possibly even thrilled—about this attention. And they don’t care that I feel . . .” Terrified. Violated. Exposed.
Furious.
She reached into her pocket, but the rock couldn’t cool her anger now. “It’s not fair.”
Jas came slowly to his feet and braced his hands on the back of a chair. “It’s not.”
“Aren’t you mad?”
“I am. I’m so mad for you.”
But his voice was monotone. His growl told her he was upset about this, but she wanted him to rage along with her. “I want to throw something.”
He picked up his mug, drained it, and then offered it to her.
She scowled. “I’m not breaking your mug.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. The loud crack as it smashed against the wall made her jump.
“The fuck, Jas?”
“It’s not china. Pretty sure my mom got this stuff from a thrift store. In 1998.” He offered her her empty plate. “Go on. Just one.”
