by Quinn, Cari
My heart knocked against my sternum. “What articles?”
“You were in Variety. They were talking about the best firms for public relations, and your name was listed.”
I blew out a slow breath. That wasn’t so bad.
“They also called you and Hunter the new ‘it’ couple.” And used air quotes, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, one sec.” She dragged Jus behind her to the table and opened her messenger bag. “I was in line at the drugstore and saw it. Can’t tell you the last time I bought a magazine I wasn’t in, but the article was pretty awesome.”
I curled my fingers around my purse strap. The newest edition of the magazine.
Oh, God. Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be awful. Please don’t be inflammatory.
She flipped out the magazine, spine broken, and already on the right page. “See?”
There was a picture of us splashed across two pages from the Love & Paws benefit. I was under the tree with Sammy, and Hunter was crouched in front of us with a sappy grin on his face. The caption under us read: This is how you create a power couple. Rock star + PR Princess = Magazine Royalty.
I was pretty sure the room wasn’t spinning.
Maybe it was me.
Maybe I should sit down.
“See? Can you do the same thing for me and Jus?”
“What?” I blinked up at her. Somehow I’d managed to fall into the chair at her dining room table. Better than on my face, I suppose.
“Read the article. They think you’ve got the magic touch for healthy relationships in Hollywood.”
I forced myself to breathe. The words swam into focus. According to the ever ubiquitous “sources”, I’d put out various fires and showed just how perfect a couple we could be. And perhaps my services would be better suited to romance than single clients. Obviously I had the magic touch.
Were the writers high?
Bethany was frothing at the mouth as she explained all the upcoming parties she had with Justin. And I slowly started to see the appeal.
Then I started to plan.
By the time I got up to leave, Justin and Bethany had an entire schedule of events that maximized their strengths as a couple and when they had to be apart. It was scary easy for me to juggle their calendars. I’d always been good at multi-tasking. It was why I was able to juggle so many clients.
They walked me to the door. Their Morkie puppies—rescues from the benefit last week, of course—scampered after us.
Bethany scooped up her little guy and buried her face in his hair. “It was meant to be from the moment we were in the same room with the dogs.”
“I’m happy for you, Bethany.” I scratched her teacup-sized terrier’s little head. “And you too, Cookie.”
Justin tucked his dog into his sweatshirt. She flipped and struggled until her little face peeked up from the zipper. “Thank you, Kennedy.”
“You’re welcome. Make sure you contact Courtney at Love & Paws. They’ll make sure you guys are in the next promo piece. Then I’ll have it forwarded to your social media pages. Good cause and good press for the both of you.”
You need it was the unsung phrase after that, but I didn’t need to burst any bubbles.
“Perfect. I’m going to tell everyone I know how amazing you are—especially with the couple stuff. Me and Jus have done nothing but ruin relationships in the past.”
“Yeah, our careers are important, but we need time together. I don’t want to lose her.” He wrapped his other arm around Bethany. “You really helped out a lot.”
I didn’t really want to like the kid, but I knew all too well how the press could turn situations and things said out of context into a nightmare for just about anyone. He didn’t seem like such a jerk now that I’d sat with them for an hour.
“Thanks. Have a good night, guys.” I took her stairs down to street level and looked back. They were still in the doorway, the perfect young couple inside a house perfect for a family of their size.
Bethany was a sweet kid, but she was the definition of high maintenance. Between the both of them it was probably going to be a disaster, but they certainly seemed happy.
I knew how easily the happy could turn to disaster, but maybe they’d be one of the lucky ones. And just like that, Hunter was back in my head. My skin actually buzzed at the thought of him. Especially that day in San Francisco.
I needed to get those memories back under control. I snapped on my Sirius channel and scanned through for anything to listen to. “Cathedrals” blared out of my speakers.
“Really?” I asked the radio.
Like it was going to answer me back. I tried to turn it off. Truly. My hand even reached to do so. Hell, I had controls on my steering wheel. But I couldn’t. I remembered the way he sang this song to the crowd. The moody start, the growling finish on his knees, and all the prowling movements in between.
Hunter was born for the stage.
His timing was flawless, and his animal-like grace was mesmerizing. Everything about him had been a seduction. And I’d fallen for it. An Everest-level fall, I might add.
The announcer on the channel came on after the song. “Last night, Hammered was in the BBC One studios and we got a hold of the performance. Their new single, ‘Crossing My Line’ been shooting up the charts. This is a stripped down acoustic version. Enjoy.”
I merged onto the highway, heading for Brentwood. The lyrics were rough with disillusionment and misery. Was this song about her?
About Victoria?
I curled my fingers tighter around my steering wheel. I’d been driving myself mad thinking about the ways that she’d hurt him. It was hard enough to walk away from him after a week. I couldn’t imagine a year.
If I cared so much now, I’d be doubly screwed after a few months.
It was much better to cut it off now. I wouldn’t allow myself to be like my mother. I’d watched her light up like a Christmas tree when my father came to visit. Smiles and hope shining in her eyes. All too often he’d call at the last minute. “Can’t make it, Rhi. You understand, right?”
He didn’t see her afterward.
He didn’t hear her crying in the deepest, darkest part of the night once her shift was over. Three in the morning, I’d find her curled into her bed, stage makeup still on, smearing her pillow and cheeks.
He was never there to deal with her depression.
I swore I’d never let a man put me second. And there was no way I’d let Hunter Jordan be the one to do it. No matter how delicious he sounded in my high-end speakers. No matter how my body reacted to his voice.
A text chime trilled over the song and I checked my dash for the text. I tapped a button and my phone read it aloud.
New client cancelled. Indie and Lila had to reschedule. Pick up some wine, sweetie—you have a free night.
I shouldn’t be happy that my evening fell apart, but the idea of me and Sammy on my couch with some Chinese delivery sounded blissful. I took the next exit and headed for my house.
Now if I could just stop thinking about Hunter for one night, maybe I’d even enjoy it.
Twenty-Nine
Hunter
“If she murders me, I expect a very nice eulogy from you and your entire band.”
“She’s not going to murder you.” I slid open the van door.
“Oh, no? I just cancelled her evening so you could start the wooing you should have been doing two weeks ago.” Carter stood in the doorway to Kenny’s house, his arms crossed. Sammy was running circles around me and Tristan as we unloaded groceries and supplies. Tristan needed all his own cookware too. Damn prima donna.
I snapped my fingers for Sammy and he followed us inside. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I needed her to miss me first, or this wasn’t going to work.”
“Another week and she’d have been dating,” Carter muttered. “All right, I’m leaving. I don’t want to be blamed for this until tomorrow.”
“Wimp.”<
br />
Carter nodded. “Definitely.” He patted Sammy on the head. “Good luck. Don’t burn down the house,” he said and closed the door behind him.
“I knew it. If I’d just waited another week, I could have…” Tristan trailed off as I dumped his plastic bin on her kitchen island with a crash.
“Excuse me?”
“What? You’re the one who told me your brother said bros before hos was archaic high school bullshit.”
“A—that would only apply if we were broken up. We are not.”
“Really? Did Kennedy get the memo?”
I unpacked his rondeau, utensils, and finally his zippered case of knives. I threw them from hand to hand. “Pardon?”
“Don’t mess with my knives,” Tristan warned.
“Don’t mess with my girl.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Tristan snatched the case out of the air. “On my night off, no less.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“Well, prepare to work tonight, son. We’re making risotto.”
He’d showed me how to make it once, and it had been a disaster. I kinda sucked at standing in one spot for forty minutes stirring, but it was time to bring out my A game.
She was worth it, and then some.
I opened up packages from the butcher and the fishmonger we’d stopped at earlier. Between the salmon, scallops, and filet mignon, we had enough here for us and for the ultimate meal to show a girl she was worth the time.
The only way I was going to prove to Kenny that she was the first thought in my head when I opened my eyes and the last thought of my night was to do it by degrees. The last two weeks had been hell.
Doing promo overseas had helped.
I was pretty sure Indie had mandated that I had to have a chaperone for all things that included Bats. And it was working so far. Wyatt kept me sane with workouts suited for an MMA fighter in training. It helped keep my aggression down, but I hadn’t worked up the right way to go about talking to Bats.
The fact that he didn’t want to talk to me either didn’t really help our situation. At this point, we were living in a stalemate of epic proportions. On the stage, we were brothers. Off…well, I didn’t know what to call us.
Between my withdrawal from days away from Kenny, and my friendship with Bats circling the drain, I was a walking open wound. Which is why the moment I touched down in LAX, I’d been on the phone with Tristan.
Noah had given me a deluge of good ideas. Operation: Wooing Kenny had commenced with very little fanfare. Luckily, Carter was on my side. I wasn’t sure how I’d get near her if I didn’t have an inside man.
But instead of looking for trouble, I unloaded the dishes, candles, and tablecloth that I’d packed with Tristan’s goodies.
While my friend started the risotto, I took direction on mushrooms and seasonings. I was his sous chef—aka his bitch. I listened for any sign of Kenny as I mixed, sautéed, chopped, and washed every freaking pot Tristan used.
Sammy barked as my hands were submerged in soapy water. She came in with her keys in hand. Her hair was darker and more dramatic, but just as fist-worthy. Her lush mouth was set in a thin line.
“You’re lucky Carter texted me. I almost called the cops.”
Remy? I bit my tongue before I could say his name. That’s not what this was about. My petty jealousies needed to be boxed and shoved under a bed located roughly in Timbuktu.
“Surprise.” I dried my hands and arms.
“Hi, beautiful,” Tristan purred.
I cut a glance to him, but the shit didn’t seem to care. He kept on smoldering at her like a goddamn cat in heat. Whore that he was.
I tucked the towel into my back pocket. “We thought we’d cook for you.”
She gnawed on her lower lip. I’d never wanted to be a little piece of flesh in my life until just then. I remembered when she bit on me like that. The little nips, the sweet swipe of her tongue, the sigh of her breath just as she kissed me.
God, I missed her.
She dropped her briefcase in a chair next to the door and crouched down for the dog. Sammy whined and licked her face as she poured affection on him. When he was satisfied, he wandered back over to us, looking for scraps.
She crossed her arms over her middle. “It smells divine.”
“I stole one of your bottles of white,” Tristan said and licked off a bit of cream sauce from his thumb.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Tristan went back to stirring. “If you mean risotto, then yes.”
She groaned.
Before I did something stupid, like push her up against the wall and hear that purr in my ear as I attacked her neck, I took out my frustrations on a stack of pots.
“So, why exactly are you guys in my house?”
Tristan wiped his hands on his towel. “We’re cooking you a truly stupendous meal, darlin’.”
“I see that. How did you convince Carter to let you in? Mind you, your answer will decide just how much punishment I’ll inflict on him.”
I turned around at the sink, suds dissolving around my wrists. Christ, she was stunning. She’d shucked her jacket, leaving her creamy shoulders bare. Her dress was completely modest, and still I wanted to blindfold Tristan. Especially since he couldn’t quite stop himself from checking her out every three minutes.
Asshole was going to burn the rice, then I was going to have to beat him unconscious.
“Carter decided that this idiot needed to further his wooing skills. I aim to complete that particular character flaw with filet mignon crostini with a lovely rosemary pesto, and salmon and shiitake mushrooms over risotto.”
“All right. I’ll let you stay until you’re done.” She poured a glass of the wine that Tris had opened. “It’s only polite.”
“That’s what I like about her, Jordan. She’s a class act.”
“Watch it,” I growled.
“What? I’m being completely serious.” His smirky mouth lifted at the corner. “I was just telling my boy here that I’d chase you myself.”
“You’d be chasing your own tail, Mr. Eves.”
“Tristan, please. If I’ve used your cooktop—not bad for a home set-up, by the way—then the least we can do is use first names.”
“The chef grade stove and oven was here when I moved in.”
Tristan lifted his own glass. “Cheers to that.”
She lifted her glass and sipped, but her gaze strayed to me.
My throat went dry and I turned back to my work. I could feel her eyes on my back and I was very thankful I had an apron on as well. I missed touching her, and I definitely missed curling her under me in the night. Even just to wrap myself around her. She fit perfectly against me. I’d never been the guy to want a woman wrapped around me during sleep.
At least until Kenny.
Now, it didn’t matter what size my bed was, it was too empty without her.
“I don’t think you can scrub steel off, but you’re giving it a try.”
“What?”
Tristan nodded to the saucepan I was trying to put a hole in.
“Right.” I rinsed it and shut off the water.
“Think you can manage to sear the filet?”
“Yes.” I definitely needed manual tasks. They required concentration and me not staring at the curve of Kenny’s neck and collarbone. And it certainly would deter me from looking for the smattering of freckles at her nape.
I’d counted them. Fourteen of them in a cinnamon color.
I turned the heat on the cast iron skillet to get it ready and seasoned the meat. All the while, Kenny walked around the kitchen, the click of her heels making me insane.
I was supposed to be charming, not a mute.
Instead, she and Tristan were chatting amicably.
Not exactly the best first impression after two weeks. Growling at one of my closest friends for talking to my girl would not help my cause.
“Can I see how you make the risotto?” she asked.
> “I was supposed to be teaching this one, but he doesn’t have the patience to stand and stir it for the time it requires.”
“I have patience when it counts,” I muttered.
“I hope so for her sake,” Tristan said with a smirk.
Kenny grinned around the lip of her glass. She asked questions and hovered between us at the stove. Rosemary and garlic didn’t have anything on Kenny’s fresh scent. It wasn’t the usual orange blossoms I was used to—what I craved.
Today she was more of a creamy honey. I wanted to step closer to her, drag in the flavor like a good wine. Instead, I checked the meat with a small digital thermometer and took it off the stove to rest.
Her attention slid to me. “Smells wonderful.”
I met her gaze. “Yes, it does.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Nope, this is all for you,” I said.
“You didn’t need to do this, Hunter.”
“I did.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” she said quietly.
“It will.”
She frowned over her glass, but didn’t make another comment.
It had to. I would just have to make every single thing on my list count.
Thirty
Kennedy
Having two men in my small kitchen was overwhelming in the best of circumstances, but having it include Hunter out of the blue was hell on my emotions.
Excitement, awareness, and being off-balance notwithstanding, it was the relief that killed me.
That he hadn’t forgotten me.
Forgotten us.
His shoulders were tight, and his eyes wary as he moved in my space. Tristan was the exact opposite. He was all smiles and easy grace at the stove. He managed three different pans, all the while stirring the risotto.
His mohawk was tipped in lavender and highlighter yellow, his chef jacket a deep plum over jeans and steel-toed boots. Not like any chef I’d ever met, but the quirks seemed to work for him.
He and Hunter had an odd ballet to how they worked together. They never got in each other’s way, and they didn’t even have to talk. Though they did that too—mostly with insults.
