She grabbed two bags and lugged them to the curb, leaving behind several others and a cooler in case the refrigerator wasn’t big enough for all the food she’d purchased. She was all prepped to walk in and focus one hundred percent of her energy on cooking. Maybe it would keep her mind off the fact that it was going to be her and Beau all alone for a day and a half on that bus.
Beau had been staying at his fishing cabin in the Florida Keys, so the band had decided that he would swing by and get her in Tennessee on his way north. Then they’d meet up with the rest of the band in New York to play their first show of the tour. After that, there would be ten more shows with almost nonstop travel back down the East Coast. In spite of constantly reminding herself this was just work, she couldn’t suppress the feeling that she was embarking on a great adventure.
The door folded open and Beau came down the steps to meet her. His hair glowed like a burnished halo over his head, but the grin was all devil. She resisted the urge to swipe a hand over her mouth to check for drool.
“Hey there, girl. Looks like you got a lot of clothes there for just two weeks. I woulda never took you for that type.”
His puzzled gaze traveled over her jeans and polo shirt and she tried not to cringe. “Your first instinct was dead-on. I’m not exactly what you’d call a fashion plate.
Most of this stuff is cookware, then some staples for the next few days. It’s heavy, so be careful,” she warned as he bent low.
He hoisted up one of the largest boxes without even a grimace. His biceps bulged and she had to look away for fear of grabbing hold of one and squeezing. This nonsense had to stop before it started. He was so far out of her league it was as if they weren’t even playing the same sport.
Her gaze returned to him just the same, and she watched as he boarded the bus. She grabbed a bag and followed. She was so taken with his rear twitching as he walked, she wasn’t watching where she was going. A terrifying, one-armed, windmilling second later, she was sprawled out over the steps, on top of a bag that had both sounded and felt suspiciously like a carton of eggs.
“What the— Are you okay?”
She craned her neck up to see that Beau had abandoned his box and was bent over her, his face tight with concern. If she had three wishes, she would have used one in a heartbeat to have a do-over of the previous ten seconds. Her knees throbbed where they’d connected with the metal steps and her face burned in abject humiliation.
“Damn it, Gigi, answer me. Did you break something?” “My eggs,” she muttered miserably.
“Your eggs? You mean…” His eyes went a little wide as he struggled to make sense of her words.
“No! I don’t even—no. Like, eggs. From chickens.”
He stared at her for a long second and then flashed his dimples. “Well, that’s all right then. We can get more of those at the store. Come on, let me help you up.”
She pushed herself onto her knees and winced. Beau took her elbow and guided her to her feet. Sparing a glance at her ruined shirtfront, she groaned. Judging by the carnage, she’d managed to land on the entire dozen. Gloppy whites mixed with runny yolks, saturating her top.
Beau stared at her chest intently until she cleared her throat. “Um, I gotta change.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking, from this angle it kind of looks like one of those abstract, artsy-fartsy paintings.”
She laughed in spite of her embarrassment. “If you’re nice, I’ll frame it for you.” “I’m always nice.”
His voice had gone low and ran over her like an intimate caress. She stared up into his true-blue eyes and tried to think of a response. Jesus, he was beautiful.
He stepped back and released her arm abruptly. “Besides, usually I get panties thrown at me, so this will be an interesting change of pace.”
“I bet.”
“Come on, let me show you to the bathroom. There’s clean washcloths under the sink. You can throw on one of my t-shirts for the time being until you get your stuff unpacked. I’m going to finish loading the bus then clean up this mess.”
“I can clean it,” she protested. She’d already caused enough trouble and it was only her first day.
“Just get washed up. You’ll have plenty to do with unpacking all this stuff and making me a gourmet meal tonight.”
The eggs had started to coagulate and were sticking to her stomach so she nodded then followed him into a bedroom. He rifled through the drawers and tossed her a shirt. He pointed to the bathroom then headed out to get the rest of her bags.
“I’m really sorry for the inconvenience, Beau.”
“It’s not your fault, girl,” he drawled, a wicked light blazing in his eyes. “Women tend to get wet when I’m around.” He stepped off the bus, but his low chuckle trailed behind him.
She didn’t respond, but closed the bathroom door with a snap. As she turned toward the shower, she got a glance of herself in the mirror. Her hair had started falling from its clip and her shirt looked as if she’d been on the losing end of a paintball war. The worst thing, though, was the goofy grin that wreathed her face.
Beau “Fiddly” Trudeau was trouble. Big trouble.
Two hours later, ensconced in a cozy Buddy Holly shirt, Gigi was putting the last of the food away. There wasn’t enough space for all the cooking paraphernalia she’d brought, so some had spilled into the living room, but at least it was put away.
She glanced at her watch and realized with a start that it was almost four o’clock. She’d have to prep dinner before unpacking her clothes, otherwise she’d be behind. That, and she’d have to give Beau his t-shirt back. She lifted the corner and sniffed it again for the dozenth time. It was freshly laundered, but still had a hint of something— sandalwood maybe?—that reminded her of its owner.
Beau was holed up in his bedroom writing music. He’d been at it for over an hour now but very little sound was coming from the room. He’d explained that the band was under pressure to release another album quickly, hoping to capitalize on their newfound popularity. He didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about the task, but she was thrilled. After only a few short hours in his presence, a break from the incessant and almost palpable sexuality rolling off him was exactly what she needed to regain her focus.
By the time he barged out awhile later, supper was in full swing. She had her earphones on and had been singing along to an old Drifters song while she stirred the creamed corn.
“Is that bread?” he shouted.
She plucked the buds from her ears and smiled. “Yep. Almost ready too. Another ten minutes. You hungry?”
“Hell yeah. I’m always hungry, so you never need to ask. If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“How’s it going with the writing?”
“Slow. It’s going real slow. I’m feeling sort of blocked lately, but it’ll turn around.” He flicked a glance to the iPod she’d laid on the countertop. “What’re you listening to?”
She gave a sheepish shrug. “Oldies. I love doo-wop.”
He grinned. “Me too. Feel-good music. Makes you think it would’ve been great to live in the fifties. What else do you listen to?”
“Classical most of the time. I also like old-school rap though.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Okay, now that’s a wild mix of styles.”
His teeth were white and strong against his tan skin and she wondered what it would be like to have them on her shoulder…or thigh. She squeezed her legs together at the sudden warmth pooling between them. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I usually like to listen to what I play, so mostly I choose rock music, or country when I’m back home. There’s a time and place for almost every type of music though.”
She nodded. “I agree. You know, after I got the job I checked you guys out on YouTube. You sound really great.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You never heard us before that? Even when you contacted Quinn about the job?”
“Quinn actually called me after w
e met at that event. I wasn’t really sure who— I mean, maybe I’d heard you guys on the radio, but—”
He cut her stammering off with a wave of his hand. “It’s okay, no need to explain.
Just lets me know that our global domination isn’t complete yet.”
“Want to play me a song while we wait for the bread? I’d love to hear you play.” He picked up the violin he’d laid on the table. “Sure. What do you want to hear?” “What can you play?” she countered.
He looked thoughtful for a second before he answered matter-of-factly, “Just about anything.”
“Anything?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugged. “If I’ve heard it, I can play it.”
“Beethoven Violin Concerto,” she demanded. Her heart skittered as he raised the instrument to his chin and gave her a wink.
His eyes drifted shut as the first clear notes rang out. The music poured from him, like rays from the sun, and she basked in the light. She took a step toward him, drawn inexorably closer, before she caught herself and stopped. Luckily he was too caught up to notice.
His brow wrinkled, not in concentration, but with emotion as he played. She stood and watched, afraid to make a sound and break the spell he was weaving, but an all- too-short minute later, his eyes snapped open and he brought the piece to a premature close.
“That one?” he asked with a grin.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, she was so moved by the beauty of the moment…the beauty of the man. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but nodded vigorously. Then promptly burst into tears.
“Holy sh— I’m so sorry, baby girl.” His panicked tone almost made her grin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He moved closer and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
She took a shuddering breath and beamed at him through the veil of tears. “It’s okay. It’s a good cry. I love that piece. Do you know the whole thing?”
He nodded.
“Amazing. You’re…magic, Beau. That is such a talent, jeez, do you know what people would give for a talent like that?”
A ruddy flush stained his cheekbones. She’d embarrassed him, she realized with delight. Strange, a guy with so much swagger getting all flustered over a few tears and a compliment.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he muttered.
“I did, so much. Did you always know this is what you were meant to do?” she asked.
The confidence he typically wore like a red cape was still nowhere to be seen as he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I used to want to be a doctor, but I always had a head for music. Not much else, seemed like. I had some…trouble reading when I was young.”
He looked away for a moment before lifting his chin and returning his gaze to hers. “Music was all so clear in my head from listening, I didn’t need to read it. My mama suggested lessons. It was a great escape. By the time I learned how to manage my dyslexia, the violin had me, strung tight. I had no choice. This isn’t what I do. It’s what I am, you know?”
She did know. That was how she felt in the kitchen. It gave her a sense of belonging and fullness she’d never felt anywhere else.
Beau folded his arms then stepped back. Gigi got the sense that he’d said more than he’d intended.
“Now, if you’re all done crying, maybe we can talk about that unbelievable smell.
Two questions. What’re you making, and is it almost ready?”
Change of subject to a safe, impersonal topic. Perfect. She didn’t want to like this guy any more than she already did. “Baked-fried chicken, creamed corn and asparagus tips.”
He squinted at her suspiciously. “Is it baked or fried?”
“It’s baked,” she continued hurriedly over his groan, “but I swear you’d never know it! In fact, if you’re not licking your fingers afterward, you can have anything you want tomorrow night.” Her cheeks burned as his gaze narrowed and flickered to her mouth.
“To eat, I mean,” she sputtered. Argh, not better. “For dinner.”
A grin split his face and she punched him lightly in the arm. “Stop trying to fluster me, Mr. Trudeau. It’s impolite.”
“Yes ma’am. And I will certainly take you up on that offer. Whichever way you meant it.” He chuckled and brushed past her to the kitchen.
At least the unbearable tension had been broken. The last thing she needed was to get all nutty over a man now. Especially one who likely wouldn’t give a girl like her the time of day.
It’d be a whole lot easier to manage if he’d stop looking at her like that though.
Chapter 3
The second Beau sank his teeth into the crunchy coating, he knew he’d lost the bet he’d made with Gigi. The flavor exploded in his mouth and he groaned. “Damn, girl, that’s some good chicken.”
“Thanks. It’s way healthier than fried, but still tastes like the South. Plus, it’s got a nice subtle heat that sneaks up on you at the end.”
Funny, he’d just been thinking exactly the same thing about her. She still wore his shirt and he marveled at how different it made her look. It was long on her, mid-thigh, but clung to her full, round breasts in the sexiest way.
Originally, he’d thought her frumpy, but now he wondered if it was just the clothes. Maybe he’d mistaken modesty for frumpery, or maybe she just didn’t know how to dress her curves. Whatever the reason, with just the minor adjustment in wardrobe, he’d become acutely aware that this pistol was definitely loaded.
He realized he was staring and tore his gaze away to pour them both a refill of sweet tea. She still hadn’t taken a bite of her food and seemed to be waiting expectantly. He realized she wanted him to keep eating, to try everything before she ate. He was happy to oblige as he forked down a mouthful of sweet creamy corn. He gave her a thumbs-up as he chewed and she clapped her hands, delighted by his approval.
“I knew you’d like it.”
“Who wouldn’t like it? You’re an amazing cook.”
He flicked out his tongue to capture a stray crumb off his thumb, then sucked the tip into his mouth.
Gigi’s wide eyes were locked on him and he could have sworn the pulse in her neck leapt.
Well hot damn.
“You were right, girl. You got me licking my fingers. So I guess that means I don’t get to have what I want tomorrow night, huh?”
He pinned her with his gaze and let the question sit without backing down from the innuendo or breaking the tension with a joke. In the short time they’d spent together, his initial curiosity about her had morphed into want. Not that knee-jerk, thoughtless want where basic needs met a warm, willing body and made for instant but fleeting chemistry. More like that low pull inside, the taffy-like thread that kept his thoughts tethered to her whether she was right in front of him or not. The kind of want that had him wondering how soft the skin on her nape was, or if he gripped her round hips real tight while he slid his cock deep if he would bruise the soft, white skin.
It had been a very long time since he’d been that compelled by a woman. In fact, he was hard-pressed to recall the last time. Might as well test the waters. Quinn would probably be pissed at him for hitting on her chef, but too bad. He’d just have to do it before she got there.
Gigi still hadn’t answered his loaded question, despite her mouth opening and closing a few times. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ll still make you something. What would you like?”
Her voice had gone reedy and she looked almost panicked. That was good. She was definitely aware of him, and was starting to get that maybe he wasn’t just teasing her. Her reaction was frigging adorable and he bit back a smile. Maybe take it a little slower, though, so as not to scare her off. There was no rush. He had two weeks. Two weeks to convince Gigi to sleep with him.
Or one day to convince her and thirteen days to have her over and over again. His cock twitched in a tacit vote for option B.
He set down his knife and fork and stood, moving slowly around the table. He held out a hand and she slipped hers into it.
As he drew her up, she gasped as their bodies brushed.
“I’d like to kiss the cook. Is that okay, Gigi?” he asked as he tipped his head a fraction closer to hers.
Her huge gray eyes stormed up at him as she lifted a trembling hand to her neck. “I’ve never been kissed,” she blurted, then slapped a palm over her mouth.
His brain went dead for a moment as her words sank in like the steely claws of a hammer. “Wait, what?”
She just shook her head, eyes wide with mortification.
He struggled for something to say as the blood rushed back to his head and his two-week plan curled up and died. “It’s, uh, perfectly…normal. I guess…ah fuck.”
“You don’t have to lie,” she said, sinking back into her chair. She slumped forward and stared at the untouched plate in front of her. “I know I’m a total freak.”
She looked so miserable, he put aside his disappointment and scrambled for something to say that might make her feel better.
“Hey, at least you’re not sleeping with every guy in town. You’re looking for that special someone and that’s admirable. I’m sure there are plenty of people your age—”
“Stop. I know there aren’t, I’m not an idiot. I watch Sex and the City. And for your information, it’s not that I’m, like, waiting for marriage or anything. I never set out to save it for true love. I just haven’t had time.”
Okay, now that was weird. “It doesn’t take all that much time to kiss someone, Gigi.”
“I mean all of it. Kissing, petting, having sex. Not even just the acts themselves, but the time to waste daydreaming about some boy or falling in and out of puppy love. No time for drama. No time for anything, really.”
“Why not?”
“I had to work. My dad died when I was thirteen. My mom had the three of us kids to care for and not enough money to do it. I was the oldest.”
It was the tone that hit him, right in the gut. Matter-of-fact, not bitter or resentful or even sad. Just the way things were. Her face was a mask of indifference, but Beau knew the pain had to be right below the surface. “I’m so sorry, Gigi.”
Hard Sell: A Bad-Boy, Rock Star Romance Page 39
