Zeke whistled. “You sure you want that prick on stage with you?”
“He’s a good guy.”
“Dude, he busted one of my crowns.”
He twirled his pen between his fingers. “You hooked up with the girl he was with.”
“I can’t help it if she has taste and went for the more charming, much more handsome one of us.”
“And this is why you are hated throughout the land, son.”
“More like loved, my friend. But this isn’t about me and the ladies. Well, it could be if Lindz will have me.”
“She already told you to buzz off.”
Zeke sighed heavily. “I could change her mind.”
“Or end up wearing one of her stilettos as an accessory.”
“Eh, I only look good in magenta, not the pale pinks.”
Logan shook his head with a laugh. “Christ, I missed you man.”
“I don’t remember the last time I heard you laugh, Lo.”
“It’s been too long. But you should see this shitty little barn, Z. It’s just like when we played in Houston for that month to make enough to get back to Los Angeles.”
“Geeze that was a dive. Man, are you cha-chaing down memory lane. How many whiskies have you had?”
“Just one.” The tear of paper on the other end of the phone made him smile. Zeke was undoubtedly peeling his beer label off the bottle. It was a good sound. A familiar sound.
One that he hadn’t realized he missed. He and Zeke had lived out of each others pockets for the better part of fifteen years. Even ten days apart and it felt like a millennium.
Most of the ten had also been foggy as shit.
“I’ll be there by morning and I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks, Z.”
“Anytime.”
The line went dead and Logan fished out his cell. The mountains were crap for cell service, but good enough for blasting off a few texts. Charlie, his manager, would have to do something besides wine and dine whatever girlfriend was with him in Paris.
He needed contact numbers and quick. With songs filling his head, he grabbed his tablet off the piano and scrolled through his playlist on both streaming media and his thousands of songs.
From the obscure, to the new, he created a setlist that covered Dylan with Otis Redding, Bruce and Miranda Lambert, Bon Jovi with Maroon 5.
All the songs that would stir a crowd.
He’d make it work.
Like he always did.
Four hours later, he had a half dozen responses from people that were willing to come up for rehearsals and some that could come up the day of the festival. He made a tentative schedule and when his tablet let him know that his battery was beyond low, he plugged in and wandered into the kitchen.
It was well past eight and twilight was pulling the shade on the sun for the day. The sky was a wash of blood red and hazy pink. Another hot one would be upon them tomorrow.
He poured another two fingers of whisky and opened the fridge. A sticky note explained his two meals of choice. He went with the marinated chicken and pulled a pan out. Though he was a mediocre chef at best, at least he could cook chicken.
His phone winked on, and an unknown email popped up on his notifications. He set the pan to heat and opened the email. His gut clenched at the name.
Isabella Grace.
She wanted to talk and left her mobile. Taking a chance, he dialed a number for the second time in the same day. It was a banner day for old school communication.
He knew it was a fifty-fifty shot of her answering since his home line would come up blocked. And sure enough, she declined the first try. Hoping she’d be curious enough to wonder if the same number called her back, he tried again.
“Isabella Grace,” she answered briskly.
“Good evening, Mz. Grace, have you been vetoed in the most recent town meeting?”
“You know very well that I was vetoed, Mr. King.”
Her crisp tone was all librarian crisp and shouldn’t give him a hard on, and yet his jeans were significantly tighter. He looked down at his zipper. Traitor.
When the blood swelled from semi to uncomfortable, he bit back a sigh. “I wasn’t there.”
“I’m sure your spies have checked in.”
“You give me a helluva lot more credit than I deserve.” The fact that he was expecting a call from Sharon that night or in the morning didn’t need to be shared.
“Hardly.”
“How about you come up to the house and I’ll show you the plans I have so far?” When she didn’t answer, he tried again. “Izzy?”
“You want me to come there?”
“Yeah.” He looked into the marinade. “I have two chicken breasts, a garden salad, and a bottle of Riesling.”
“I—”
“Have you eaten?”
She cleared her throat. “No, I didn’t have time.”
“Then come here and I’ll cook for you.”
“Why?”
Suspicious woman. Smart woman, but suspicious nonetheless. “Because if we talk this out over a bottle of wine, then maybe we won’t snipe at each other.”
“Are you sure me coming there is a good idea?”
He snapped off the burner. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, don’t worry.” Her indrawn breath made him smile. Her shoulders and spine had probably just straightened into a perfect T-square. “I’ll be on my best behavior or are you more worried about your own?”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He tossed his phone down on the breakfast bar and pulled out salad fixings and a sweet potato that would go with the teriyaki marinade. Fifteen minutes later he had the potato sliced and in the microwave. Normally he’d do the oven, but that would take almost an hour.
With the salad fixings back in the fridge to chill, he took a minute to finish off his whisky before putting the glass in the dishwasher. He turned the corner and hit the stairs two at a time to his bedroom. Showering would take too long, so he washed up, changed his shirt, and exchanged jeans for roomy cargo shorts that might hide his involuntary reaction to her husky voice.
He caught the flash of headlights in the pitch dark of his road. Hoping it was Izzy and not a reporter, he went back downstairs and braced himself at the intercom in the foyer.
“If you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, I only like Thin Mints.”
“Samoas is the correct answer. Open the gate.”
Logan grinned and gave her access. Man, he could get used to the buzz under his skin if he wasn’t careful. The pop and ting of gravel signaled her arrival. She parked next to his truck and gingerly picked her way to his walkway in a pair of heels that were never meant for his kind of driveway.
She was wearing another dress, this one a wild print in blues and golds that was anything but calming. It was as vibrant as the woman that wore the hell out of it. Those legs should be illegal. Her hair was pinned back and her eyes were softer, more natural. As she came up the stairs, he was thankful for the cargos.
He really should have thought his invite through. She was holding a bottle and thrust it into his belly as she sauntered by with a wildly dark flower scent in her wake. He rubbed his ribs. “C’mon in.”
He closed the door and looked down at the ten dollar bottle of Moscato in his hands. “This will go great with the chicken.”
“I know you said you had a bottle of Riesling, but I like sweet instead of dry,” she called from the kitchen.
He followed her in. “We can have both.”
She trailed her fingers along the granite edge of his kitchen island, then to the built-in bar that framed out the end of the kitchen cabinets. “Not on your life.”
“Worried, Izzy?”
“Hardly.” She curled her fingers around two wine glasses. “May I?”
“Now you’re asking for permission?”
She grinned over her shoulder and slid the glasses free. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“Thanks.” He looked around at
all the wood. He took for granted how wide open the space was. The back of his house was a wall of windows blacked out with the inky darkness of the woods that framed his property.
The windows were tinted against the intruding eye of lenses, but they still found a way to get pictures when they really wanted one. Tonight, he hoped they would wander off.
Logan opened the wine and took her glass to fill, keeping one for himself. He took a sip and smiled at the crisp pear notes. Sometimes cheap wine was just what you needed after a long day. “It’s good.”
She lifted the glass and took a long, slow swallow, her topaz eyes sharp and intelligent above the rim. “You’re bringing me unending pain, Logan King,” she said into the glass. She took another sip, then lowered the glass to the counter.
He skirted the edge, careful not to touch her. Not even to come into her oxygen space. If he wrote—when he wrote—a song about her, he already knew the title. Temptation. “I seriously doubt that.” He turned on the oven to preheat, then lit the gas burner to heat the pan. He pulled out the salad fixings. “How are you with a knife?”
She washed her hands, then moved to the cutting board. “Sous chef of champions.”
“My kinda girl.”
Knife in hand, she started dicing the heirloom tomatoes he’d left out. “Why am I here?”
“We’re going to be working pretty closely for the next few days. I figured we could get back on even ground.”
She scooped the red and yellow tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce. With effortless skill, she hacked off the crunchy skin of the red onion until its hearty scent filled the space. “Even ground includes chicken and a telephoto lens?”
He sighed. “They’re still out there, huh?”
“They didn’t exactly play the incognito card. Especially when a guy with improbable black hair jumped in front of my car as I was coming up your street.”
“Fucking hell.” He gripped the counter for a count of five, then blew out a breath. The more press, the more chances that she’d show her face sooner.
There was no changing the situation, and in turn there was no way he was going to let that woman ruin the evening. He set the chicken breasts into the pan. The hiss of meat on cast iron filled the silence as she chopped. He finished his glass of wine and went for another.
“I’m not sure how you stop yourself from hitting them with your truck.”
He choked on his sip. “Jail time.”
She looked up from her slicing with a half grin. “Bet you’d be just as famous behind bars.”
At least the reaming he got in jail would be honest. Between the concert promoters, fanclub responsibilities, and reporters he lost track of the different flavors of lube. “I look good in orange, actually.”
Her grin slid into a wide smile that chipped away at his resolve. Asking her here had not been one of his finer moves, especially if he was trying to keep it platonic.
She fanned slices of onion over the top of the spinach and leafy green mix. “No other veggies?”
“No. I need to go to the store.”
“Like you go yourself.”
“Mrs. Nelson knows I like salad stuff.” He patted his stomach. “Not as easy to keep the gut at bay these days.” He glanced at his watch and turned back to the chicken, flipping them to sear the other side.
When he turned back around, her glass was at her mouth again and her topaz eyes were on him.
“What?”
She put her glass down. “Not sure how I started off the day with a Pop Tart and ended it with wine and one of the richest men in the northern hemisphere cooking me chicken.”
“I’m just a guy, Izzy.”
She made a low humming sound and took the salad bowl to the fridge. She peeked around the door. “Having kabobs on the grill tomorrow, huh?”
“Angling for an invite?”
She tucked the salad bowl on a shelf and shut the door. “Nope. Two dinners and I usually end up on at least third base.”
“Son of a bitch.”
She shrugged. “You already said there would be no sex and I’ve said the same. We’re just two people working, right?” She arched a brow and picked up her wine glass again before wandering off into his living room.
He stared up at the ceiling. Big mistake to invite her over.
Huge.
After he checked the chicken he loaded the pan into the oven to finish cooking. He set the timer on his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. Too keyed up to entertain without a little liquid encouragement, he opened his own bottle of wine and brought both bottles to the living room. She wasn’t there.
The rolling hiss of a needle on vinyl lured him into his music room. She was sitting cross legged with her dress pooling around her on his purple herringbone rug. The sad strains of Gary Allan’s latest soared out of his hidden speakers. The rich layer of organ keys and sandpaper voice melded with a guitar that spoke to him on a level that pop music never would.
All of them had their place, but Izzy had chosen the perfect soundtrack for the heavy night. She looked over at him. “Not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this room, or a wall of records.” She nodded to the unending bookcases filled with vinyl, both new and old.
He sat down beside her. “Nothing quite sounds the same as a record.”
She closed her eyes. “That hiss and pop of the needle is pure magic.”
It took everything inside of him to sit there and not lean over because, God, he wanted to taste the wine on her lips and tongue. Especially her tongue. Because Izzy was long, slow kisses with unending tongue—in so many places.
He pulled the little box player away from her bare foot. He lifted the needle and skipped to the third to last song.
Her heavily lashed eyes fluttered open. She lifted her glass. “You wouldn’t be trying to seduce me would you, Logan?”
In a fucking heartbeat.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bella set her wine glass on the slice of hardwood peeking from the crazy patterned rug. No way could she be on the floor with this man. Another inch or two and she’d be climbing into his lap. A—not a good idea and b—she’d worn her granny panties on purpose.
All good for the lines under her dress, not to mention her lack of impulse control for a man with stupid green eyes. Everything about him made her want to be Bad Bella all over again. Because with him it would be a laundry list of decadent, insanely stupendous, and likely illegal sex acts.
He stood and followed her to the wall of records. “You can’t ask a man that kind of question then walk away.”
“We’re not doing this. I’m tired and have had way too much wine.” Falling back on bad habits. Cripes, it had been a mistake to come here tonight. Not five hours ago she’d convinced herself that being around him was a dumb idea. One almost dare on a telephone call and she’d caved.
Not good.
“Barely a glass? You don’t strike me as a lightweight.”
She dragged the tips of her fingers over the thin spines of the record covers. “You would be right. I’m just in a mood. One that has repercussions that reach far and wide. Well, at least as wide as my store and the square footage of this ridiculous house.”
“Six thousand square feet.”
“My God.”
He leaned against the bookcase. “I have a big studio that takes up all of the lower floor.”
Oh to have that kind of far reaching wealth. His record collection alone could pay off her mortgage for three years. She randomly pulled out a record and smiled. “Bel Biv DeVoe?”
“That girl is poiiiiison. Never trust a big butt and a smile.”
She choked out a laugh and slid the record back in. “Can you quote lyrics from all of these?”
He shrugged. “Am I doomed to be your party trick if I say yes?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then no.”
She huffed out a half laugh. “So this is just an honest to God music room?” She dragged her fingers over the trio of gu
itars in a spinning stand, then across the glossy finish of the baby grand in the corner.
“We do the heavy lifting in the studio, but Zeke and I have been known to write in here.” Logan swiped his thumb over the strings of a Wicked Witch of the West green guitar. But it wasn’t a strum. Instead, he went up the fret board, leaving no sound behind. He picked up his wine glass and took two large swallows before refilling.
She walked over to him, teased the edge of her nail over his knuckles where a bloom of freckles lay. She looked up at him and couldn’t quite get over just how many freckles dotted his face. She took his glass and sipped his wine.
Good Isabella was shrieking in her head, but she took a longer swallow. The Riesling was sweet and cold, leaving a slightly dry flavor in its wake. She wrinkled her nose. “Mine’s better.” She handed it back to him. “It’s a shame.”
“That comment covers so many things.”
Bold with enough wine swimming in her veins to allow for a bit of reckless behavior, she brushed the pad of her finger over the shallow dent in his chin. The ginger bristles weren’t quite as soft as she’d been expecting.
His Adam’s apple bounced with a swallow. Every part of her wanted to trace her way down his neck to the little notch that showed in the V of his Henley t-shirt. She wanted to see what was at the end of the silver chain that peeked from his collar. She wanted to see if his skin was really as smooth as it looked.
So she went up instead.
Because down was such an incredibly dangerous idea. At least his lips were the gateway drug to Logan King. His neck was a surefire path to overdose. Because once she started peeling off layers, she simply wouldn’t stop unless he said no.
And the wild heat living in his green eyes said nothing but naked. The kind of naked that left inhibitions behind with the clothes that landed on the floor.
All she had to do was give the go ahead. Whether it was smart or not, there was enough between them right now to end up with her skirt up and at least one solid orgasm in her future.
She traced the patch of hair just under the center of his lower lip. A trio of faint freckles burned through the tempting flesh. “It’s a shame they Photoshop these out.”
He rolled his lower lip behind his teeth. In the process her finger went too. He put just enough pressure on the pad of her finger to make her gasp. He grasped her wrist and dragged it down so it was trapped between them. He leaned into her until their lips were barely a breath apart. “Don’t play with me tonight, Izzy.”
Anything But Mine Page 5
