by Lizzie Shane
His image could have a huge impact on his career and if that meant he had to be visibly available but practically chaste until the new contracts were signed, then he could keep it in his pants. It wasn’t like there was anyone he was interested in anyway. Not since Trina.
It was probably for the best that she’d blown him off when he’d suggested a repeat of their one night in Chicago. They were both too busy for a long-distance relationship anyway. And he was too close to getting the Dream Gig to screw it up now.
He loved his career. He wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it—but there were times when it was draining. And isolating. He worked with dozens of people every day, but they all depended on his success for their livelihood and that changed the dynamics. He was the talent. The product they were all selling.
When he’d hit it big, he’d suddenly understood why so many successful home improvement shows were hosted by families—cousins, brothers, husbands and wives. You needed that connection to keep you grounded—and to keep the fame from swallowing you whole.
But Chris didn’t have a family. That had been part of what had gotten him the sympathy vote when he’d been on Romancing Miss Right—and part of what had made him feel so instantly linked to Trina—the story of the car accident that had taken his parents away from him when he was nineteen.
He missed that connection.
He wanted to have what his parents had with each other—but it could wait. Marty knew his shit. If he said image was everything right now, then image was everything.
The network was thinking of him for a primetime slot. That was huge. Life-changing huge.
“The turnout today was incredible,” Marty went on, tapping at something on his phone. “Your platform is really taking off. When I show the network your public appearance stats in conjunction with these latest ratings, there’s no way they won’t give you the primetime slot.” He looked up then, beaming like a proud parent. “We’ve worked for years to get here, buddy. Just a few more weeks. Don’t screw it up.”
Chris grabbed a water bottle out of the cooler and drained it, unperturbed by Marty’s habitual micromanaging. “I’m not going to screw it up.”
A sudden screech of feedback from the sound system on the stage made them both duck and cringe. Another burst of feedback sounded like, “Chris!”
“What the hell?” Chris moved to the edge of the tent, squinting out into the bright sun to try to see what was going on out there.
He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he was unprepared for the sight of the attractive blonde leading the security on a merry chase as she vaulted over chairs and scrambled around pylons with a microphone clutched in one hand.
Then she spotted him and her face lit as she lifted the microphone to her lips. “Chris! This one’s for you!” she shouted into the mic, loud enough to make everyone in the vicinity wince, before she began belting a distinctly off-key and decidedly cringe-worthy rendition of Papa Don’t Preach—though it took him several lines to identify the song thanks to her tone-deaf vocal stylings and the fact that every other phrase was broken off breathlessly as she evaded another security guard.
He had to give her credit, she might not be able to sing to save her life, but the girl could move. The US Olympic hurdles team needed to recruit her.
A dozen members of the crowd that lingered in the courtyard lifted their cell phones to capture the moment. His security was freaking out, but Chris began to laugh. She was obviously harmless, if a little off her rocker, and he had to give her credit for being ballsy as hell.
He didn’t recognize her from the Meet & Greet, but he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already smiled for a picture with her—there had been several hundred smiling faces whipping past him this afternoon.
He grinned and waved at his ambush karaoke singer.
Then a slim, familiar figure ducked past the distracted security guards—a slim, familiar figure with a face he was certain hadn’t whipped past him in the previous hours.
Trina.
The one that got away.
His heart stuttered hard, like an engine backfiring. “Trina?”
“Hi, Chris.” Her eyes were wide, her lips parted—as if she was a shocked to see him as he was to see her.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago.”
She wet her lips as several of the camera-wielding bystanders realized Chris had stepped out of his tent and aimed their phones his direction. “I had to see you.”
He took a step toward her, lifting a hand to stop a security guard who had noticed she’d snuck past their line and moved to intercept her. She glanced to the guard, her eyes flaring wide as if she feared she was about to be dragged away. Her gaze swung back to Chris and two little words fell out of her mouth on a rush.
“I’m pregnant.”
Through the sudden ringing in his ears, he somehow clearly heard the soft gasps of the nearby fans—their camera apps capturing the moment for eternity—and Marty’s viciously muttered, “Fuck.”
Chapter Three
Two months earlier. Chicago.
Chris ducked his head, moving quickly down the sidewalk and tugging the Cubs cap over his eyes. Personally, he was a Dodgers fan, but he was going for anonymous and there was nothing more ubiquitous in Chicago this summer than Cubs hats.
Marty had pitched a fit when he ducked out the side door after the book signing—but then Marty always threw a tantrum when Chris strayed from his carefully ordained schedule. Chris had a reputation for being unflappable—Marty was high strung enough for both of them—but there were times when even easygoing Chris reached his limit.
Tonight was one of those times.
The signing had been long, but no worse than any of the others he’d been doing for the last two weeks—sometimes two and three a day—for the book tour Marty had arranged to promote his new home improvement guidebook.
Most of his fans seemed more interested in selfies than signatures on the dust jacket, and he got more people who wanted to ask him about whether he was ever getting back together with Daniella than who wanted to pump him for tips on how to caulk their bathrooms. But even if it often seemed like he was selling himself more than he was selling the book, Marty’s strategy was obviously working. The book—which he hadn’t so much written as approved the ghost-writer’s drafts—had debuted at number twenty-two on the non-fiction best seller list.
He was a New York Times Bestseller who hadn’t written a single freaking word—which only made him feel like a total fake. And there was no one he could talk to about it.
He shouldn’t have let Marty talk him into the book tour—even if it was good for his career. This wasn’t who he was. He should have stuck to his guns and gone straight into filming another season of the show. When he was working on a renovation, tools in his hands and blueprints in his head, he never had this feeling that he was pulling one over on everyone.
He was good at building houses, good at dealing with his clients, good at mugging for the camera and smiling for his fans. He was good at being the Addition Magician and he loved his job. Loved popping up on Facebook for an unexpected live webcast while his show was airing to share behind-the-scenes details with his fans. He fed off those moments—but tonight he hadn’t fed off the fans. He’d just felt tired.
And alone.
July twenty-fourth. It was his mother’s birthday. She would have been sixty-two.
And no one remembered her anymore.
He’d mentioned the birthday to Marty and his manager had immediately suggested starting a foundation in her name—which wasn’t a bad idea, but Chris couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the only reason Marty had thrown out the idea was to get him to shut up about his mom and focus on playing his part for the signing.
Normally, Chris was happy to play that part, but tonight he didn’t want to be the Addition Magician. He just wanted to remember what it used to feel like when he was just Chris. Before he lost his parents. Before Romancing Miss Rig
ht. Before anyone knew his face.
A door opened down an alley to his left, releasing the riff of a blues guitar into the night.
Marty would kill him for wandering down a dark alley in an unknown city, but what Marty didn’t know wouldn’t give him an aneurism. Chris followed the sound of the music to a plain black door whose only claim toward advertising was a red neon sign to one side. The Hot Box.
A large man as dark as the night around him with a fedora pulled down over one eye was perched on a stool below the sign, his massive shoulders leaning against the building. “Cover’s five bucks,” he drawled. “Cash only.”
Damn. Chris didn’t know how long it had been since he carried cash. Frankly, he hadn’t paid for anything for himself in so long it was a minor miracle he was carrying a credit card. The day-to-day transactions of life had become things that were handled for him. Even if there had been an ATM machine nearby, he wasn’t sure he knew his own PIN.
He started to reach for his hat—getting ready to play the celebrity card and see if it would get him through the door—when the sharp sound of high heels on asphalt drew his attention to the mouth of the alley.
Backlit by the street lights on the thoroughfare behind her, at first all he saw was her silhouette.
And what a silhouette.
Long legs, slim waist, and wild, dark curls. She was tall—which he always appreciated, since he’d rather not throw out his back bending down to kiss a girl—and the sleek, lean lines of her made his palms itch. The skirt of her dark, fitted dress flicked around her knees as she walked—somehow managing to be modest while still drawing the eye and inviting all kinds of fantasies.
It was only when she was closer that he saw the headband trying vainly to hold back those curls and the cell phone clenched in her right hand like a security blanket. He didn’t know what it was, but something about the way she tucked the phone to her chest made her seem less vixen and more uncertain tourist.
“Is this the Hot Box?” she asked the door man, who had straightened away from his lazy lean against the wall at her approach.
“That it is,” the door man drawled, giving her a smile that somehow managed to be friendly and appreciative without crossing the line into flirting. “You looking for some blues, sugar?”
“Yelp reviews say you have the best blues in the city, but that you only take cash at the door. Is that right?”
“Right on both counts.”
She gave a crisp nod, reaching into the black clutch tucked under her arm. “Excellent.”
“You’re more prepared than I am,” Chris said, pulling out his best smile—though it was dark enough in the alley he wasn’t sure she could see it. “I only heard some of the music walking by and wanted to check it out, but I don’t carry cash. Do you think you could front me five dollars until we get in there and I’ll buy you your first drink?”
Her face had begun to close down as soon as he opened his mouth—clearly a girl who was looking for blues, not a date for the evening. She eyed him skeptically. “I don’t know—”
“You don’t have to sit with me. I’ll buy you a drink from across the bar and not bother you again for the whole night. Any drink you want. Order Cristal if you like. It could be a hell of a deal.”
The tightness around her mouth eased, a considering light entering her eyes.
“Two drinks,” Chris offered, upping the ante, unsure why it was suddenly so important to him to get into this club. There was just something about her, about this place, about the spontaneity of it that made him feel real again.
Maybe it was the fact that he was having to work for something for the first time in four years.
The uptight brunette with the incongruously untamable hair glanced toward the bouncer, who shrugged affably. “Your call, sugar. But if you need me to throw his ass out later, you just give me a shout. I’m Romy.”
“Thank you, Romy,” she said, pulling out a ten. “In that case, I guess I need two.”
Chris grinned—he hadn’t felt this triumphant when his agent showed him the New York Times best seller list.
Romy pocketed the money and opened the door, releasing another blast of blues as they walked in. Chris half expected to descend into some seedy lair-like room, but the short hallway inside opened into a stairway that led up. They climbed the stairs—and Chris somehow managed to avoid getting caught staring at her ass in that snug little dress.
It was navy, with little pinstripes. Outside it had looked black, but somehow the conservative navy was even more erotic—or at least that was the verdict below his belt. The sleeveless dress left her arms bare, but it was her legs he couldn’t seem to stop looking at.
She was gorgeous—her pretty face more than living up to the promise of her silhouette now that he could see her in the brighter light in the stairwell—
“What decided you?” he asked to distract himself from the view. “The Cristal or Romy offering to kick my ass if I get out of line?”
“Can’t it be both?” She glanced back at him and Chris instinctively ducked his chin, angling his head so the Cubs cap blocked her view.
She hadn’t seemed to recognize him outside, but the light was much better in here and he didn’t want to see that light bulb go on in her eyes—the one that took him from being a normal guy to a “Celebrity” and changed everything.
At the top of the steps loomed a dark doorway and they passed through it into the club.
He suddenly understood the name, the Hot Box. It was a box and it was hot—no air conditioning, only fans stirring the mid-summer heat. The light was dimmer in here, almost as dim as the alley, the only illumination coming from the blue and red and orange glow of the stage lights.
Five musicians were clustered onto the small stage communing with their instruments—each a master of their craft. The heavyset man planted on a chair dead center was the most like what Chris had envisioned as a blues man. With his eyes half closed as he plied his guitar, he could have been the reincarnation of B. B. King. To his left, a wiry man who looked about a hundred and twenty years old bent his snow white head over the Hammond organ, dark fingers flying over the keys. Continuing around the circle, the bald, tattooed drummer worked his kit, his expression the same half-lidded blissed-out mid-jam ecstasy they all wore. The upright base all-but-hid the tiny Asian woman slapping the strings as she leaned her face against the arm working the frets and the final member of the combo—the second guitarist—stood in the right hand corner. With a face like a young Woody Allen and several inches of brown curls shooting off his head in every direction, the scrawny teen held his Fender against his groin like Jimi Hendrix, head thrown back, his entire body twitching with each riff.
“Damn,” Chris murmured, feeling the music work into his blood through his eardrums. He’d always loved blues, but this was freaking foreplay.
“They’re incredible,” the woman at his side agreed—and he realized he didn’t even know her name.
Chris shook himself out of his blues daze. “I owe you a drink. So how would you like to collect? You can send me the bill from across the room… or I see a couple seats at the end of the bar if you’re willing to tolerate my company.”
She eyed him, weighing something he couldn’t determine—and he risked swiping off the Cubs cap, offering a half-grin. “Do I pass?”
Zero recognition lit her eyes. All he saw was a shy, hesitant spark. “I guess you’ll do.”
His grin widened. “I’m Chris.”
“Trina.” She put her hand in his and he shook it, trying to ignore the shock of warmth that passed through him when her soft fingers brushed his. They really needed to get air conditioning in here.
“Let’s get you that drink.”
Trina Mitchell did not pick up men in bars. She was cautious. She was a planner. She was not spontaneous or fun—no matter what people always assumed about her because of her annoyingly wild hair. She wasn’t interested in a man unless she knew his background. His plans. His dreams.
But there was something different about Chris.
She’d wanted to celebrate tonight—she was finally here. It was finally real. Medical school. Chicago. After all the obstacles life had thrown in her way, and all the delays, this was it. The dream coming true.
Dreams coming true deserved celebratory toasts. But Trina didn’t have anyone to toast with in Chicago. She hadn’t met any of her classmates yet. Her friends were all back in Seattle, going about their lives. She’d never been much of a party girl, but she wanted to do something to make this night memorable, something to mark the occasion. So she’d done what she always did. She planned it.
She went on Yelp and searched the best clubs in Chicago—narrowing it down to blues clubs because Chicago was known for them and they’d be less likely to be sleazy pick-up joints. The Hot Box was the best—and it was only four blocks away from her new apartment. It had seemed like fate—if she believed in things like that.
She’d learned better than to put her faith in fate.
But now, with Chris holding the back of the barstool for her in an adorably chivalrous gesture as she perched on the edge, she had an eerie meant-to-be feeling. Was this him? The One?
Her mother had believed in the one. Trina had cut her teeth on stories of the brief, magical love affair between her parents—but she’d never seen the reality of that love first hand. Her father had been killed overseas before she was born and her mother had never considered for a moment that there might be another The One out there for her.
The bartender came over and Chris arched a brow at her, indicating she should order first. “Anything you want,” he reminded her—and for a second she was tempted to ask what the most expensive thing on the menu was, just to see if she could make him blink, but ultimately she settled for her favorite. She wanted to toast Med School right, after all.
“Chocolate martini, please.”
“Good choice,” Chris praised before pointing to a Scotch bottle on the top shelf. “Laphroaig. Neat.”
