by Amy Marie
Orelia looks to me, but I remain silent, my chest tight. She took a bullet that was meant for me, and the fallout could ruin her.
“This is crazy. I just sang live in front of thousands of people. There are probably hundreds of videos of tonight. Can’t we just counter the rumors with that?”
I lean forward on the couch I’ve been occupying across from her and brace my elbows on my knees. “That won’t do much. It’s common for an artist to lip-sync in concert for consistency.”
“But I sang live.”
“Can you prove it?” I look up at her over my folded hands.
Her face falls. She straightens her shoulders and turns to Cole, who’s pacing the length of the room in long hurried strides. “We can set up an acoustic set. Just me and a guitar.”
He pauses and fixes her with a stern look. “That’s not a good idea, love.” He looks to me, and I nod in agreement. “Right now, it would better if you just lay low for a while. Focus on the album.”
“If there even is an album,” Hannah snorts from the corner near the make-up mirror.
I want to throttle her. This is a fucking mess, and Hannah, true to form, is only making it worse. Orelia’s eyes go wide and snap to mine. “Would they do that? Would they pull my contract over this?” Her voice cracks when the question falls from her lips, and I can see the devastation clearly in her eyes.
“No,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “Cole will handle the press, and before you know it, this will all blow over.”
A tear slides down her cheek, and she nods, but the worry never leaves her face.
“Take her to the beach house,” Cole speaks up.
“Cole, I don’t think—,” I protest, but he dismisses me.
“Nonsense, it’s brilliant. Go enjoy the sun and the sand for a couple of days, a week tops, and bring me back an unforgettable debut album.”
“Seriously?”
“What?” Cole asks. “It’s perfect. Quiet and secluded. You have the studio in the pool house. Kill two birds with one stone. Keep a low profile and finish the album.”
I glance at Orelia, who is white as a sheet. This whole situation should have been avoided. We should have anticipated a video like this. As soon as you find the smallest bit of success, people will try everything they can to tear you down. Whether it be out of jealousy, bitterness, or just for fun. Being in the spotlight makes it that much easier to see your flaws.
“Are you okay with that?” I ask her.
Her eyes dart from me to Cole then back to me. “If you are. It’s your house. I don’t want to put you out.”
“Nonsense,” Cole sings. “He will be happy to have you.”
“Does anyone want to hear what I think?” Hannah chimes in.
Without taking our eyes off Orelia, Cole and I both call out a resounding “No!”
Hannah huffs but soldiers on, throwing in her two cents whether we want it or not. “Cole’s right. You need to lay low for a while. Out of sight, out of mind in a few more weeks.”
I lower my voice and lean into Cole. “What do we do about…?” My voice trails off, and I tip my head to where Hannah sits perched in the make-up chair taking selfies.
“Jeanne’s got a new sober buddy lined up, but they are flying in from New York.”
“So, what? You want me to bring her along?”
“I can hear you,” she calls out.
He shrugs. “Can we send her to a spa for the weekend or something?’
I scoff. “Sure, that’s all she needs, more people catering to her every whim.”
A hand slides over my forearm. The warm, gentle touch lights my skin on fire. I turn, looking up into those gorgeous brown eyes. “It’s okay. I mean, who knows? Maybe the fresh air will do us all some good.”
In this moment, it takes every ounce of self-control I have left to keep from leaning in and kissing the fuck out of her.
Cole scrolls through his phone. “I have back to back meetings tomorrow morning and then a charity thing, but I can move some things around and take her off your hands-on Saturday.”
“Why do you all insist on treating me like a child? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Right, as your history in the press has demonstrated as of late,” Cole deadpans.
“Fuck you, Cole.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, love.”
She growls and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
“Wonderful,” Cole sighs. He pats my knee. “I’ll have Jeanne call you a car.” Pulling out his phone, he immediately starts typing and without another word, heads for the door.
Once we are alone, Orelia turns to me. “Are you sure this is okay with you?”
I push to my feet. “Yeah. He has a point. You need to lay low, and we need to finish the album. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what I asked. It’s your space, and it might get a little tense with just me, you, and—”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, the words coming out far more clipped than I intended.
The truth is simple. The idea of spending any amount of time alone with her is terrifying, with or without the added Hannah drama. If the handful of times we’ve worked together are any indication, my resistance to her is crumbling with every passing day.
She is burrowing her way under my skin, and fuck if I can stop it. Orelia Carlisle is a goddess…gorgeous, funny, kind, sinfully talented. A truly amazing woman, and I would be completely crazy not to fall head over heels in love with her, but that would be an exceptionally bad idea…for both of us.
When the car pulls into the drive, it’ was after five A.M. The sun will be up in less than an hour, and I’m beyond exhausted.
The ride from L.A. had been tense. No one spoke. I tried ignoring the glaring animosity that radiated from Hannah’s tiny frame, but we were all practically choking on it.
I glanced at Orelia, wishing we were alone. I just wanted to talk to her. The topic didn’t matter: music, movies, the goddamn weather, whatever it took to hear her voice, to ease some of the tension that coiled in her shoulders.
Instead, she spent the hour-long drive tucked against the window in the back seat of the SUV. Her legs drawn into her chest, arms wrapped around them as she stared into the fading darkness.
The driver parks then goes around back for our bags. Hannah practically leaps from the car, heading straight for the porch without a word. I open the door and offer a hand to Orelia to help her slide from the third-row seat. Her foot catches on a seat belt, and she pitches forward, her purse spilling open, the contents littering the gravel drive.
She groans as I help her out of the car. I bend to pick up her phone, where it lays face-up near the rear tire. It lights up with an incoming text.
Jamie: Heard what happened. I’m here if you need to talk.
My chest tightens. The message is friendly, nothing to suggest they are anything but colleagues, but the fact that he feels comfortable enough to text her this late, or early, makes my blood boil. Gravel crunches beneath her feet as she gathers pens and earbuds, stuffing it all into her purse. I pick up a tube of mango lip balm. Our fingers graze as she takes it from my hand and our gazes lock. She feels it too. I’m sure of it; the building hum between us like the sound of an electric guitar being plugged into an amp turned all the way up.
I swallow and stand up, helping her to her feet, then handing her the phone. She glances at the screen still lit with Jamie’s message but doesn’t reply or even react, just tucks it back in her purse.
I open my mouth the say something to her, I’m not exactly sure what, when Hannah’s voice carries from the porch. “Are you coming? Some of us need our beauty sleep.”
“Better get in there,” she says, heading for the porch.
I run a hand over my face and groan as she makes her way up the stairs. God, what the hell is wrong with me. I need to get my shit together. Orelia doesn’t belong to me, and she never will.
Chapter 14
/> Orelia
The mattress is soft beneath me. A little too soft. My eyes fly open and immediately slam shut from the brightness of the room. Squinting into the light, I open them again, confused by what I’m seeing.
It’s a white room, and I do mean white. Everything from floor to ceiling is done in the same shade of bright white. The sun pouring through the gauzy curtains illuminates the space, and I’m momentarily disoriented.
I sit up, flashes of memory from last night invade my fog brain as the pieces fall into place. I remember packing a bag and being trapped in the car with Hannah and her bullshit attitude.
The woman is a piece of work, the very definition of attention whore if I’d ever seen one. Why Ezra feels he has to protect her, I will never understand? Then again, it’s who he is. He cares about people. Apparently, whether they deserve it or not. It’s one of the things I find most endearing about him.
Really, who am I to judge? I don’t know their history other than the tabloid bullshit everyone assumes. I have no idea what they’ve been through, or hell, even what tore them apart. Though, I am insanely curious.
She hurt him badly, that much is crystal freaking clear. Still, it begs the question, if she was the one to break his heart, why would he want to help her at all? There has to be a reason, right?
Sliding from the bed, I make my way toward the French doors and the balcony beyond. The cool ocean breeze greets me the moment I step outside, and the swoosh of the waves lapping at the shore barely fifty yards from where I stand. It’s paradise here. There’s not a soul in sight except the odd seagull.
I take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs, easing the tension from my muscles before making my way inside. My bag sits beside the door, and I quickly dig through it for my toiletry kit.
Down the hall, I find a large marble covered bathroom where I pee and brush my teeth, deciding to run a brush through my hair just in case anyone is up. With one last look in the mirror, I grab my phone from my bag and head to the kitchen in search of coffee.
The house is sleek and modern. Clean lines, white-washed walls, and marble flooring. The whole place holds the daylight captive, making it feel open, easier to breathe.
It’s quiet, eerily so. The kitchen is more of the same, bright white countertops paired with stainless steel appliances that seem to never have been used. Without knowing where to find anything, I start pulling open cabinets in search of ingredients, finally finding a mug, a coffee grinder, and some filters. Things get complicated when I discover a coffee maker built into the wall that looks like it belongs behind a Starbucks counter rather than someone’s home, but after a few tries, I manage to get it working.
Wandering to the fridge in search of milk or cream, I see a note pinned beneath a palm tree magnet with Malibu written in bright pink up the trunk.
Gone for a run. Make yourself at home.
Ezra
“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, pulling open the fridge and finding it fully stocked with all the essentials, including my desired cream.
“Don’t mind if you do what?” his voice startles me, and I squeak, the cream nearly hitting the floor.
I turn around and press a hand to my chest, both from the near heart attack he almost gave me and the one he’s giving me now, standing shirtless, just miles of sculpted, glistening muscle. Sweat drips down his torso, following the lines of his chest before disappearing beneath his blue running shorts. I track the rivulets of water that cascade down his body, my breath catching in my throat, the cream still clutched between my fingers.
“You alright?” he asks, removing his phone from the harness strapped to his arm.
“Yep,” I respond, breaking from my trance. “Just need some coffee.” I lift the cream to demonstrate, and he nods. “Do you want some?”
“I’ve had a few already this morning. Think I’m just going to get a shower, then we can get started. Okay?”
I nod, which he returns before he jogs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he’s gone, I sag against the island. Could I have made a bigger fool out of myself? Jesus. The man looked like he’d just wandered in from a Men’s Health cover shoot, and I’m standing here like a bumbling idiot.
We spend the rest of the day in the studio until long after dark. Thankfully, Hannah makes herself scarce, keeping to the master bedroom she commandeered last night, despite the fact that it isn’t her goddamned house, but Ezra doesn’t seem to mind.
When my stomach rumbles loud enough that Ezra can hear it in the track, we decide to break for dinner. This man is a god in the studio and the kitchen. He sets me up on a bar stool with a glass of wine and starts chopping and sautéing some complicated sauce that smells incredible. My mouth waters as I watch him work, the muscles of his back pulling and stretching beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask him, taking a sip of wine.
“My Pop,” he replies with a reverent smile. “He was a cook in the Navy. He could peel a potato in under twelve seconds.”
“Wow.”
“If you think that’s impressive, you should’ve seen him chop an onion.”
I giggle. “I bet.” I take a sip of wine. “Did he work in a restaurant? After the Navy, I mean?”
He shakes his head. “No, he was a stagehand.”
“Really? Is that how you got started?”
He nods. “Yeah, I spent a summer when I was seventeen touring with him and just never left.”
“What about school?”
He shrugs. “I was never much for going to class. Ended up getting my GED on the road. Pop insisted.”
“Wow. So, you didn’t go to college?”
“Nope. I learned more from Pop and working as stage crew than I ever could have in a classroom.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a green plastic guitar pick worn thin with age. “You see this?”
I nod.
“Pop was on the stage crew at Woodstock in 1969. He said Jimmy Hendrix tossed this to him as he came off the stage on the last day of the festival.”
Wide-eyed, I take the pick between my fingers. I can almost feel the power as the iconic sound of the Star-Spangled Banner fills my ears.
I gently return it to his palm. He looks down at it, running his thumb over the smooth surface. “He gave this to me before he died. He said it would keep me grounded to the music.” He tucks it back in his front pocket and smiles. “Hasn’t let me down so far.”
“It’s like carrying a piece of him with you,” I say.
His eyes meet mine, and a warm smile spreads across his face. “Exactly.”
We hold each other’s gaze as he absently stirs the sauce. A sizzling sound breaks the spell, the noodles threaten to boil over, and Ezra moves to turn down the burner.
“So, is that where you got your love of music? From your grandfather?
“Yeah,” he says, tapping a wooden spoon on the pan before setting it aside. “He was a living, breathing musical encyclopedia. He knew it all, everything from ABBA to Zappa. God, to have walked in his shoes back then. He could tell if a musician would make it from one set. He was famous for it. He could predict the success of a musician’s career from only one song.”
“Sounds familiar.” I smile at him over my glass.
He ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. “Not quite, but he taught me a lot.”
“So, you grew up in L.A.”
He laughs. “No, I’m from Chicago.”
“Did you move out here to produce?”
He looks up at me with a smirk. “You didn’t google me?”
“No,” I tell him, a little annoyed at his assumption, “should I have?”
He shrugs. “It’s what I’m used to, I guess. Most people think they have me figured out before we’ve even met. They know where I’m from, my birthday, my parents’ names. People make assumptions and judgments about who I am from what they read in interviews and articles long before they e
ven lay eyes on me.”
I raise a brow. “And because of that, you made assumptions and judgments about me?”
His eyes shoot up and lock with mine. I hold his stare as my point begins to register. A grin slides slowly across his face.
“Touché.”
With a smug nod, I take a sip of my wine.
The smile doesn’t leave his face as he says, “Let’s start over. No assumptions, no judgments.”
My smile widens over my wine glass, and I hold out my hand for him to shake. His large rough hands slide over my skin, causing tingles to dance down my spine. My mind instantly wanders to how those hands would feel in other more delicate places on my body, but I dismiss the thought. Ezra has made it abundantly clear that he is not interested in me in the slightest, despite that little teasing session to cure my writer’s block. He was proving a point while driving me completely wild without even touching me.
Realizing that I’ve been holding on to his hand for way longer than necessary, I blink and release him. He does the same, clearing his throat as he returns to the stove. The warm scent of garlic permeates the awkwardness as he cooks. I decide to focus on the spectacular view off the back deck through the open sliding doors rather than the view of the delectable man currently cooking me dinner.
When the food is done, we carry full plates and a second bottle of wine to the table outside. A warm breeze floats off the water, stars wink at us from a clear sky, and black waves crash onto the sand, making the perfect setting for the meal. Looking down at the scene, this could be easily mistaken for a date rather than two co-workers on a dinner break.
I twirl the pasta onto my fork and take a bite, the sauce melting in my mouth, and moan as the savory taste of white wine, garlic, and lemon hit my tongue.
“You like it?” he asks.
I nod vigorously, diving in for more.
He smiles, watching me, his plate remaining untouched.
“What?” I mumble over a mouth full of decadent noodles.
