Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4)

by Jaine Diamond

  “Too bad. I guess it’s a little out of my budget, then. I’m thinking about saving up to buy myself a doghouse and live out by the train tracks on the industrial waterfront.”

  He met my eyes, but he didn’t smile. He knew I was joking, right? “Well, if things work out here, you can stay in the poolhouse as long as you want.”

  I didn’t touch that. His poolhouse was, sadly, nicer than any place I’d ever lived. I didn’t want to get too attached.

  “I’m not trying to show off,” he said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Like the other day, when I pressed him about the load of cash he’d dumped in my bank account. “I want you to feel at home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like the tour?”

  “Please.”

  “Shit,” he said, and I realized it had probably been a long time since he gave a tour of his home to anyone.

  I smiled. For someone so bossy/irritable/awkward and easily horrified by a social blunder, he was pretty fucking cute. I probably shouldn’t be smiling about that, though.

  “Here goes.” He led me out into the grand foyer, turning to face the big staircase that swept up to the second floor. There was an open landing up there with a super-high ceiling and a skylight, and a couple of hallways leading off. Partway up the stairs, the wall was decorated with a framed platinum album and a bunch of photos. “Upstairs,” he said simply, pointing.

  I smiled again. “Right.”

  “The garage is through there.” He pointed at a door to the side of the entrance behind us. “You just saw the living room. The studio is this way.” He pointed me to the side of the foyer opposite the garage, beyond the living room entrance, where a set of double doors were tucked back in an alcove. They stood open to a dim hallway.

  And just like that, he led me right into the studio.

  Huh. That was easy. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be allowed in here, much less immediately, on my very first day.

  “Those are completely soundproofed,” he said, pointing back over his shoulder at the doors, “so if they’re closed and you knock, no one will hear you on the other side. The whole studio is soundproofed, for the most part. I had a lot of work done here when I moved in. This wall,” he tapped the wall on our right, “wasn’t here when I bought the place. This used to open right into the kitchen and dining room, on the other side.” We passed a closed door on the left, then reached an open door on the right. “This was a small den/office situation. Now it’s the studio control room and my office.”

  I followed him inside. There was a large control panel with about a zillion knobs and buttons on the left, like I’d seen in music studios in movies and stuff. Above it, a large window looked out into the rest of the studio. There was also another window on the exterior wall in front of us, but the shades were closed. Beneath it was a desk with stuff all over it—several laptops and paperwork—and on the right, a wall unit with shelves stuffed with books, and another built-in table/desk situation.

  There were two desk chairs, one at each desk.

  Cary pointed at the empty desk. “I cleared that off for you and emptied out a drawer. You can put your stuff there, and if you need more room just let me know.”

  “This is perfect. Thanks.” I set my bag down on the table. Holy shit. I was working in his office with him?

  “You can work there, or wherever you want,” he added, like he was reading my surprise. “There’s some tables out in the great room, too.” He led me back out. The end of the hallway, outside the control room, opened into a giant room. “This was the great room of the house, like a big family room. I sacrificed it to the gods of music.”

  I smiled, a little awed. “I see that. It’s awesome.”

  There was a step down into the sunken room, and a soaring, high ceiling. The walls were draped in heavy, dark curtains. Ornamental rugs were layered over the carpet. And luxurious, comfy furniture was arranged kind of haphazardly, including two couches and various plush chairs, some lamps scattered around. There were a few tables. There was also a glossy black piano in one corner, and several guitars displayed on stands.

  Everything was neat and clean, but it was pretty dark. Just one of the lamps was turned on, some dull light flowing in from the rooms off to the far side.

  “This room is pretty soundproofed, but it’s not perfect,” he said. “The back wall has some soundproofing under the curtains, but the doors and windows there, onto the backyard, just have heavy sound-dampening curtains over them. Freddy has a kitty door there, under the curtains. That’s how he gets in and out of here when the doors are closed.”

  “I know. I kinda sent him in through there to find you.”

  “Right,” he said, eying me like he was impressed with that. He hadn’t seemed impressed when it happened. He pointed at the glassed-in booths at the left side of the room, next to the piano. “Sound booths, for recording guitar and vocals.”

  “This is really cool,” I said, taking it all in.

  “It’s pretty much a self-contained suite in here,” he said, and I could tell he was proud of the space, maybe encouraged by my interest. “That over there was a little TV room and a reading nook or whatever,” he explained, pointing at the wall on the far right, where two doorless archways led to small adjoining rooms. “The one on the right is now a little gym. And the other one has a bed in it. I have a bedroom upstairs but I usually just crash in here. I might, uh, have to change that now that I’m not the only one working in here.”

  “Sure. Whatever works best for you,” I said lightly. Though I wasn’t sure how good an idea it would be if I walked in to find him in bed.

  He’d look way too sexy all sleepy with bed hair.

  I tried to smile pleasantly and stop picturing him with bed hair, but the damage was kinda done.

  I glanced at the bed, what I could see of it, and wondered if he slept naked in there.

  Nope. Not good at all.

  He turned and I followed, trying to focus on what he was saying. “That was a small sunroom at the front of the house.” He pointed at an open doorway just past the control room. “I turned it into a mini kitchen. There’s a washroom back down the hall, too, where we first came in. Other side of the control room.”

  “Wow. You’re really prepared for an apocalypse in here.”

  “It’s not bomb or zombie proof, unfortunately.”

  “Maybe in the next reno.”

  He smiled a little. And holy Christ, the man was breathtaking when he smiled. “I’ll show you the rest.”

  I followed him back down the hall and into the house. I thought he was about to take me upstairs, but instead we headed through the arched entry into the massive kitchen. There was a small nook by the window with a low table and chairs, and a formal dining room through another archway that looked like it was never used.

  “I usually keep the studio kitchen pretty stocked, so I don’t have to bother coming out here unless I’m really cooking. But that kitchen is small and pretty basic. Rose stocks all the groceries in here and in the pantry. You can help yourself to anything you want. You can use the kitchen in the poolhouse too, but feel free to use this one anytime. Same with the living room if you want to watch TV. There’s no TV in the poolhouse.”

  “Thank you. That’s really generous.”

  He shrugged that off. “Least I can do. I moved you in here. You should be comfortable and have everything you need.”

  I wasn’t sure what else to say, except, “Thank you,” again.

  Then Freddy caught my eye. I’d noticed him quietly following us around, rubbing himself on furniture. Sometimes ignoring us to lick himself and other times gazing at Cary with his big, round, dayglow eyes beaming pure adoration.

  “He adores you,” I observed.

  Cary looked down like he had no idea Freddy was with us, finding him seated at his feet, gazing up at him. The cat immediately popped to his feet, swishing his tail seductively in the air. “Ah, he just wants treats.” He rubbed his foot o
n the cat. “Shit, now we’ve gotta give him some, or he’ll be obnoxiously affectionate all day.”

  “What?” I laughed.

  “He’ll park his furry ass on top of whatever you’re working on and stare you down at an uncomfortably close range until you acknowledge him, and then the cuddling and begging starts.” He picked up a half-eaten pack of kitty treats from the counter and dumped it into Freddy’s bowl. “Here you go, buddy. Let’s not embarrass yourself in front of Taylor on her first day, huh?”

  Freddy mewled a very small, dainty meow for such a big cat, rubbing himself gratuitously on Cary’s legs before diving in. He purred like a small lawn mower while he ate.

  “You’d think I never feed him,” Cary said.

  “I mean, obviously he’s starving.”

  “I actually had to put him on a diet a while ago. Courteney took him to the vet and they said he was overweight.”

  “Aw. Poor, starving, fat kitty,” I said, petting his head. “I’ll play with him. Make sure he gets exercise. How does that sound, Freddy? We’ll do some kitty yoga.”

  When I looked up at Cary, he was just looking at me. “He’ll like having you around,” he said.

  “I love cats. I wish I had one.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  I smiled. “Actually… I volunteer at an animal shelter a couple times a week,” I said, as it occurred to me that he’d never actually asked to see my resume. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

  “Nope. You can just let me know when you need to go down there.”

  “Sure. I usually go one night a week and then once on the weekend.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He reached down and patted his cat on the butt. Freddy purred louder.

  When he wasn’t looking, I eyed Cary carefully. I wondered if maybe he was getting better? If whatever he’d struggled with in the past wasn’t such an issue anymore?

  Maybe he wasn’t as bad off as everyone seemed to think?

  It was hard to imagine that the man in front of me was actually a recluse.

  I’d looked up agoraphobia after he hired me, because I wasn’t sure I really knew what it was, other than some vague notion I’d maybe gleaned in the movies. From what I’d read, agoraphobia often developed in relation to panic attacks, because once a person had suffered a panic attack, they became so fearful of having another one and being out of control that they avoided situations where it might happen. And sometimes that went so far as meaning they stopped leaving the house.

  But he said he didn’t have panic attacks anymore, right? So maybe he was getting past the whole thing.

  “So, if this is going to work out,” I told him, “just so you know, I need coffee. I don’t see a coffee maker here. Please tell me there’s a café nearby? Walking distance?”

  “There is. Maybe more like driving distance, depending how much time you have.” He opened a cupboard above the fridge and dug around, pulling something out. “You can have these.” He handed me a keychain with a couple of keys and a key fob on it. “You can take the car anytime and get coffee or whatever you need.”

  I stared at the black key fob in my hand. I knew what that fancy L logo meant. He’d just handed me the keys to a Lexus.

  “Oh. Wow. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I also have a coffee maker in the studio, though. I already put on a pot today, if you want one. It’s just a Tim Horton’s dark roast.”

  “Yes, please.” I followed him back into the studio. “I’m not a coffee snob. Tim’s is fine. But maybe I’ll hit the café one morning this week. Might be a good idea to get to know the neighborhood.” I followed him into the studio kitchen, where it smelled faintly of coffee and fresh air. Previously a sunroom, he’d said. It was the only room in the studio that had a window that was actually open, sunshine streaming in.

  He poured me a steaming mug. “Help yourself to cream and sugar and whatever. It’s all there.” He motioned at the counter and the fridge next to it.

  “Thank you.” I fixed my coffee while he poured his own. I noticed his was in a reusable black mug that said Good Morning, Handsome in gold script. “Did you buy yourself that mug?” I said dryly, wondering if he’d appreciate my sass.

  “It was a gift,” he said equally dryly. “From my little sister.”

  “She thinks highly of you.”

  “One may wonder why.”

  “Does she come over a lot?”

  “Not really. Maybe a couple times a month. She’ll call first.”

  I wondered if he always answered that call.

  He’d responded to my text this morning, but he had already paid me a whack of cash, so it was in his interest to open the door and let me in here to earn that giant paycheck.

  “Come to think of it,” he said, “Xander doesn’t always call first. Neither does my friend Dean, so if you find some shaggy haired guy in tight jeans with a big mouth loping around, that’s my former lead singer. Just point him in the direction of the food and he’ll leave you alone.”

  “Right. Dean Slater? I kinda familiarized myself with your former band members’ names and listened to your album and such.” I glanced at him while I stirred my coffee. “I thought it would be appropriate, so I don’t make an ass of myself not knowing something I should know.”

  “That’s cool,” he said neutrally. His eyes narrowed a little as he scanned my face, and maybe my hair? “Actually, I take it back. If you see Dean around, let me know. I’ll throw him a beer and try to steer him off your scent.”

  “Dean likes girls with pink hair?” I ventured lightly.

  “He likes girls, period. Beautiful ones especially.”

  I let that compliment go by like he hadn’t even said it. Just fixing my coffee here.

  “He usually drops in when he’s in town,” he went on. “Him and Xander like to show up unannounced so I don’t have a chance to tell them not to.”

  “That’s what friends are for. I do it to Danica all the time.” I grinned. “Anyone else?”

  “That’s about it. No one else really comes over without calling first. They can’t get to the house anyway. Xander has a remote for the gate and Dean scales the fence. I actually offered him a remote, but he prefers to skulk in like a cat burglar. The security company swings by once a week to do a random check. They’ve caught him a couple times over the years. I think he likes the challenge and the element of danger.”

  “So, if I happen upon him getting caught by the security guys…?”

  He smirked faintly. “Just pretend we don’t know him.”

  “Right. And how do I get into the house if I can’t reach you? Like if I text or call and you don’t answer?”

  “You can use the house keys I gave you, anytime. And I’ll leave the studio open.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why don’t we get you set up?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him back into the control room. “Do you like it dark?”

  He looked at me like he wasn’t sure what I was asking.

  “The shades,” I said, pointing at the window. “Do you mind if I open them?”

  “Oh. Sure.” He moved to open them for me, and light flooded the room. Dust moats glittered in the sunbeams that shone down through the trees and into the room. “Uh, it may have been a while since I opened those.”

  “Well, thank you for opening them for me.” I got busy pulling out my laptop. I noticed the pens he’d set carefully on my desk in a little holder for me, and the lined pad of paper. “If we need any office supplies, should I just get some or check with you first?”

  “Anything like that, Merritt orders for me.” He settled into his rolling chair on his side of the small room. “She’s the studio manager at Little Black Hole. She’s there part-time and handles any supplies or equipment I need. The studio assistants will do runs back and forth from LBH to here.”

  “Okay. That’s awesome. I can get in touch with them and coordinate that for you so you don’t have to deal wi
th it anymore.” I pointed at the pile of stuff on his desk. “And by the way, what is all that?”

  “Paperwork.”

  “I though that went to your accountants and lawyers and whatnot.”

  “It does. But eventually I have to look at it.”

  “Okay, how about I go through it for you so you don’t have to stare at that disorganized mountain, and I’ll just flag the important stuff for you? I have those handy little colored arrow stickers that’ll point you to where you need to sign.”

  “Sure.”

  I gathered up the whole pile and dropped it onto my desk with a whump of paper. “Look at all the time I’m saving you already. So you can put up your feet and you and Jack Daniels can make magic.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Isn’t that what musicians do in the studio?”

  “I don’t drink JD.”

  “Okay, so feet up and making magic, then.” I plopped down in my rolling chair. “What do you drink? You know, so I can stock it for you.”

  He considered that, clearly surprised by the offer. “Not much,” he said. But then he added, “Maybe vodka.”

  “Straight?”

  “With a pickle chaser. And bread. It’s kind of a tradition I got from Gabe.”

  That was the first time he’d mentioned Gabe to me. He didn’t use his last name or explain who he was. Maybe he knew he didn’t have to.

  I’d told him I’d schooled myself on his former band. But more than that; he probably knew I’d heard. You couldn’t really hear anything about Cary Clarke and not hear about Gabe Romanko.

  But I really wasn’t sure how carefully I should tread around the topic.

  “That’s quite a tradition,” I said. “He came up with that?”

  “He got it from his uncle.”

  “Alrighty. Vodka… and… pickles,” I said exaggeratedly as I wrote it down on my lined pad. “Dill, obviously?”