I shrug. “Comes with the job.”
She nods, though I’m sure she has zero idea what working in a kitchen is like. She’s wearing one of those tiny sundresses again, and looking down at her from this angle, it’s almost impossible not to notice her cleavage. Her chest isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that the moderately low-cut dress accentuates her curves perfectly.
No.
Damn it, I’m being way inappropriate. She’s done nothing to indicate she’d appreciate me checking her out like that. I take a seat beside her to eliminate the tempting view, the wide steps allowing me to leave plenty of space between us.
Of course, another option would’ve been to simply go back inside, but I don’t want to. Because it’s so hot in there. Obviously.
“You didn’t come for breakfast,” I remark casually. It’s not that I care whether or not she eats here. It would be easier for me if she didn’t. I only asked the waitstaff to let me know whenever she’s in the dining room so that I can make sure her service goes smoothly. That’s all.
Remembering the way I sort of berated her over the syrup yesterday, I cringe and add, “I didn’t scare you off, did I?”
Her light laughter is almost musical. “No, don’t worry. I’m not that easy to intimidate.”
“I wasn’t trying to intimidate you.” That might be a lie, but whatever. For some reason, I feel kind of bad about it now.
“A lot of times I’m not that hungry for breakfast,” she says. “At home, I’d typically make myself a green smoothie, but unfortunately, there’s nowhere I can get one here.”
I frown at that, waiting for her to demand we make them for her. Because she must be used to getting what she wants.
She doesn’t do that, though. Instead, she casts her gaze down at her guitar and starts plucking idly at the strings. I don’t recognize the melody, and if she’s playing her own music, it’s doubtful I would. Her only songs I really know are the ones that are inescapable. Those upbeat ones with overly simplistic choruses that you hear all the time on the radio or in grocery stores. I don’t mind some old school country, but her pop/country version isn’t for me.
And yet, I ask her, “What are you playing?”
“Nothing, really. Just don’t want to let my fingers get rusty, I guess.”
Something zings down low in my body at hearing her say that. Which is ridiculous. I don’t care what her fingers do. I’m a grown-ass woman, for fuck’s sake. And Riley Rowland may be attractive, but I’m not interested in hooking up with her.
I’m still not entirely interested in hooking up with anyone. I’ll stick to my own hands and my toys, thank you very much. At least they can’t cheat on me.
“When did you learn how to play?” I ask. I should head back to the kitchen, but I’m stalling some more to avoid the inferno.
She stops playing and turns her head to tell me, “I convinced my parents to buy me my first guitar when I was twelve. But I didn’t work hard enough to get good at it until I was sixteen. Then I became dead set on being a country star.”
“And that certainly worked out for you, didn’t it?”
Her face does something complicated when I say that. Almost like she’s proud of achieving her dream, yet somehow, sad about it at the same time.
She resumes playing a bit louder now, but she doesn’t raise the volume of her voice, forcing me to lean in closer to hear her as she answers. “Honestly, I’m not really sure anymore.”
My forehead creases in response, because that makes no sense to me. While I don’t listen to her music, her level of fame is undeniable. She’s been at the top of the charts for a long time.
So why does she look so sad?
I know Brenden mentioned something about a scandal, but I assume all celebrities deal with bad PR at one point or another. People will move on when the next scandal happens with someone else.
Since I’m not great at playing therapist to strangers, I clear my throat as I stand up. “Sorry, but I should get back to work before my sous chef burns the place down.” I have more faith in Sam than that, but I figured I should attempt to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t get a laugh, though. She simply glances up at me and says, “No worries.” Although her voice is devoid of inflection, there are so many different emotions swimming in her blue eyes. And I don’t have time to make sense of them.
But as I start to walk away, I hear a somewhat timid, “Hey, wait.”
I stop and turn back around. “Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
I chuckle, realizing we never did any proper introductions. It must be weird for her—the way most people automatically know her name while she doesn’t know theirs.
