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Dancing with him flashes through my mind again, the pounding of my heart as our bodies lined up. Even though the club was crowded it felt like we were the only two people in the room. For the few minutes we were pressed together I was so lost in the moment I forgot about my past. Wrapped in Vaughn’s arms, it didn’t feel like a betrayal. It felt right, like the first step toward whatever comes next.
I’m almost up the drive when I hear a car behind me. It’s a black convertible Mercedes, and an older man is driving. He parks, hops out of the car, and raises his sunglasses so they sit on top of his head. “This is private property.” He’s dressed in a suit and tie and carries a definite air of impatience.
“I know. I’m here to see Vaughn.”
“Who are you with? Do you have an appointment?”
His tone is gruff, his stance intimidating. Worse, I don’t fully understand what he’s asking. “Who am I with?” I look around the otherwise empty driveway. “Myself?”
“Who reps you, or who do you rep?” He snaps, and hands me a card. “I’m Vaughn’s manager. Any requests need to go through me.”
That explains his terse manners. His gaze sweeps over my heather gray T-shirt dress and flip-flops, assessing me like this is an audition. By the frown on his face I’d say I don’t make the cut. What a jerk. “I’m not here on business,” I say, ignoring the card. “I’m a friend.” I turn to continue toward the front door.
“Not so fast.” He falls in step beside me, but his legs are longer and he turns on me. It isn’t threatening, but protective, and I guess I understand. He doesn’t know me. I could be a stalker. “We have a busy morning,” he says. “Is Vaughn expecting you?”
Shit. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. I’ll tell him you stopped by…” He trails off, eyebrows raised.
“Kendall.”
“His friend Kendall.” He says this like he doubts I’m telling the truth. He has no intention of mentioning me at all.
“Yes.” There is no way I’m getting inside the house, so I add, “Can you please give him these?” I thrust the plate in my hands forward.
He glances at the muffins like they’re poisoned apples.
“Please,” I repeat. His manners may be awful, but mine aren’t.
With obvious reluctance, he takes the plate. “Have a nice day.” He doesn’t spare me another word or glance. He turns on his heels and strides away, his fancy black dress shoes clicking on the stamped concrete.
Wow. Guess I’ve been dismissed.
“Thank you,” I call out before he slams the front door behind him.
What an ass.
My aunt’s house is really quiet when I walk back into the kitchen, so when my phone rings a minute later, I startle and almost drop the glass bowl I’m rinsing. The only person who calls instead of texts is my mom, and, since we usually talk on Sundays, worry that something is wrong floods me. I grab the phone without looking at the screen. “Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Hey, it’s Vaughn.”
“Hi.” I sit on a barstool for fear my legs aren’t strong enough to keep me upright. Because holy jalapeno pepper, his morning voice is a little rough and super sexy, and I can’t believe he actually called.
“Thanks for the muffins. They smell almost as good as you do.”
My cheeks are on fire. And I’m shocked his manager actually gave them to him. “You’re welcome. How are you?”
“Besides being pissed at my dad for sending my delivery girl home, I’m good.”
“That was your dad?”
“Dad, manager, and self-appointed gatekeeper. I didn’t know you were here or I would have put him on a leash.”
“I could…” I’m about to say “come back over” but stop myself. His father is there for a reason, and he definitely wouldn’t appreciate seeing me again. “…stop by later.”
“How about this weekend? I’ve got a booking in Paris this week and my dad is driving me to the airport in a few, but we’re having a barbecue Saturday afternoon. You and your sisters should come.”
Me and my sisters.
