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Then he rolls up the window and we’re off, heading back to the cottage. I’m fascinated by the mystery bag. “What’s that?”
“Something for later.”
He’s intentionally vague, and I find myself more curious than ever. “Meaning?”
He turns to me, dark brow raised in subtle rebuke. “Meaning you’ll find out later.”
It’s high-handed. Maybe I should be mad. But his hint of dominance makes me shiver.
Once we arrive back at the cheerful yellow cottage, he takes the mystery bag, in addition to most of the other groceries. I bring in the rest and start putting things away.
“I guessed what we might need, but there should be enough supplies for a few days.”
“Totally.” From what I can tell, he thought of everything. “Can you grill?”
“Do I have a Y chromosome?” he shoots back with a grin.
“Obviously. Let’s do that for dinner.”
“Deal. In the meantime, I’m going to hole up in the kids’ bedroom and do some research. I’ve got a few thoughts about who might be after you, but I want to do my homework first.”
He’s being responsible, and I feel stupidly disappointed for wishing… But no. “I’ll, um, sit at the kitchen table with a paper and pen, maybe try to write something for a future album.”
“You write your own songs?”
“Sometimes.” But I’ve been a little dry on material lately. Life has been dull. So much of the same. Record, appear, travel, pose—in an endless loop over and over. “Anyway, that’s where I’ll be if you have questions.”
He nods, checks the doors and windows again, then disappears to the back of the house. I find a pencil and a piece of paper, then sit…but the words don’t come. Instead, I turn on some cable channel that’s playing game shows and start chopping melons for a fruit salad and fixings for our burgers. I slap together patties and season them. Preparing dinner feels domestic. What if I cooked for Rand every day?
That fantasy plays dangerously in my head until the sun slants through the room and dusk begins to draw near. He steps into the kitchen, big body taut, face tense. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say as I ready the meat on a platter and start baked beans on the stove.
“Looks good.”
I almost make some quip about the man thinking with his stomach, but when I look at where he’s fastened his stare, I see the too-tight sweater has slid away from my nipples. He hasn’t once blinked.
Rand suddenly clears his throat. “I’ll go start the grill.”
Then he’s gone.
Dinner is a quiet affair. He pulls out a bottle of merlot from the mystery bag that so intrigued me at the grocery store and pours me a glass as we sit to eat.
“You’re not having one?”
“I don’t drink on the job. You go ahead. After the day you’ve had, you’re due some liquid relaxation.”
Normally, I wouldn’t. But I have a suspicion I’m going to need booze to make it through an evening this close to Rand… Every hour that ticks by, I’m more aware of him. The tension turns thicker. My body feels achier.
What would he do if I kissed him right now?
He spoons up baked beans from the pan as I toss some lettuce and ketchup on my burger. “Talk to me about your previous agent.”
“Dorinda?” This isn’t where I thought the conversation would head next. “We started in the business together, really. I was young and green. So was she. I got ‘discovered’ at a school talent show, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
I nod. “I sang some Kelly Clarkson song with Kristi and another one of our friends. I had all the high notes and the powerhouse ending. In the audience, the uncle of my piano-playing classmate was watching. He was from LA and knew some people… A couple of weeks later, I was recording demos and getting interest from record labels. Everything happened so fast after that. But when my parents’ divorce went down, Mom was absent a lot. Dorinda stepped in as a surrogate mother figure. When I eventually left her, the guilt almost killed me, but she just didn’t have the contacts I needed to rehab my image from child star to serious adult musician.”
