Unlocking the door, he set her suitcase inside the door and handed her the key. “Cindy said to let her know if you needed anything else.”
“Thanks.” The way it sounded, Cindy could be her best friend here, or her worst stumbling block. The gatekeeper to Stu, who controlled access to Jet.
The cottage appeared tiny from the outside, but actually had two stories if the bedroom loft counted. A boomerang-shaped overstuffed sofa dominated the main floor, and cabinets topped with bookshelves lined either wall. In a small nook sat a ceramic-topped iron bistro table and two chairs.
As cozy as a beach getaway.
She swung her carryon bag atop the tufted ottoman. Turning to retrieve her suitcases, she stopped short.
Jet leaned against the doorway. If his presence had been palpable in the house, he overwhelmed this small space.
His lopsided smile appeared almost shy. “Need any help settling in?”
The personal touch. If he hoped to make it literal, he could forget it. Despite her resolve, she found him overwhelmingly distracting. She had trouble recalling what she’d planned to do.
Glancing around, she thought she’d be pretty pathetic if she claimed to need help. “Nope, I think I can find everything.”
Stepping inside, he closed the door and moved toward her slowly. Purposefully.
Her pulse quickening, she tensed, but couldn’t find her voice to ask what he wanted.
He touched the cabinet. “There’s a small fridge under here. I’ll have Cindy stock it for you.”
Nodding, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Great. Thanks.” She felt sure he must hear her heart pounding. And think her an idiot. “It’s an adorable little place. You’re saving the magazine a bundle by letting me stay here.”
When he moved closer, his crystal blue eyes felt like a laser piercing her own.
To clear her head, she turned away. “It’s situated perfectly too. Right next to the house.” Could she possibly sound any more brainless?
She sensed him directly behind her. His soft tone made her muscles go fluid. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining his famous voice singing to her alone.
“If you look out your bedroom window, you can see into mine. Right over there.” His arm lifted beside her and pointed.
His warmth penetrated her skin. He smelled like ocean and musk. An impulse struck her to guide his arm around her, fit herself against him. Fill her senses with him.
Snapping to reality, she fumed at his flirting, but made her voice sweet as honey. “Oh, over there? I appreciate you telling me.” Smiling, she turned. “I’ll be sure to keep my curtains closed.”
Tensing, he straightened, and his nostrils flared.
Her muscles drew taut in response.
You shouldn’t have made him mad--not the first day.
But his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he cocked his jaw and nodded. “Billie Prescott.” He said her name with a kind of wonder.
Not quite knowing what to make of it, she gave a giddy laugh. And wanted to die. “Jet Trently. We finally meet.” As though she’d been waiting. Or it had been prearranged. By whom? The universe?
To recover her composure, she went to her bag and pulled out her laptop. “Any internet connection in here?”
He flopped onto the sofa and extended his arms across the back. “Wireless, pretty much from everywhere.” With a kind of amused curiosity, he watched her. “We need to talk.”
Her mind blanked. The way he spoke sounded so intimate, as if he wanted to discuss their relationship. His gaze seared into her, and she had trouble remembering they had no relationship. “About what?”
His mouth curled into a smile. “The show. Don’t you want to interview me?”
She felt her face flush. He played a cat and mouse game. And he’d trapped her already. “Yeah, absolutely. I need to review the materials to get some notes together first.” And her head. She couldn’t let him mess with her mind any further. She’d come to do a story. And she intended to make it great. Get it over with, so she could go home.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I could give you the grand tour.”
“Yes, great.” Damn, his intense focus wiped clean her slate of thought. She stepped away to retrieve some semblance of dignity. “But what about the cameras? I have to be invisible. I’m not part of any of this.”
He rose slowly. “The show doesn’t start until tomorrow.”
“Right.” She must be making one hell of an impression. Stu would regale Everett with her complete idiocy. Maybe the flight had dehydrated her. Or the time difference had thrown her off balance. “Could I see the kitchen first? I’m really thirsty. My day started at four thirty this morning Eastern.”
“Sorry. Why didn’t you say something? Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Yes, I didn’t think the driver would want to stop along the way, even if I offered to buy him a drink.” Ah. The return of the old Billie. The girl not impressed by rock stars. Not starstruck like some teenage fan.
He went to open the door and inclined his head toward the outside. “Let’s go raid the fridge.”
“Are you sure you have time?” What, like he needed to study a script? All he had to do tomorrow, it seemed, was roll out of bed on time.
“Absolutely.”
Egotistical, but also a gentleman. Interesting combo.
Grabbing her messenger bag containing the essential digital camera and recorder, she followed him back the way she’d come. Much nicer walking beside Jet than following the
Rock Bottom
worker. Jet made eye contact when he spoke. Strolled along as if he enjoyed her company.
He kept the conversation going. “So you’re from Philly?”
A true marketing pro, pretending interest in her life.
“Yes. Pennsylvania born and bred.” God, she made herself sound like a crop of corn. “Where are you from?”
“Jersey, mostly. Though my dad lived in Philly, so we split our time with him.”
“That must have been tough. Do you have brothers and sisters?” The instant she said it, regret snapped her attention to him.
“A sister. My brother, Jeff, died a few years ago.” A catch in his voice, then he flashed a smile, though his pain still came through.
“That’s right. I’m so sorry.” The news came to mind then: the death of Jet’s brother, the lead guitarist, had nearly destroyed the band, already almost lost in obscurity. Then Jet launched the group anew, though Chalmer Freeburn, Jeff’s replacement, caused immediate friction within the band. The media couldn’t get enough news about his wild partying. Onstage, Chalmer’s presence loomed as strong as Jet’s, and his searing guitar licks sometimes overshadowed Jet. With the public’s interest renewed, Jet’s musical career slid back on track. Or rather, back into the same tired old track. “That must have been terrible for you.”
He paused at the door, his expression unreadable. Surprise? Wariness?
Pushing open the door, he gestured. “To the right.”
She knew when to drop a subject. Jet obviously drew the line at discussing his family. Surprising for someone who’d made every move of his personal life open for public discussion. Good for him. Some celebrities didn’t know when to keep the public out of their lives.
On her earlier walk through, she hadn’t noticed the state-of-the-art kitchen. “Do you cook?” Or did anyone, she wondered. Such a waste of sleek, overpriced appliances--for show only. Like everything in the place. Especially the people.
He shrugged. “I’ve been known to scramble a mean egg. Not much beyond that.” Opening the refrigerator, he bent to look inside and named the contents. “Or I have these mini bottles of wine--a nice Riesling. Want to try one?”
“That sounds nice. To take the edge off my frazzled nerves.”
He popped open two and clinked his bottle against hers. “Cheers.” He leaned an elbow against the counter.
She didn’t mind the unhurried nature of the tour. A nice contrast to her nonstop rush of a day.
When her phone buzzed, she slid it from her pocket. Everett texted:
Glad you arrived safe and sound. Looking forward to news from the West Coast.
Erasing it, she could almost taste her bitterness.
Right. I miss you too.
“Boyfriend?” Jet renewed his intense focus.
She dropped the phone in her bag where she’d be less likely to hear it. “No. My editor checking in. Sometimes I loathe the person who invented cell phones. Not a moment’s peace.”
“Part of the biz we’re in, I guess.”
“Speaking of which…” From her bag, she pulled the Canon Rebel. “Do you mind if I get some still shots for the blog?”
“Not at all. The house has been filmed so many times I’m surprised people aren’t tired of it.”
“Not at the start of a new season. People can’t get enough.” Other people, not her. She couldn’t admit to the star of
Rock Bottom
she hated reality shows, thought them a total bore.
He made a noise of acknowledgment, the sound of a thought held back.
“That doesn’t thrill you, huh?” Curiosity piqued her interest, and she leaned on the counter beside him.
“Oh yeah. I’m happy people want to watch the show.” Straightening, he gestured. “Shall we?”
“Yes.” Following him through the dining room, she let the subject drop. Whatever his thought, he obviously had no intention of sharing it. She’d have to make him feel at ease again. “Amazing house.” Snapping random photos, she couldn’t imagine wanting to purchase such a monstrosity, but he probably needed something this large to house his reportedly oversized ego.
“Isn’t it? The architecture’s 1930s, tweaked by a designer to modernize it. We’d planned to set the show in LA, but someone told me about this place.”
“You bought this place specifically for
Rock Bottom
?” She aimed the camera at him.
He leaned against the back of a chair, legs crossed, and aimed those amazing blue eyes at her. Snapping a few shots, she thought his smoldering gaze might melt the lens, but had the odd sensation he looked beyond the camera--to her.
Strolling into the hallway, he continued, “Actually it’s a rental. A little large for my taste, but the additional rooms come in handy for the girls to stay in.”
Ah yes. The girls. His personal harem. A good reminder not to get too caught up in the Jet mystique.
To keep the casual conversation flowing, she asked, “What sort of house do you prefer, if not one like this?”
He flashed a wry smile. “Something cozier, less flashy. I always thought McCartney had the right idea, living in a small house where the entire family had to watch TV in the same room.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “You have kids?” She hadn’t heard that. Maybe he’d kept them secret. She gripped the camera more tightly, awaiting his response.
“Not yet. I hope to someday.”
Whatever knot twisted inside her released. Instinctively, her palm went to her belly. What did she care if he had kids? “Ah, after you find your soul mate.”
His voice thickened. “Ideally, yes.”
Surprise made her turn. Her open mouth clamped shut when she realized the emotion he struggled to restrain seemed to be amusement, not yearning.
Grinning, he leaned in. “What about you?”
He had a way of zeroing in on her, catching her off guard. “Sorry?”
“Any kids?” His casual tone conflicted with his sharp gaze.
She turned away, pretending interest in the abstract painting hanging over the dining room credenza, red squares within other red squares, echoing like a tunnel. “No.”
He moved behind her. “Don’t want them?”
The space between them crackled to life like a science experiment. If she touched him, she felt sure the resulting zap would have damaging consequences to her psyche. She stepped away. “Yes. But not now.”
Following, he asked softly, “When you find your soul mate?”
A blush burned her cheeks. “Let’s stick with you, shall we?”
“You’re more interesting.”
Did he always pursue women so relentlessly? Probably her lack of interest made her seem more interesting to him.
“Can you turn it off, at least for the interview?” It came out more sharply than she’d intended, and she ducked her head.
“My charm? Sorry, it’s natural.” He smirked.
“Mmm.” Her noncommittal grunt neither confirmed nor denied it. If pressed, she’d admit he had charm--but not to him, of course. For Billie, a man’s charm diminished when overshadowed by ego. Someone should school Jet in the
less is more
concept. Though right now, she needed more space between them to clear her head.
* * * *
Following her, Jet chuckled to himself. Billie Prescott was not what he expected in any sense. Female. Smart. A little shy--cute, he hadn’t run up against a shy girl in a while. Even cuter, she tried to hide it by acting tough. Despite the act, she had another quality he hadn’t come across in too long. She was genuine. Grounded. She knew what she wanted, apparently, and wasn’t easily impressed. Because of that, he found he could relax. It felt good. So good, he wanted to keep teasing her.
In the front hall, she touched the banister. “I think I’ve seen most of the first floor. Can we go upstairs?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured near her ear. His hand grazed the small of her back.
She stiffened at his touch. Adjusting the strap of her bag, she ascended the steps.
Huh.
Not the usual reaction. A contestant would have draped herself around him and pulled him down to the steps. “Would you like me to carry that? It looks heavy.”
“I’m used to it. But thanks.” Her look of surprise disappeared and she started upstairs again. “So all the contestants stay here while you’re taping the show? How many to start?”
Okay. Strictly business. So be it. “Six. They stay in these three bedrooms.” He jogged to the top of the steps and swung to the right.
This house fit the show. Each bedroom held two double beds, two vanities and had its own small bathroom. Less for the women to share, so presumably less to fuss about. Or so he’d thought.
As they strolled past, Billie shot some pics. “Nice. So where do you stay?”
He held back a grin at her formality. “On the other side.” He walked past the stairway and opened the first door. “This is a getaway space. To read, whatever.”