Suddenly in Love (Lake Haven#1) (9 page)

She wasn’t going to let those memories keep her from the best apartment on Lake Haven.

Mia moved past the frozen foods section, the gourmet cheese and wine section, and walked outside to the garden area. Just outside the door, dozens of lanterns, made from paper, mason jars and tin cans, glass and bottles, hung overhead in a delightful array that covered the
garden section. She grabbed her phone to take some pictures of the lanterns so she could paint them later.

She was startled by a crash of what sounded like plastic and leaned to her right, peering past a rack of hoes. Plastic watering cans had scattered across the brick walk, and a man was squatting down to gather them up.

That shaggy head of hair looked familiar. Mia squinted at him.
“Brennan?”

His head came up at the sound of her voice. He gained his feet and turned toward her.

It
was
Brennan. But not the same Brennan. This was a much better Brennan . . . a
much
better Brennan. For starters, his clothes looked clean. And while she wasn’t standing close enough to smell him,
he
looked clean. He was wearing snug khaki slacks that rode low on his hips, a long-sleeved chambray shirt open at the collar, and boots of soft leather. The stubble of two or three days ago when she’d last seen him had filled in, his hair had definitely been combed, and it looked as if it had been trimmed, too. Combed
and
trimmed!

“Hey,” he said, looking past her, as if he expected her to be with someone. “What are you doing here?”

She looked around her. “I live in East Beach. This is a hardware store. What are
you
doing here?”

“At the moment, I’m picking up watering cans,” he said, and dipped down to gather several of them.

Mia was unable to tear her gaze away from his much-improved self. His broad back strained against his shirt as he reached for the watering cans. He did not look like a slouch today. No ma’am, he looked really
hot—

“Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to help me?”

Mia was startled into action and accidentally knocked a paper lantern
with her head, causing it to swing around and knock against several others.

“Careful, careful,” he said, and reached for her leg to steady her, his hand
landing on her thigh. She looked down at his hand, then at him. Brennan’s gaze moved over her, and the slightest hint of a smile . . . a knowing smile . . . appeared on his face.

Acutely aware of his hand and eyes on her body, Mia put both hands to the lantern to stop it from swinging and hitting others, then ducked down and away from his hand, and picked up three of the watering cans. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” she asked curiously as she handed the cans to him. “Besides picking up watering cans.”

“Looking for flowers.”

“Aha.”
Aha.
Like she’d made some important discovery. But flowers, huh? For the ex who cheated on him? Or better yet, someone new? That would certainly explain the big spring cleaning of his person.

“For Magda if you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were,” he said, giving her a look. He paused in the work of restacking the watering cans and said, “She doesn’t like me, either.” He smiled wryly.

Well she wasn’t going to deny it, and he didn’t seem to expect her to. He leaned down to pick up another can at her feet. When he stood up, he was so close that she could smell him. Or rather, she could smell his spicy cologne. He smelled good. He smelled like a man. An attrac
tive, virile man.

He was looming above her, that dark-blue gaze peering into her. “And
for the sake of full disclosure, I had to get away from my mom for a bit.”

“Huh?” Mia said, momentarily distracted by his scent. God, was she leaning into him? She quickly straightened up. “Oh, I know, right?” The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how that sounded and said, “I meant
my
mom. Definitely
my
mom—not yours.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I wasn’t offended either way. So . . . you’re living with your mom.”

He said it as if that explained something. Mia felt a flash of guilt—she’d judged him for living with his mother while she was sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood room. “Temporarily,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I was laid off a couple of months ago, and I . . .” She shrugged—it suddenly didn’t seem like the best idea to announce why she’d come home. It sounded sort of pathetic, even though she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’d never held a job of any sort. “Actually, I’m here because I was looking at a garage apartment up the road from here.”
Yes! Focus on the positive!

“Oh. Great.”

That sounded a bit perfunctory, as if he wasn’t really listening. Or interested. “You really don’t like it here, do you?” she asked curiously.

“East Beach?” He shrugged. “It’s okay. Do
you
like it here?”

So many responses flitted through her mind. There was a beauty to Lake Haven and East Beach that she’d missed. But there were other, darker memories here. And none of that even touched the fact that not a whole lot happened in East Beach, unless you were up in arms about the new traffic circle in the middle of town as everyone in the coffee shop seemed to be. Still, Mia had a certain affinity for the town. “Sort of,” she said, in answer to his question. “My family is here.”

“Mine too. So let me ask you something, Aunt Bev’s helper,” he said, and having finished restacking the cans, he turned to face her, hands in his pockets. “Do you ever think about getting out of here?”

Mia snorted. “All the time.”

He smiled. “So why don’t you get out of here? Why rent an apartment? You’re young. Get out while you can.”

Mia blinked. “That’s presumptuous. And nosy.”

“Is it? I’m just trying to save you.” He winked.

“It’s not like I can just decide to jet off to Paris or Rome,” she said with a laugh. “And I didn’t say I was
taking
the apartment.” This conversation reminded Mia of her eleven-year-old self when she’d made friends with the girl from New Haven. She used to ask Mia questions that made her feel defensive.
Why don’t you have Atari? Your house is small. Do you like Chanel or Dooney & Bourke?

“So you’re not taking it,” he said.

She winced a little. “I didn’t say that, either.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Okay, I give. What
did
you say?”

Why did she even care what this guy thought of her? But like her eleven-year-old self, she kind of did. “This is not something you can probably relate to, but right now, I don’t even know if I can get enough work to afford an apartment. I definitely don’t have the money to leave East Beach. It’s not that simple for me.”

One dark brow arched high above the other. “You think it’s that simple for me?”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he scoffed.

“You’re not from here. And you have means,” she said, gesturing to him. “See? Easier.”

“Huh,” he said, and folded his arms across his chest as he considered her. “Do you honestly believe you know anything about me?”

No, she didn’t know anything about him, other than he lived in the Ross house and from all outward appearances, didn’t have a job. She rubbed her earlobe. “No,” she admitted.

“Right. Look, I don’t know what your situation is. But I know from experience that nothing worth having is ever simple.”

Okay, well, she might have been wrong to judge him, but she wasn’t going to take advice from him, either. The guy had only recently found a bar of soap. “Sounds like someone’s been brushing up on their Confucius primer,” she said, and glanced at her watch.

“At least give me an A for effort here,” he said. “I’m trying to have a conversation. I’m not drunk. And I don’t think I stink.”

Something fluttered in a dusty little corner of Mia’s heart. “You actually smell pretty good,” she grudgingly admitted.

“Progress, baby. I’m working on the rude.” He suddenly smiled, and his whole face transformed with it. He looked warm. He looked sexy. He looked like the kind of man a girl would hope to run into at the wine section of the grocery store and start a conversation about the new cabernets, and then somehow, end up at a bistro table drinking said wine. Which was a really strange thing to think about when it came to Brennan Yates. God, what was
happening
?

“By the way, in case I don’t get another opportunity—I’m really sorry for looking at your work,” he said, and placed his hand on his chest. “I wasn’t thinking. But for what it’s worth, I liked what I saw. The scenes from the house looked great, and honestly, your depiction of me was spot on.”

Mia flushed with embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have drawn you like that.” She sheepishly pressed the toe of her Converse sneaker into a seam in the floor. “At the very least, I should never have admitted it was you.”

He laughed. “I’m glad you did. I was an ass and I deserved it.”

She could not suppress a small smile. “You did, a little.”

He arched a brow. “You might have at least taken a breath before
you agreed that I’m an asshole.”

Her smile widened. “I should have given you the benefit of the doubt
and realized there was probably something behind your obnoxiousness.”

His other brow rose to meet the first. “Clearly, I made quite an impression.”

“I just mean that generally people aren’t obnoxious without good reason, and you had a good reason.”

“I did?”

She’d said too much. “Maybe I should have mentioned—your mom filled me in.”

His smile faded and his demeanor changed. He looked at her coolly.

God, Mia.
What did she think she was doing, talking like they were old friends? “She didn’t tell me any details,” she amended quickly, as if that would reassure him.

“Any details about what?”

In what universe was it okay to bring up someone’s ex to a guy one hardly knew? What was the
matter
with her?”

“Details about what?” he asked again.

Mia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “She, ah . . . she just mentioned your breakup.”

She spoke so softly that he had to lean forward. “Come again?”

Mia sighed. “Your breakup,” she muttered like a guilty child.

His gaze was unwavering, boring through her. “Did my mother say any more than that? Did she lay out my entire history for you?”

“No,” Mia said. She felt flush, now. Hot. That wasn’t precisely true.

He glanced away.

“I mean . . . nothing other than it was pretty bad.”

His gaze shifted back to her.

“But that’s it,” she said, and made a slashing motion with her hand.

He put his hands on his waist and turned partially from her, clearly exasperated.

Should she tell him everything? Because there was more. “And I guess she said that you’re having some trouble getting past it and that’s why, maybe, you weren’t so friendly.”
Shut up, Mia. Shut up, shut up.

He closed his eyes with a groan. “Well, I guess that explains everything, then, doesn’t it?”

“I—”

“No, don’t say anything,” he said, and put up a hand before she could offer any more details. “My mother is wrong. She’s
very
wrong, in fact. That’s not why I’ve been an ass. Nope, I have a whole list of reasons for being an ass, but not
that.
”

“I’m sorry. I should really learn to keep my mouth shut.”

He studied her a moment. Then he flicked a wrist. “Forget it. It’s not important.” He looked down a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, then said, “I don’t know if this will make sense to you, but I look at the world in a different way than most people. I don’t mean that to sound as pompous as it probably does, and I don’t mean what I see is better or worse than what anyone else sees. I just mean that I tend to look at things through a different prism, and unfortunately, that has caused me some problems recently.”

Mia was momentarily taken aback. He had just described
her
.

“Okay, so now you think I’m a psycho,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I don’t know how else to adequately describe what it feels like when your internal sea turns over on itself, and the silt and trash at the bottom rises to the top and pushes all the glittering surface to the bottom. You know?”

Mia was stunned. The last thing she expected this man to say was something that perfectly described her feelings about herself and her life right now. She was seeing a completely different person before her. Not a summer person, but someone she could actually relate to. He was flesh and bone and thoughts and feelings and he was
her
. “I get it.”

“What?”

“What you said. I get that. I—”

“Mia! Are you back there?”

She jumped a little at the sound of Wallace’s voice. “Coming!” She looked at Brennan, suddenly desperate to be gone before Wallace wandered back and saw her with him, because she’d never hear the end of it. “I have to run.”

His gaze was locked on hers, and she could feel the heat of it shooting down to her groin.

“See you around, Brennan.” She turned away and ducked under the lanterns and walked quickly to the front of the store without looking back.

Wallace was standing on the sidewalk checking his phone when she emerged outside. Her gaze landed on the black Porsche, and she felt another shiver of heat race up her spine.

Wallace did not look up from his phone when he asked, “Well? Are you going to take it?”

Mia glanced up, to the top of the hill, where she could see the corner of the stone fence that enclosed the old Ross house. “Yes. I’m going to take it.”

Nine

From the garden area of Eckland’s, Brennan watched a Prius pull out of the lot and disappear around the corner of Juneberry Road.

There was something about that girl, although Brennan was at a loss to say what. She
got
him? He talked about his fractured prism like a lunatic, and she understood?

Part of him called bullshit. But she was so different than anyone he’d met in so long now that he honestly wasn’t sure. He generally ran across wildly creative musicians who could only think of music, sycophants, and opportunists. Moreover, he didn’t know if different was a good or bad thing—Brennan would be the first to admit that his perceptions and judgments of people had been compromised by a lot of booze and the occasional joint these last couple of weeks.

One thing was certain—he liked her eyes. He could read what she was thinking in those eyes. And he liked her curves. He liked them so much that at moments during their chat beneath that crazy array of lanterns, he had to force himself to stop imagining her naked.

He was horny. And apparently a pig as well.

He’d known a slight moment of panic when Mia said she’d spoken to his mother. He’d expected the worst, that his mother would have told Mia he was a drunk, and needed rehab, or God, that he was an actual bona fide rock star who had broken up with an A-list movie star. That sort of news generally turned a person’s indifferent attitude around to a desire to be his very best friend.

In fact, he was so used to people looking at him like eager puppies, waiting for some pearl of wisdom or artistry to drop from his mouth, that he didn’t know how to react to this woman. She had no idea who he was, she didn’t want his advice, and she thought she understood him on some level. It was strangely rejuvenating.

Battered and used, my soul badly bruised. You see me standing here, you feel my fear. Come closer, girl. Rescue my shipwrecked heart.

Come closer.

In the garden section of that funky hardware store, otherwise known as the last place Brennan ever thought he would find himself, he paused to take conscious note of his thoughts.
Come closer.
A rush of warmth swept from the top of his head to his feet, his body’s acknowledgment that while the thought wasn’t much, it was a true start.

This was how the good music was born—a tiny seed of thought or chord would turn into tiny shoots of leaves and limbs. As the idea grew, he’d prune some of those limbs, and nurture others into something bigger. He’d keep at it until he had a creation with its own unique beauty that could stand on its own.

Trey used to say Brennan was their Svengali, because when he got an idea, and played a few chords, they all knew their parts. They’d always been that in tune with each other. Brennan hadn’t been anyone’s Svengali in a long time, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he could hear the chord, A minor, could hear the acoustic tone of it on a single guitar.

But not Chance’s guitar.
His
guitar.

Chance would never agree to it. Chance wouldn’t like the minor key, he wouldn’t like the lyric, he wouldn’t like acoustic. He’d say the sound was too sullen, the rhythm too slow. He’d say they needed something up-tempo, a dance beat. He’d play a series of chord progressions that he liked better that would clash with the budding tune in Brennan’s head.

Chance disagreeing was not a bad thing. God knew that had been the way with the two of them since the beginning—two completely different mindsets once they had the basic song in mind. Their process was the yin and yang that had created some platinum hits and had worked for them for many years.

Chance would say it was Brennan’s fault it wasn’t working now, and maybe it was. But Brennan didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to imagine Chance’s face, or the frustration in his voice.

He turned back to the table of potted flowers.

Chance was the elephant sitting on his shoulder, and Brennan was going to have to face it sooner or later. Over the last few days, Chance had sent him a string of text messages, each of them more profane than the last. The band was essentially “broken up” because of Brennan, Chance said, because without their lead singer and songwriter, they had no band. Brennan was taking them down the path of losing everything they had worked for years to achieve. Did he think of the rest of them? Had he seen the latest issue of
Rolling Stone
? They were already making him sound like a has-been.

Brennan had drunkenly texted that he agreed they had some serious business to discuss, but first, he had to figure out what space he was in at this precise moment in his life. He was trying to convey that he needed to exist without tours and studio dates and
Rolling Stone
covers for a few weeks so he could think through his options and what direction he was going.

Chance responded in a tirade that had blurred together on the phone screen. The upshot was that Chance believed that unless they moved in more of a mainstream direction, they would become irrelevant in a fast-paced, digitalized world. They’d be competing with YouTube and Meerkat and iTunes instead of topping the charts like they had done consistently over the last fifteen years.

For what it was worth, Brennan really had tried to be logical, to take the emotion out of his thinking. But he kept coming back around to the same idea: a move to mainstream pop was not the kind of music he and Chance and Trey had ever wanted to make. He didn’t care if he sank into irrelevance because of it—it was more important for Brennan to be true to himself.

He had tried to explain to Chance that he was at a major crossroads in his life, but apparently, he’d done a piss-poor job of it, because Chance had responded with a single
Fuck you.

Brennan picked up some daisies and walked down the aisle.

His problems with Chance notwithstanding, he felt good today, especially now that he had something to work with. He’d been waiting for an idea to take root for weeks, and in the last couple of days he’d gotten so annoyed with himself and his lack of creative spark that he’d begun to pick up his room, putting things in their place. Maybe he’d cluttered his head with all that shit on the floor.

This morning, he’d cleared out trash in an effort to find the source of the sour smell that had begun to invade every corner of his suite. He’d gathered up empty beer bottles, crushed Cheetos bags, and a Chinese food container that he vaguely remembered his mother bringing to him completely full.

When he was done, he’d dragged an extra-large bag of trash and a duffel bag full of laundry downstairs.

Magda had glared at him, eyeing the two bags suspiciously.

“Where would you like me to put them?” he’d asked.

“What is it?”

“Trash. Beer bottles, food containers—”

“No food containers in the recycling,” she’d said, and snatched the bag from his hand.

“And this is my laundry,” he’d said, ignoring how she’d wrinkled her nose at the duffel full of dirty clothing as he let it slide off his shoulder. “I personally picked up the most offensive pieces from the floor of my room and stuffed them in here, hoping some Good Samaritan . . . or paid employee . . . would launder them for me.”

Magda had frowned darkly.

“I’d do it myself, but my mother left laundry out of my basic education.”

“All right, Mr. Yates.”

“It’s Brennan,” he’d said, and had walked through the kitchen, grabbing a banana off the banana tree, walking past the kitchen table where piles of scrap materials and paint chips had been stacked for the last few days.

It was the twinge of guilt for laying all of that on cranky old Magda that had prompted him to stop at Eckland’s for flowers to brighten her day—although he was fairly certain even frolicking puppies couldn’t brighten that woman’s day.

But it was his day that had been made brighter. Aunt Bev’s helper was still dancing around his mind’s eye as he paid for the flowers and chatted up the old man.

The image in his mind’s eye was telling Brennan he smelled good as he walked out to his car and got in. She was smiling shyly as he headed north with no destination in mind. And her honey-colored eyes were staring up at him when his phone rang.

He punched the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”

“Don’t hang up.”

It was Phil, his agent. Had Brennan hung up on him before? The phone calls had begun to run together into one long foggy memory. “I’m not going to hang up,” he said. “Did Gary tell you to call me? Because if you’re calling to make the band’s case for him, you’re wasting your—”

“No, no. Listen, something’s come up. Something I think you’re really going to dig, man.”

Brennan doubted it. “What?”

“I’ve been in touch with a Hollywood producer, Kate Resnick. Heard of her?”

“No.”

“You’re kidding. Kate is
huge
,” Phil said, and rattled off several movies she’d made. Not that any of them meant anything to Brennan, and to Phil, every opportunity, every celebrity, every music exec was
huge
. “She’s a big fan of yours, man,” he said. “I mean, if you were standing before her she’d drop to her knees and—”

“What do you want, Phil?” Brennan interrupted.

“She’s doing this film about that kid who was kidnapped and taken to Mexico, right? The one who lived?”

Brennan vaguely remembered that piece of news from a couple of years back—a rich white kid from San Diego whose father was mixed up in the Mexican drug trade. The cartel kidnapped the kid, and when they got the ransom, they took him out into the desert, shot him, and left him for dead. But he survived and somehow managed to walk out. “I remember.”

“Well, she wants you to write the soundtrack to the movie.”

Brennan laughed. “I’m not a composer. I’ve never scored anything.”

“Not a score, a soundtrack. She has this idea that some of the narrative will be told in original song. Isn’t that great? Great exposure, great opportunity.”

Brennan had to pause to think. “Did you run it by Chance?”

“No, man. She doesn’t want Tuesday’s End, she wants you and you alone to do the soundtrack. I mean, if you want to bring some of the guys in, that’s fine. But she wants this to be
your
baby.”

The news was so surprising and unexpected that Brennan pulled over onto the side of the road. “Phil—is this for real?”

“Hell yes it’s for real!” Phil said, his voice buoyant. “There’s a lot of money in it, too. This has the potential to launch you into a whole new category of songwriter, you know what I’m saying?”

This was exactly the sort of vehicle that Brennan needed to test the waters of his creativity. It was a challenge, a path to something new. So many questions and thoughts pinged like a barrage of bullets in his head. There was a lot he had to consider before he would ever commit to something like this, but it felt as if the universe had heard his cry and was responding by dropping this in his lap.

“It’s fantastic, right?” Phil asked again, sounding a bit more uncertain.

“It’s fantastic,” Brennan agreed. He could hardly think, his mind was reeling with the improbability of it all. “Have you mentioned it to Gary?” he asked carefully, referring to the band’s manager.

“No, of course not,” Phil said. “I won’t until you tell me to.”

“Please don’t until I give you the okay,” Brennan said, and released a slow breath. He could just imagine Chance’s fury when he heard about this. “I need to think about this, Phil.”

“Yep, of course. I’m emailing you the script right now. Take a look, tell me what you think. But let me hear from you. Don’t make me chase you down.”

“No,” Brennan said. “I won’t. But give me a few days.”

When he’d finished the call, Brennan sat a moment, staring blindly out the windshield, the possibilities racing around his head. It felt as if something had cracked inside of him. Light and sound were slowly filtering into that dark, dank space he’d been filling with booze for the last few weeks.

He finally put the car in gear and pulled out onto the road, driving slowly at first, then accelerating. He flew down the two-lane road, his speed hitting eighty-five. Phil had just cut the shackles from his body. He’d just set Brennan free.

Brennan exploded into a shout of laughter and banged a fist against the steering wheel.