Authors: Chloe Cole
Chapter Two
Five days later, bags packed, Gigi waited for the bus to
pick her up. The butterflies that had been camping out in her belly for the
last few days kicked up a huge fuss as the behemoth vehicle came around the
corner, right on time.
She grabbed two bags and lugged them to the curb, leaving
behind several others and a cooler in case the refrigerator wasn’t big enough
for all the food she’d purchased. She was all prepped to walk in and focus one
hundred percent of her energy on cooking. Maybe it would keep her mind off the
fact that it was going to be her and Beau all alone for a day and a half on
that bus.
Beau had been staying at his fishing cabin in the Florida
Keys, so the band had decided that he would swing by and get her in Tennessee
on his way north. Then they’d meet up with the rest of the band in New York to
play their first show of the tour. After that, there would be ten more shows
with almost nonstop travel back down the East Coast. In spite of constantly
reminding herself this was just work, she couldn’t suppress the feeling that
she was embarking on a great adventure.
The door folded open and Beau came down the steps to meet
her. His hair glowed like a burnished halo over his head, but the grin was all
devil. She resisted the urge to swipe a hand over her mouth to check for drool.
“Hey there, girl. Looks like you got a lot of clothes there
for just two weeks. I woulda never took you for that type.”
His puzzled gaze traveled over her jeans and polo shirt and
she tried not to cringe.
“Your first instinct was dead-on. I’m not exactly what you’d
call a fashion plate. Most of this stuff is cookware, then some staples for the
next few days. It’s heavy, so be careful,” she warned as he bent low.
He hoisted up one of the largest boxes without even a
grimace. His biceps bulged and she had to look away for fear of grabbing hold
of one and squeezing. This nonsense had to stop before it started. He was so
far out of her league it was as if they weren’t even playing the same sport.
Her gaze returned to him just the same, and she watched as
he boarded the bus. She grabbed a bag and followed. She was so taken with his
rear twitching as he walked, she wasn’t watching where she was going. A
terrifying, one-armed, windmilling second later, she was sprawled out over the
steps, on top of a bag that had both sounded and felt suspiciously like a
carton of eggs.
“What the— Are you okay?”
She craned her neck up to see that Beau had abandoned his
box and was bent over her, his face tight with concern. If she had three
wishes, she would have used one in a heartbeat to have a do-over of the
previous ten seconds. Her knees throbbed where they’d connected with the metal
steps and her face burned in abject humiliation.
“Damn it, Gigi, answer me. Did you break something?”
“My eggs,” she muttered miserably.
“Your eggs? You mean…” His eyes went a little wide as he
struggled to make sense of her words.
“No! I don’t even—no. Like, eggs. From chickens.”
He stared at her for a long second and then flashed his
dimples. “Well, that’s all right then. We can get more of those at the store.
Come on, let me help you up.”
She pushed herself onto her knees and winced. Beau took her
elbow and guided her to her feet. Sparing a glance at her ruined shirtfront,
she groaned. Judging by the carnage, she’d managed to land on the entire dozen.
Gloppy whites mixed with runny yolks, saturating her top.
Beau stared at her chest intently until she cleared her throat.
“Um, I gotta change.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking, from this angle it kind of
looks like one of those abstract, artsy-fartsy paintings.”
She laughed in spite of her embarrassment. “If you’re nice,
I’ll frame it for you.”
“I’m always nice.”
His voice had gone low and ran over her like an intimate
caress. She stared up into his true-blue eyes and tried to think of a response.
Jesus, he was beautiful.
He stepped back and released her arm abruptly. “Besides,
usually I get panties thrown at me, so this will be an interesting change of
pace.”
“I bet.”
“Come on, let me show you to the bathroom. There’s clean
washcloths under the sink. You can throw on one of my t-shirts for the time
being until you get your stuff unpacked. I’m going to finish loading the bus then
clean up this mess.”
“I can clean it,” she protested. She’d already caused enough
trouble and it was only her first day.
“Just get washed up. You’ll have plenty to do with unpacking
all this stuff and making me a gourmet meal tonight.”
The eggs had started to coagulate and were sticking to her
stomach so she nodded then followed him into a bedroom. He rifled through the
drawers and tossed her a shirt. He pointed to the bathroom then headed out to
get the rest of her bags.
“I’m really sorry for the inconvenience, Beau.”
“It’s not your fault, girl,” he drawled, a wicked light
blazing in his eyes. “Women tend to get wet when I’m around.” He stepped off
the bus, but his low chuckle trailed behind him.
She didn’t respond, but closed the bathroom door with a snap.
As she turned toward the shower, she got a glance of herself in the mirror. Her
hair had started falling from its clip and her shirt looked as if she’d been on
the losing end of a paintball war. The worst thing, though, was the goofy grin
that wreathed her face.
Beau “Fiddly” Trudeau was trouble. Big trouble.
* * * * *
Two hours later, ensconced in a cozy Buddy Holly shirt, Gigi
was putting the last of the food away. There wasn’t enough space for all the
cooking paraphernalia she’d brought, so some had spilled into the living room,
but at least it was put away.
She glanced at her watch and realized with a start that it
was almost four o’clock. She’d have to prep dinner before unpacking her
clothes, otherwise she’d be behind. That, and she’d have to give Beau his
t-shirt back. She lifted the corner and sniffed it again for the dozenth time.
It was freshly laundered, but still had a hint of something—sandalwood
maybe?—that reminded her of its owner.
Beau was holed up in his bedroom writing music. He’d been at
it for over an hour now but very little sound was coming from the room. He’d
explained that the band was under pressure to release another album quickly,
hoping to capitalize on their newfound popularity. He didn’t seem all that
enthusiastic about the task, but she was thrilled. After only a few short hours
in his presence, a break from the incessant and almost palpable sexuality
rolling off him was exactly what she needed to regain her focus.
By the time he barged out awhile later, supper was in full swing.
She had her earphones on and had been singing along to an old Drifters song
while she stirred the creamed corn.
“Is that bread?” he shouted.
She plucked the buds from her ears and smiled. “Yep. Almost
ready too. Another ten minutes. You hungry?”
“Hell yeah. I’m always hungry, so you never need to ask. If
you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“How’s it going with the writing?”
“Slow. It’s going real slow. I’m feeling sort of blocked
lately, but it’ll turn around.” He flicked a glance to the iPod she’d laid on the
countertop. “What’re you listening to?”
She gave a sheepish shrug. “Oldies. I love doo-wop.”
He grinned. “Me too. Feel-good music. Makes you think it
would’ve been great to live in the fifties. What else do you listen to?”
“Classical most of the time. I also like old-school rap
though.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Okay, now that’s a wild mix
of styles.”
His teeth were white and strong against his tan skin and she
wondered what it would be like to have them on her shoulder…or thigh. She
squeezed her legs together at the sudden warmth pooling between them. “What
kind of music do you listen to?”
“I usually like to listen to what I play, so mostly I choose
rock music, or country when I’m back home. There’s a time and place for almost
every type of music though.”
She nodded. “I agree. You know, after I got the job I
checked you guys out on YouTube. You sound really great.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You never heard us before
that? Even when you contacted Quinn about the job?”
“Quinn actually called me after we met at that event. I
wasn’t really sure who— I mean, maybe I’d heard you guys on the radio, but—”
He cut her stammering off with a wave of his hand. “It’s
okay, no need to explain. Just lets me know that our global domination isn’t
complete yet.”
“Want to play me a song while we wait for the bread? I’d
love to hear you play.”
He picked up the violin he’d laid on the table. “Sure. What
do you want to hear?”
“What can you play?” she countered.
He looked thoughtful for a second before he answered matter-of-factly,
“Just about anything.”
“Anything?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugged. “If I’ve heard it, I can play
it.”
“Beethoven Violin Concerto,” she demanded. Her heart
skittered as he raised the instrument to his chin and gave her a wink.
His eyes drifted shut as the first clear notes rang out. The
music poured from him, like rays from the sun, and she basked in the light. She
took a step toward him, drawn inexorably closer, before she caught herself and
stopped. Luckily he was too caught up to notice.
His brow wrinkled, not in concentration, but with emotion as
he played. She stood and watched, afraid to make a sound and break the spell he
was weaving, but an all-too-short minute later, his eyes snapped open and he
brought the piece to a premature close.
“That one?” he asked with a grin.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, she was so moved by the
beauty of the moment…the beauty of the man. She didn’t trust herself to speak,
but nodded vigorously. Then promptly burst into tears.
“Holy sh— I’m so sorry, baby girl.” His panicked tone almost
made her grin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He moved closer and patted her
shoulder awkwardly.
She took a shuddering breath and beamed at him through the
veil of tears. “It’s okay. It’s a good cry. I love that piece. Do you know the
whole thing?”
He nodded.
“Amazing. You’re…magic, Beau. That is such a talent, jeez,
do you know what people would give for a talent like that?”
A ruddy flush stained his cheekbones. She’d embarrassed him,
she realized with delight. Strange, a guy with so much swagger getting all
flustered over a few tears and a compliment.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he muttered.
“I did, so much. Did you always know this is what you were
meant to do?” she asked.
The confidence he typically wore like a red cape was still
nowhere to be seen as he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I used to want to
be a doctor, but I always had a head for music. Not much else, seemed like. I
had some…trouble reading when I was young.”
He looked away for a moment before lifting his chin and
returning his gaze to hers. “Music was all so clear in my head from listening,
I didn’t need to read it. My mama suggested lessons. It was a great escape. By
the time I learned how to manage my dyslexia, the violin had me, strung tight.
I had no choice. This isn’t what I do. It’s what I
am
, you know?”
She did know. That was how she felt in the kitchen. It gave
her a sense of belonging and fullness she’d never felt anywhere else.
Beau folded his arms then stepped back. Gigi got the sense
that he’d said more than he’d intended.
“Now, if you’re all done crying, maybe we can talk about
that unbelievable smell. Two questions. What’re you making, and is it almost
ready?”
Change of subject to a safe, impersonal topic. Perfect. She
didn’t want to like this guy any more than she already did. “Baked-fried
chicken, creamed corn and asparagus tips.”
He squinted at her suspiciously. “Is it baked or fried?”
“It’s baked,” she continued hurriedly over his groan, “but I
swear you’d never know it! In fact, if you’re not licking your fingers
afterward, you can have anything you want tomorrow night.” Her cheeks burned as
his gaze narrowed and flickered to her mouth.
“To eat, I mean,” she sputtered. Argh,
not
better
.
“For dinner.”
A grin split his face and she punched him lightly in the
arm. “Stop trying to fluster me, Mr. Trudeau. It’s impolite.”
“Yes ma’am. And I will certainly take you up on that offer.
Whichever way you meant it.” He chuckled and brushed past her to the kitchen.
At least the unbearable tension had been broken. The last
thing she needed was to get all nutty over a man now. Especially one who likely
wouldn’t give a girl like her the time of day.
It’d be a whole lot easier to manage if he’d stop looking at
her like that though.
Chapter Three
The second Beau sank his teeth into the crunchy coating, he
knew he’d lost the bet he’d made with Gigi. The flavor exploded in his mouth
and he groaned. “Damn, girl, that’s some good chicken.”
“Thanks. It’s way healthier than fried, but still tastes
like the South. Plus, it’s got a nice subtle heat that sneaks up on you at the
end.”
Funny, he’d just been thinking exactly the same thing about
her. She still wore his shirt and he marveled at how different it made her
look. It was long on her, mid-thigh, but clung to her full, round breasts in
the sexiest way.
Originally, he’d thought her frumpy, but now he wondered if
it was just the clothes. Maybe he’d mistaken modesty for frumpery, or maybe she
just didn’t know how to dress her curves. Whatever the reason, with just the minor
adjustment in wardrobe, he’d become acutely aware that this pistol was
definitely loaded.
He realized he was staring and tore his gaze away to pour
them both a refill of sweet tea. She still hadn’t taken a bite of her food and
seemed to be waiting expectantly. He realized she wanted him to keep eating, to
try everything before she ate. He was happy to oblige as he forked down a
mouthful of sweet creamy corn. He gave her a thumbs-up as he chewed and she
clapped her hands, delighted by his approval.