
Cupid’s Beau (Man of the Month Club)
1. Chapter 1
1
Chapter 1
The cursor blinks mockingly on my laptop screen. I’ve written and deleted the same sentence seventeen times in the last hour. Outside my office window, fat snowflakes drift past, turning Starlight Bay into a scene straight out of a snow globe. February in Massachusetts is exactly as I remembered it - the perfect excuse to hole up and write.
Except I’m not writing.
I groan and slump forward, my forehead hitting the desk with a soft thud. My latest manuscript is due in three months, and I have exactly jack-shit to show for the two weeks I’ve spent hiding out at my parents’ inn. My agent is going to murder me. Slowly. Probably with one of those fancy letter openers she keeps on her desk.
“You’re being dramatic,” I mutter to myself, lifting my head. “You’ve written five books, you can write a sixth. Just… words. On a page. Any words.”
I straighten up, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The cursor keeps blinking.
“The night was…” I type, then delete it immediately. “No. No, no, no.”
From downstairs, I hear the distinct sound of my mother’s footsteps, followed by her voice calling up the stairs. “Neneh! There’s someone at the front desk!”
I close my eyes. “I’m working, Ma!”
“Neneh Aisha Ba!” The full name. Never a good sign. “If you don’t-”
“Fine, I’m going!” I save the practically empty document (force of habit) and push back from my desk, mumbling to myself, “what was that about being dramatic? Clearly hereditary.”
I slide my reading glasses up into my curls and head for the door. The wooden stairs creak under my feet as I make my way down. Our inn might be historic - or old, depending on who you ask - but it’s home. My parents bought it twenty years ago, fresh off their latest restaurant venture in Boston, determined to create something lasting. The Starlight Inn became their American dream, complete with ocean views and questionable plumbing.
“Ma, you could have checked on the guest,” I call out as I pass the kitchen. “I was having a moment with my manuscript.”
My mother’s laugh floats out, along with the smell of her famous Jollof rice. “You’ve been having moments with that manuscript for two weeks. Maybe a distraction will help.”
“That’s not how writing works.” But I’m smiling at her teasing.
I round the corner to the front desk, a professional welcome already forming on my lips. Then instantly forget how to speak.
Because there’s a mountain of a man standing there - tall, broad-shouldered, practically radiating irritation despite being mostly hidden behind a scarf and baseball cap. But it’s his eyes. I know these eyes. I’ve seen them on magazine covers, movie posters, and that one Broadway show my best friend dragged me to last year.
My mouth falls open.
He shifts uncomfortably. “I’d like a room.”
Jack Ellis. Jack fucking Ellis is standing in my parents’ lobby, looking like he just walked straight out of one of those rom-coms he used to play in at the beginning of his career.
I should say something. Anything. What comes out is: “Um.” Real smooth, Neneh. “Right.” I shake my head, trying to reboot my brain. “Sorry. Yes. A room.” My fingers hover over the ancient computer keyboard. The same computer system I’ve used a thousand times suddenly feels impossibly complex. “How many nights?”
“Not sure yet.” His low, gravelly voice comes out gruff, and even through the scarf, I catch his familiar Boston accent.
I nod like this is totally normal. Like we get A-list celebrities at our fifteen-room inn all the time. “We have several rooms available. There’s a king suite with an ocean view, or-”
“Whatever’s furthest from your other guests.”
Right. Because if he’s come to our small town in the middle of the off-season, it’s probably not to be seen. Maybe he’s running from the latest tabloid drama about him and that supermodel? Or the Oscar buzz around his new movie?
“Room 15,” I say. “Top floor, end of the hall. It’s technically our honeymoon suite, but-” I snap my mouth shut. Why did I even say that? “I mean, it’s just a regular room. With a nice bathtub. And, um, privacy.”
He just stares at me.
“I’ll need a name for the registration,” I manage, hoping my face doesn’t show how shocked I am.
There’s a pause. “Smith,” he says finally. “Jack Smith.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. At least he didn’t go with John.
I type ‘Smith’ into the system, playing along. “And how will you be paying, Mr. …Smith?”
He slides a black credit card across the counter. The name on it definitely isn’t Smith. I process it without comment, trying not to react to the fact that I’m holding Jack Ellis’s personal credit card. The same Jack Ellis who got his start in a super popular teen show before graduating to critically acclaimed blockbusters and eventually switching to directing. The same Jack Ellis who made my mother cry with his performance in “Broken Lines” last year.
The same Jack Ellis who’s now drumming his long, strong fingers impatiently on my front desk.
“Right! Sorry.” I hand back his card and grab a key from the rack behind me. “Let me show you to your room.”
I step out from behind the desk, suddenly very aware that I’m wearing old jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt that’s seen better days. At least my canvas shoes are mostly clean. Not that I care what Jack Ellis thinks about my outfit. Nope.
“Follow me, please.”
He grabs his black designer leather duffle bag and falls into step behind me. His looming presence making the familiar hallway feel smaller.
“The stairs are a bit creaky,” I warn as we start up. “Historic charm and all that.”
He makes a noncommittal sound behind me.
“Oh,” I say, because apparently I can’t manage to shut it around this guy, “breakfast is from seven to ten. The dining room is just off the lobby.” We reach the second floor landing. One more flight to go. You can do it, Neneh. “And there’s always coffee in the kitchen.”
More silence. Okay…
The third floor is quiet since most of the inn is empty this time of the year. I stop at the end of the hall and unlock the door, flicking on the lights.
“Here we are.” I step aside to let him in. “Bathroom’s through there, extra blankets in the chest, and-” I notice him scanning the windows. “Don’t worry, the trees block any view from the street. No one can see in.”
He turns his gorgeous blue eyes on me, and for a second I think maybe I made a mistake by making it clear I know who he is. But then he pulls down his thick scarf and I catch the edge of what might be a smile.
“Thanks,” he says, less gruff this time.
“Of course. Um, let me know if you need anything. I’m usually around. Writing. Or attempting to write. Or procrastinating about writing.” I’m rambling. Again. God, why am I rambling? “I’ll just… go now.”
I make it halfway down the hall before I hear his door close, then lean against the wall and let out a long breath.
Jack Ellis is staying in our honeymoon suite. My mother is going to lose her mind.
I practically float down the stairs, my mind racing. Should I tell my mother? He clearly wants privacy, but if she recognizes him… Though to be fair, she might not. Ma is famous for getting her celebrities mixed up. But then again…
Back in my office, I collapse into my chair and stare at my laptop screen. The cursor is still blinking. My manuscript is still empty. But now all I can think about is the way Jack Ellis’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he almost smiled. God. He’s even more handsome in the flesh. Impossibly tall. Big as a house. Those strong hands with thick veins running at the back. That straight, masculine nose. The neatly trimmed beard framing his cut jaw. His high cheekbones. That full mouth. And his eyes… gah! I think I can still smell the woodsy scent of his cologne.
“Focus,” I mutter, shaking my head. “He’s just a guest. A very famous, incredibly hot guest who probably needs a break from his very public life and- no. Stop. Write your book.”
“Neneh!” My mother’s voice carries up the stairs again. “Come help with dinner!”
I close my laptop. Writing’s clearly not happening today, anyway. Besides, I need to warn her about our new guest before she ambushes him with embarrassingly detailed local historical facts. Although watching Jack Ellis try to politely escape one of my mother’s monologues might actually be funny.
I find my mom in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like heaven. Peanut butter, vegetables and beef. Yup, it’s mafé - she always makes comfort food when it snows.
“So,” she says without turning around, “who was at the front desk?”
I lean against the counter, trying for casual. “Just a guest. Room 15.”
“Room 15?” Now she does turn, wooden spoon in hand. “The honeymoon suite? For one?”
“He wanted privacy.”
She raises an eyebrow. “He?”
“Maaaa.” I grab a piece of carrot from her cutting board and pop it into my mouth. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” She swats my hand away from the vegetables. “I just think it’s interesting that a single man wants our most private room in the off-season.”
“He’s…” I hesitate. “He’s kind of famous.”
Her eyes light up. “Famous like your father’s friend who thinks his YouTube cooking channel makes him a celebrity, or famous-famous?”
“Famous-famous.”
“Ah.” She nods quietly, before immediately ruining it by asking, “Who is he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I’m your mother.”
“Exactly why I can’t tell you. You’ll try to feed him and adopt him.”
“I do not-” She stops at my raised eyebrow. “Fine. But we should invite him to dinner.”
“Ma, no.”
“Yes, go tell him dinner’s at seven.”
“Ma, I think he wants to be alone. That’s probably why he’s here.”
She gives me her patented mom look. “Go tell him. Or I’ll do it myself.”
I groan. “Fine. But promise you won’t make a big deal if you recognize him.”
“Neneh, the last celebrity I recognized was Obama.”
I laugh. “Promise.”
“I promise.” She shoos me toward the door. “Now go. And change your shirt - that one has wrinkles.”
I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror, tugging at my fresh shirt. I went with a soft blue sweater that discreetly hugs my curves. Not that I care what Jack Ellis might think about my curves.
The walk up to the third floor feels longer this time. I rehearse different ways to tell him about the dinner invitation, each version sounding more ridiculous than the last. By the time I reach his room, I’m actually missing my writer’s block.
I raise my hand to knock, then lower it. Then raise it again.
“Just do it,” I mutter to myself, then rap quickly on the door before I can chicken out.
Nothing.
I’m about to dip when I hear movement inside. The door opens, and- Oh…
Jack’s removed his hat. His dark hair is slightly rumpled, and that neatly trimmed stubble covering his carved jaw? Fucking delicious. It’s crazy how much better he looks in person than on screen. You would think all the professional makeup, lighting, and camera angles made him look more attractive. But nope. It’s the exact opposite. This close, with him towering over me, his presence is surreal. He’s a man of flesh and bone. I can see strands of silver through his dark hair and beard. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The beauty mark on his cheek that always fascinated me. His…
“Yes?” Jack rumbles, interrupting my thirsty perusal, filling the doorway, one large hand on the door frame.
“Hi! Sorry to disturb you.” My hands twist together. “My mother- um… my parents and I- we’re having dinner at seven, and my mother wanted you to- you don’t have to- but if you’d like to join us…” For fuck’s sake, Neneh, get a grip! I force myself to stop talking.
He studies me for a long moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under those intense navy blue eyes.
“Dinner,” he repeats.
“Yes. My mother’s cooking. It’s really good. She’s making West African food - unless you don’t like- I mean, we could also order-”
“West African?”
“She’s from Senegal. My dad’s from Mali. They met in Paris, moved to Boston, and now they force feed everyone who comes within ten miles of the inn.” I’m rambling again. “You really don’t have to come,” I add. God, what’s wrong with me?
Jack glances over his shoulder inside the room, then back at me. Something in his expression shifts. He’s considering it…
“What time did you say?”
“Seven.” I try not to sound too surprised. “In the dining room. It’s just the three of us, usually. Four with you. If you come. Which you don’t have to.”
The corner of his sexy mouth twitches. “You already said that.”
“Right.” I feel heat creep up my neck. “Sorry. I’ll just…” I gesture vaguely toward the stairs.
“I’ll be there,” he says. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Great! Good. Okay.” I take a step back. “Seven, then.”
He nods and closes the door.
I make it all the way downstairs before I realize I’m grinning like an idiot. My mother takes one look at my face and smirks.
“Not a word,” I warn her.
“I didn’t say anything.” She turns back to her cooking, humming what sounds suspiciously like “At Last” by Etta James.
“I hate you.”
She just laughs.
* * *
I’m rearranging the silverware for the fourth time when I hear footsteps in the hallway. The clock reads 6:57. Of course he’s early.
My dad glances up from where he’s setting out glasses of mint tea. “Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting,” I lie, just as Jack appears in the doorway.
He’s changed into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His hair is damp from a shower, and he’s just as gorgeous as earlier. No, it was not a trick of the light.
“Mr. Ellis!” My mother emerges from the kitchen, beaming. So much for not recognizing him. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Aminata.”
At my mother’s warm greeting, something incredible happens to Jack’s face. His brooding mask melts away and is replaced by a smile that steals my breath - all crinkled eyes and ease. What the hell?!
“Thank you for having me, Ma’am. It smells incredible.”
I repeat, what?!
My mother giggles. The woman actually giggles.
“When you’re done flirting with my wife,” my father cuts in with his brand of dry humor, stepping forward with his extended hand, “I’m Ibrahim.”
“Dad!” I’m mortified by my parents’ behavior but also fighting back a laugh. And Jack’s sheepish expression is priceless.
“What? I’m just saying, if he’s going to turn that Hollywood charm on my woman, I should at least get a proper introduction first.”
We all laugh. And the deep rumble coming from Jack almost makes me forget we’re in a room with both of my parents. The sound is rich and contagious. It envelops me like a warm blanket. Slides along my skin, down my spine, spreads through my chest, sends a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, fizzes all over my body, making my nipples harden under the soft fabric of my sweater, and lands between my legs in a heavy throb… Lord, help me make it through this dinner.
“Please, sit,” my mother says, gesturing to the chair across from me. “I hope you like spicy food.”
“I do.” Jack settles in, his large body filling the space.
He’s more relaxed than earlier. Just a regular guy having dinner with friends, instead of the brooding celebrity who first arrived. Except for the insane levels of hotness, of course.
“Neneh tells us you’re in room 15,” my father says, passing a bowl of stew. “Best view of the bay.”
Jack serves himself, then shares, “I used to come here as a kid. With my mom.” That catches my attention. “Different inn back then.”
“Ah, you must have met the Hendersons,” my father nods. “Good people. They retired to Florida a while ago. We bought it from them.”
“The wraparound porch is the same,” Jack says quietly, almost to himself. There’s warmth in his voice, a faraway gaze, a soft expression on his face. Then he takes a bite of the mafé and his eyes widen. “This is amazing.”
My mother practically glows.
“You should try her thieboudienne,” I say without thinking. “It’s even better.”
“Then I’ll have to stay a few more days,” he replies, looking directly at me.
His eyes send my heart into another gallop. This is ridiculous. I’m a complete fool. Reacting like some groupie.
“Speaking of staying,” my mother says with a feigned innocence that wouldn’t fool a toddler, “Neneh’s here to work on her new book. Are you familiar with her work, Mr. Ellis?”
“Ma,” I groan, but Jack’s already turned his gaze on me with interest.
“You’re a writer?”
My mother cuts in before I can respond. “Her last book was on the Times list.”
“Briefly,” I correct. “Very briefly. And it was the extended list.”
“Still counts,” my dad adds his two cents around a mouthful of food. “And that review in The New Yorker-”
“Can we talk about something else?” I interrupt. “Anything else? The weather maybe?”
Jack’s watching our exchange with what looks suspiciously like amusement. Then he asks, “what do you write?”
“Women’s fiction,” I mumble. “Nothing you’d-”
“‘Baby Blues,’” my mother announces proudly. “That was her last one. Have you read it?”
Something shifts in Jack’s expression. His eyes widening almost comically. “The one about the jazz musician and his daughter?”
I stare at him, mouth agape. “You read my book?” Jack freaking Ellis read MY book?!
“I…” Pink tinges his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Oh My God! Big, brooding, Hollywood star reads women’s fiction. And his slight embarrassment about it is so freaking cute that it almost makes me forget to faint about the fact that he read my words. “My sister recommended it.” His eyes find mine again. Serious this time. Solemn. “She said it reminded her of us. Of our family.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to do with that. With myself. With the fact that Jack Ellis has not only read my words. But they meant something to him and his sister. And it’s not just because he’s a hot celebrity I’ve had a crush on since I first saw him on TV as a teen. No. This is the greatest compliment an author can ever get. This is why we write. To touch people. To connect with real-life stories. Honor and share them.
My father interrupts the intense look Jack and I were exchanging. “The new one’s giving her trouble though,” he stage-whispers.
“Papa!” I run a hand down my face. Can I return my parents for a refund? “Not trouble exactly,” I say, stabbing at my food. “Just… taking its time.”
“Writer’s block?” Jack asks, and there’s something gentle in his voice that makes me look up again.
“More like writer’s entire concrete wall.” I attempt a smile. “Hence hiding out here instead of working in my apartment in New York.”
“Sometimes a change of scenery helps,” he says. “Different perspective.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and for a moment I forget my parents are there. Again. Letting myself drawn in the calm intensity of his stare.
Then my mother clears her throat. “More mafé, Mr. Ellis?”
“Please.” He breaks our eye contact to smile at her. “And it’s Jack, Ma’am.”
“Then you must call me Aminata.” She beams as she serves him seconds. “And you’ll have to tell us about your latest film. The one about the brothers?”
“Ma,” I warn, “I’m sure Mr. Ellis doesn’t want to talk about work.”
“It’s okay,” he says, surprising me. “Actually, there’s a funny story about that one. We were filming in Boston, and this seagull kept diving at our sound guy…”
He launches into the anecdote, and I find myself watching him. The way his big hands move as he talks. How his accent gets stronger when he’s relaxed. His deep laugh when my father shares his own seagull story from his restaurant days. Then it hits me - this is not just me being star-struck or the remnants of my decades-long crush on Jack Ellis, the superstar. I’m attracted to this man. His face, his body, his voice, his kind smiles to my mother, the friendly looks he exchanges with my father, the weight of his gaze when he talked about reading my book. I’m in so much trouble right now…
“And now,” my mother announces as she clears the last plates, “is the best part of dinner.”
Jack raises an eyebrow.
“Oh no,” I mutter, shaking my head, my stomach filling with dread, knowing exactly what’s coming. They wouldn’t.
But my father’s already moving to the record player in the corner of the dining room. “It’s tradition,” he deadpans. “After a good meal, comes good music,” he explains to Jack, “and dancing.”
The familiar crackle of vinyl fills the room, then the soft opening notes of a tragically beautiful afro-Cuban ballad by Buena Vista Social Club follows.
My father bows dramatically to my mother, who giggles like she’s still the young woman who fell in love with him in Paris. They move together with the easy grace of decades of practice.
I risk a glance at Jack, expecting to find him uncomfortable with their display of intimacy. Instead, he’s watching them with warmth.
“They met at a party,” I say quietly. “My father was in college, my mother was visiting the City of Lights. He asked her to dance, and…” I gesture to them, swaying together.
“Sometimes you just know,” Jack says, in a low voice that does things to me. Then he turns his captivating gaze my way and stands, stretching out a hand like some hero from one of his movies. “Dance with me?”
My heart stops. Starts. Stops again. Jack motherfucking Ellis is asking me to dance.
“Oh, I don’t-”
“Please?” he insists with a soft smile.
* * *
His warm hand settles on my waist, keeping a careful distance between us. But even with that space, I’m achingly aware of everything about him - the solid bulk of his shoulder under my palm, the subtle scent of his woodsy cologne, how I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his gaze. How still I have to keep myself to maintain this proper gap between us. The electricity buzzing in the tiny space between our bodies.
“I should warn you,” I murmur, trying to sound normal, “I’m terrible at this.”
“Just follow my lead,” Jack rasps out, his breath fanning my cheek.
He moves us into a slow turn, and despite my warning, he makes it feel effortless. Too easy. I find myself counting steps in my head just to focus on something other than the steady pressure of his hand on my waist. Like a searing brand through the thin layer of my sweater.
“Your parents look happy,” he says after a moment, cutting through my heart’s frantic beating.
“They are.” I wonder if he can feel loud thumps echoing through my chest. “Twenty-eight years and counting.”
He nods but doesn’t respond. Then he glances away, scanning the room like he suddenly remembered where he is, who he is.
The song is ending. Jack steps back smoothly, dropping his hands. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, and just like that, the mask is back in place. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get some rest.”
I watch him head for the stairs, his shoulders tense again under the ridiculously soft fabric of his sweater. All his warmth from dinner packed away somewhere unreachable.
My father touches my elbow. “He’s carrying something heavy, that one.” But there’s no judgment in his voice.
“Papa,” I warn.
“Just an observation.” He starts gathering glasses.
“I’m going to my room,” I announce. But I pause at the bottom of the stairs, listening to Jack’s footsteps above, trying not to think about how it felt to be in his arms - solid, warm, somehow exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all.
The old house creaks as he moves around in his room. I wonder if he’s up there regretting letting his guard down, even if it was only for a moment. Regretting coming here at all.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “He’s just a guest. A temporary guest who happens to be incredibly famous and the sexiest man on earth…” I press my forehead against the wall. “And you’re talking to yourself again. Great.”
Upstairs, a door closes. I straighten up and head to my own room. I have a manuscript to work on. A manuscript that definitely won’t have any characters with impossible blue eyes.
* * *
I’ve been staring at my laptop for an hour, but instead of writing, I keep thinking about steady hands on my body, Jack’s warm smile, his blue eyes, the scent of him, and-
A soft knock at my door makes me jump.
“Neneh?” my mother’s voice calls. “Are you still up?”
I open the door to find her holding a box of Valentine’s decorations.
“No?” is my tentative response.
“Perfect, then you can help me.” She breezes past me, setting the box on my bed. “The Martins are arriving tomorrow - you remember, the couple who got engaged here last year? And with Mr. El- with Jack here too, we should make the inn look festive.”
“Ma, it’s almost midnight.”
“Exactly. Nice and quiet, we won’t bother anyone.” She starts pulling out paper hearts. “You know how your father gets about helping me decorate. No sense of romance, that man.”
I snort. “Says the woman who’s been dancing with him after dinner for nearly thirty years.”
“That’s different.” She pauses, giving me a teasing look. “Speaking of dancing…”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying, you two looked-”
“Ma. Please.” I flop on my bed. “He’s a guest. A guest who probably won’t even be here for Valentine’s.”
She hums noncommittally. “We’ll see.”