Chapter 2
Wilkin
Those four words—well, two words repeated twice to be more accurate—are all I get from Jett for the entire drive to the house we're going to be holed up in until whenever the trial takes place.
I make no more attempts at conversation. He despises me at the best of times, and the last forty-eight hours have been nothing short of a nightmare.
There were rumors about one of the producers on the show, Riff, being sketchy as fuck, but actually seeing him order two thugs to beat someone up, almost to a pulp, wasn't on my bingo card.
I yanked Jett behind a parked car outside the studio lot and called the cops, thinking they'd handle it.
When Jett and I were interviewed by the FBI, separately, I knew we'd waded into something way bigger than either one of us had imagined.
I got escorted to my apartment and told to pack a bag of essentials only before being driven to a secure building.
Jett was already there, looking petrified but still managing to glare at me with those pretty hazel eyes.
We were handed temporary devices, put on a cross-country flight, then whisked away in the back of an unmarked car to a town called, of all fucking things, Cumcircle.
We've been sworn to secrecy, but even if I could tell people, who the hell would believe me? This sounds like the start of a cheesy, straight-to-Netflix movie.
The driver slows as we enter through an impressive black wrought-iron gate. The driveway is straight, lined by tall trees, and so long I can't even see the house. The manicured gardens are enclosed by a thirty-foot-high wall of hedges.
Oh, and there's a helipad. Because of course there is.
We finally reach a large, sandstone house. One of the agents opens the back door, and Jett and I step outside, greeted by a burst of early summer heat. I lift my face toward the sun, absorbing the warmth…until my bag gets unceremoniously shoved into my stomach.
"You're welcome," Jett grits out as he follows the two agents to the front door.
I take a deep, calming breath—routine for whenever I'm around him for more than ten seconds—and join them.
A petite old lady is waiting for us at the open door. "My, my, my," she says with a slight affectation I can't quite pinpoint as she assesses Jett and me with sharp, deep-blue eyes.
"Ma'am." The agent hands her an envelope—with money? instructions on what to do if we happen to murder each other? I have no idea how these things work—then says, "You have our details." They return to the vehicle.
"Good morning, Mrs. MacLeod," Jett says warmly, recalling one of the few scant details we were given about who we'd be staying with. "My name is Jett, and it's lovely to meet you."
She takes Jett in with a smile. He can be disarmingly charming when he wants to be.
So I've heard.
Experienced firsthand? Not so much.
"Please, call me Penny, Jett. And you must be Wilkin," she says to me. "Such a lovely name."
"Thank you," I say, clearing my throat and stepping forward. "And thank you for…taking us in."
I have no idea why such a lovely old lady's beautiful mansion would be the designated safe spot for Jett and me to hide out in, but since it could've been a thousand times worse, I'm not complaining.
Or asking too many questions.
"Not a problem at all. Come in, come in. Are you boys hungry? My grandson is making a spot of lunch."
"That sounds lovely," Jett replies, an easy smile lifting his lips.
Penny reaches for his forearm, and Jett beams at her, threading his arm through hers.
I'm not surprised at his immediate fondness. Penny reminds me a lot of his late grandma, Nancy. He was super close to her and devastated when she passed two years ago.
The inside of the house is just as magnificent as the outside, truly like something out of that Netflix movie, provided it had the budget for marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a regal, curving staircase. This is some serious old money here.
But it's when we reach the kitchen that the magnificence reaches an all-new altitude.
Standing at the counter, tossing a salad—not a euphemism, actually tossing an actual salad—is the most perfect specimen of a man I've ever laid eyes on.
Long, brown hair cascading over two wide shoulders, arms flexing like crazy as he works the leaves over, and a masculine vibe so strong it makes the air around him heavy.
He looks up when he hears us come in, and I'm met with an intense, chiseled face. His dark-brown eyes rove over Jett first then travel to me, and my skin prickles with heat.
"Well, well, well," he says, breaking out into a genuine smile. "If it isn't our new houseguests."
"This is Jett Becall," Penny says, indicating toward him. "And Wilkin Hurst. Isn't that a nice name? Wilkin. Boys, this is my grandson, Reeve. You'll be staying with him in the guesthouse. More fun than being cooped up with boring ol' me like I'd originally planned. Isn't that right, Reeve?"
He props his hands on his waist and looks at Penny with nothing but affection in his eyes. "You're hardly boring. Or old, for that matter."
Penny cackles and tells him to get a hurry on with lunch. He nods and gets back to his salad, and, um, did I hear that right? We're going to be living with this dreamboat?
I glance over at Jett. His face is frozen. So are his eyes. On Reeve's muscular ass. Did he stuff two basketballs inside his jeans because man, those are some seriously round glutes.
I take a deep breath as we make our way over to the dining table. This is going to be a very interesting ride.