Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ADDISON
It’s so hot in the kitchen today that I barely survive the breakfast service.
The rest of the kitchen staff looks equally as miserable as we clean up and start getting things ready for lunch, which starts in thirty minutes.
Everyone’s got damp towels wrapped around the back of their necks in attempts to cool off.
But that’s not going to cut it for me. The heat is making me cranky, and I need a break before I snap at someone.
So I leave the kitchen and step out onto the back porch. The fresh air hits me immediately, and I breathe a long sigh of relief. Even though it’s summer, it feels cooler out here than it was in there.
Damn AC. I told Brenden last week that it’s been fritzing out on us, but since it hasn’t completely died, he hasn’t sent anyone out to fix it yet.
“Busy breakfast rush?” a soft voice asks.
Whipping my head to the left, I spot the annoyingly attractive redhead that keeps popping up everywhere as if the universe is determined to drive me crazy.
I suppose it’s not her fault I’m attracted to her. Or that I really don’t want to be. But it is her fault that she’s chosen to stay here instead of a fancier corporate chain that would be better equipped to accommodate fussy celebrity requests.
Okay. So maybe she hasn’t actually made any fussy requests. The syrup thing wasn’t that big of a deal. But something about her staying at the inn is keeping me on edge. And I’ve got enough to worry about in my job without the added stress.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I tell her, stepping closer to where she’s sitting at the top of the steps with a guitar in her lap. “Just ridiculously hot in the kitchen. I needed to get out of there for a minute.”
“Sorry,” she says, like she’s personally responsible for the heat.
I shrug. “Comes with the job.”
She nods, though I’m sure she has zero idea what working in a kitchen is like.
She’s wearing one of those tiny sundresses again, and looking down at her from this angle, it’s almost impossible not to notice her cleavage.
Her chest isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that the moderately low-cut dress accentuates her curves perfectly.
No.
Damn it, I’m being way inappropriate. She’s done nothing to indicate she’d appreciate me checking her out like that. I take a seat beside her to eliminate the tempting view, the wide steps allowing me to leave plenty of space between us.
Of course, another option would’ve been to simply go back inside, but I don’t want to. Because it’s so hot in there. Obviously.
“You didn’t come for breakfast,” I remark casually. It’s not that I care whether or not she eats here. It would be easier for me if she didn’t. I only asked the waitstaff to let me know whenever she’s in the dining room so that I can make sure her service goes smoothly. That’s all.
Remembering the way I sort of berated her over the syrup yesterday, I cringe and add, “I didn’t scare you off, did I?”
Her light laughter is almost musical. “No, don’t worry. I’m not that easy to intimidate.”
“I wasn’t trying to intimidate you.” That might be a lie, but whatever. For some reason, I feel kind of bad about it now.
“A lot of times I’m not that hungry for breakfast,” she says. “At home, I’d typically make myself a green smoothie, but unfortunately, there’s nowhere I can get one here.”
I frown at that, waiting for her to demand we make them for her. Because she must be used to getting what she wants.
She doesn’t do that, though. Instead, she casts her gaze down at her guitar and starts plucking idly at the strings.
I don’t recognize the melody, and if she’s playing her own music, it’s doubtful I would.
Her only songs I really know are the ones that are inescapable.
Those upbeat ones with overly simplistic choruses that you hear all the time on the radio or in grocery stores.
I don’t mind some old school country, but her pop/country version isn’t for me.
And yet, I ask her, “What are you playing?”
“Nothing, really. Just don’t want to let my fingers get rusty, I guess.”
Something zings down low in my body at hearing her say that. Which is ridiculous. I don’t care what her fingers do. I’m a grown-ass woman, for fuck’s sake. And Riley Rowland may be attractive, but I’m not interested in hooking up with her.
I’m still not entirely interested in hooking up with anyone. I’ll stick to my own hands and my toys, thank you very much. At least they can’t cheat on me.
“When did you learn how to play?” I ask. I should head back to the kitchen, but I’m stalling some more to avoid the inferno.
She stops playing and turns her head to tell me, “I convinced my parents to buy me my first guitar when I was twelve. But I didn’t work hard enough to get good at it until I was sixteen. Then I became dead set on being a country star.”
“And that certainly worked out for you, didn’t it?”
Her face does something complicated when I say that. Almost like she’s proud of achieving her dream, yet somehow, sad about it at the same time.
She resumes playing a bit louder now, but she doesn’t raise the volume of her voice, forcing me to lean in closer to hear her as she answers. “Honestly, I’m not really sure anymore.”
My forehead creases in response, because that makes no sense to me. While I don’t listen to her music, her level of fame is undeniable. She’s been at the top of the charts for a long time.
So why does she look so sad?
I know Brenden mentioned something about a scandal, but I assume all celebrities deal with bad PR at one point or another. People will move on when the next scandal happens with someone else.
Since I’m not great at playing therapist to strangers, I clear my throat as I stand up. “Sorry, but I should get back to work before my sous chef burns the place down.” I have more faith in Sam than that, but I figured I should attempt to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t get a laugh, though. She simply glances up at me and says, “No worries.” Although her voice is devoid of inflection, there are so many different emotions swimming in her blue eyes. And I don’t have time to make sense of them.
But as I start to walk away, I hear a somewhat timid, “Hey, wait.”
I stop and turn back around. “Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
I chuckle, realizing we never did any proper introductions. It must be weird for her—the way most people automatically know her name while she doesn’t know theirs.
“Addison,” I tell her.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says with a small smile. And then, even though it’s entirely unnecessary, she adds, “I’m Riley.”
Despite wanting to be annoyed with her presence here, I find myself smiling back. “Nice to meet you too, Riley.”
When my day off comes, I’m more than ready for it.
The AC in the inn’s kitchen finally shit the bed yesterday, so Brenden called someone to repair or replace it, but the guy’s not showing up until tomorrow.
If I had to work in that kitchen today, when the temperature is supposed to hit ninety outside, there’s a good chance there would’ve been a fatality.
Either myself, or somebody else who said the wrong thing at the wrong time to me.
So it’s safer for everyone that I’m staying far away from the inn.
Another reason I’m glad not to be at work—I’m finally getting a reprieve from Brenden’s incessant teasing about my attraction to a certain famous redhead.
I threatened to cut off his coffee access if he gave me a smug look or nudged me in the ribs one more time when someone mentioned her name.
It should be a good enough deterrent, because lord knows the man can’t survive without his daily five to ten cups.
But since he’s still on that kick about me dating again, he might not be able to stop himself.
After spending the morning doing some cleaning around my house and giving my cat Freddie more treats than he needs, I decide to pop over to Mayweather for a visit to the bookstore.
One thing I appreciate about this place is how well the town supports all the local businesses, rather than chain stores.
I could always order whatever I wanted online, but there’s something more satisfying about perusing the smaller selection at Mayweather Books.
It’s run by the nicest older couple, the Landrys.
They always remember the last books I bought there and give me recommendations on anything new that’s come in since.
I never used to be much of a reader. Back in Chicago, I was too busy with work or with friends. There was always something new to check out in the city. But since moving, I’ve found I enjoy relaxing on my front porch with a book and a glass of wine.
Which is good, because there’s not much else to do around here. Outside of Mayweather’s various crazy events, that is. And I prefer to avoid those if I can help it.
Armed with a homemade hazelnut iced latte to combat the heat, I step inside the bookstore.
Immediately, I’m greeted by Mr. Landry, who moves out from behind the register to put his hand on my shoulder.
The friendliness of people in this town is something I’m still getting used to, but I’ll admit, I don’t entirely hate it.
“Good to see you! We just got in a bunch of new thrillers,” he tells me before going back around to his side of the small counter.
“Thanks, I’ll check them out.”
I head to that section, where the newest titles are displayed on the first shelf, and start skimming the blurbs as I sip my latte.
The air conditioning is cranked up in here, which I truly appreciate after what I’ve been dealing with at work.
Tucking two of the books under my arm, I figure I’ll browse a couple other sections as well.
As I turn the corner at the end of the aisle, someone else is rounding it from the other side. Their eyes are focused down on their phone, and before I can say anything or weave out of the way, we collide.
In that moment, I realize three things simultaneously.