Chapter 3
Chapter Three
CASSIDY
Have you ever dressed with the intent that you don’t look dressed?
I didn’t do that at all when I wore red because my mama says it makes the Cavanaugh green flecks in my brown eyes pop.
Nope, Christmas is coming. I’m in the holiday spirit.
It just so happens the jeans that match this shirt make my ass look fantastic. Total coincidence. I didn’t walk down the stairs in front of Isaiah Roomer intending to put on a show.
And a girl should always wear something underneath that makes her feel sexy, whether or not anyone sees her lacy bra.
The swipe of mascara? Well, I have blonde eyelashes, so that’s normal. I also received a tinted organic beeswax lip gloss in a gift bag from a cute little shop in North Carolina. It would be rude of me not to at least try it on.
I definitely didn’t do anything other than try to look presentable while Isaiah and I hang out together. Trying to attract his attention would be wrong. Aside from being a super-hot celebrity, he’s a widower—and a recent one at that. I can’t call myself a decent human if I didn’t have some respect for the dead, and his feelings.
The poor guy.
Making a pass at Isaiah would be out of line. Not to mention, I’m sure his flirtations are nothing more than kindness. He seems the sort of man who treats everyone the same by making them feel good about themselves and deflecting his fame.
Isaiah Roomer is not interested in a professional cook at an upscale bed-and-breakfast. Therefore, my outfit is spot on with what I’d wear bumming around the mansion with absolutely no one here to impress.
When I open the front door to accept the food order, I sigh with relief. I sent Isaiah to hide out in the kitchen for his own good. I’m not secretly glad the delivery driver is male. Guys can fawn over other guys. I might not want the visual of Isaiah putting on the charm for whomever he wants, but it’s also none of my business.
Nope. Neither of those things amounts to a hill of beans.
I bring the delicious smelling paper bag to the dining room. Used to setting out meals for guests, I get napkins and silverware from the sideboard in case we need them.
“I thought you’d come back there.” Isaiah flips a thumb over his shoulder.
“Force of habit. Brunch gets served in here,” I reply.
It’s unusual for me to invite guests into the kitchen. In truth, I’m in favor of Gracyn slapping up a shimmery gold “employees only” sign on the wall as you enter. Though experience tells me the difference between a guest searching for a midnight snack and a trash panda is nominal. Thank heaven the overnight concierge’s job is to stay awake and stop people from raiding the pantry.
“I hope you didn’t peek inside the bag. For someone on vacation, you’re doing a lot more than you should.”
I work in hospitality. I can’t help it. Plus, my gran had a thing about manners and making sure people felt at home. I talked a good game to Gatlin, but plunking down in a chair and expecting Isaiah to wait on me hand and foot wouldn’t fulfill Rose Cavanaugh’s standards.
Although letting him serve me is what Isaiah expects as he takes over. He empties the Grille’s wrapped egg and cheese bagels from the bag, and opens containers of succulent bacon and crisp-fried tater tots.
“It’s not gourmet,” he concedes.
“Where I didn’t have to cook it, I won’t complain.” How could I? Isaiah Roomer bought me, Cassidy Cavanaugh, breakfast.
We wind up talking while we stuff our faces with greasy goodness. Isaiah doesn’t say much about his personal life. He does mention the pre-recorded segment with Gatlin that his PR team set up to promote his upcoming tour. It will air in January when the morning radio show returns from hiatus.
“I have a connection to the man in charge if you’d like tickets and backstage passes when the tour stops in Houston. It’ll make up for having to entertain me,” Isaiah offers, shooting me a long, lazy grin.
It morphs into a raucous laugh when I reply, “Aren’t you the man? Besides, my cousin is on the hook for those already.”
“Well played.” His claps echo. “Well played.”
I wink. Isaiah’s forefinger covers the smirk playing his lips. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was blushing.
The rest of our conversation flows easily. I’m an open book. It doesn’t bother me to contribute anecdotes about myself. I understand Isaiah has a right to his privacy. We’re still talking an hour later when he balls the paper wrappers into the takeout bag. Isaiah stands to bring the bag to the trash bin, insisting I can’t lift another finger.
“I hate cutting it short, but Gatlin set up a meeting with his uncle at noon.” He shakes his head as if clouds have parted and he’s stupid. “It just occurred to me that makes Cris Sanchez your uncle, too.”
“He is. I grew up listening to him sing around the bonfire while singers like you were turning his lyrics into billboard hits. He’s an amazing songwriter.”
I’m proud of my family no matter what they do, but I love sharing with people about what it was like growing up here. My generation was fortunate to have some unique and extremely cool experiences.
“You’re telling me. I want to collaborate with him on a few singles for my next album.”
“Jake Ballentine and his wife are staying with my aunt and uncle for the holidays. You’ve caught two birds with one stone.”
Isaiah’s whole face lights up brighter than a sneaky child who found where their parents stashed the Christmas gifts. “I know. It’s impeccable timing. I considered canceling this trip. Last night when Cris confirmed the appointment, I thought I couldn’t be luckier. Then I met you.”
“Keep saying things like that and they’ll go to my head.”
“Maybe I want them to.”
Maybe I do too.
We stare at one another until a blush creeps up my neck and I feel my cheeks burn. I’m quick to look away, trying to get my heart to stop racing.
“I’m, uh, supposed to text Gatlin when I’m ready,” he volunteers his way out of embarrassing us both. “He’s driving us over.”
I should take the olive branch. Be happy I’ve had a neat encounter with a celebrity and move on. But I find myself saying, “Why? It’s not a far walk if you cut through the field and past the stables. Cross the road and you’re there.”
“Those directions sound awfully complicated. I don’t have the best sense of direction and might get lost. Can you show me the way?”
“Let me get my jacket.”
Isaiah texts Gatlin that he’ll meet him at my uncle’s house. We leave the mansion by the kitchen door. I skip down the morning porch. Isaiah hops, keeping up with me. The December air is deceptively cool in the mornings. In the distance, fog rises over the rows of empty trellis. This afternoon it will disappear and I won’t need extra layers to keep warm. I walk backward, playing tour guide and explaining the nuances of the Tudor mansion and its recent improvements since becoming an inn.
“Our homestead started out as the main house. My gran, Rose, inherited the acreage on this side of the Sanchez’s land from her father, Eric Kingsbrier. My Uncle Cris is married to my father’s sister. Cris and my Grandaddy, Ross, bought more land to expand the vineyard. Hence, why the estate gets lumped together as Kingsbrier, but that’s getting ahead of the story. This next part ya have to keep up with.”
Isaiah stuffs his hands in his front pockets as we stroll past a small pond. He’s in shirtsleeves and his forearms are… Wow.
“Is there a test?” he asks.
“Yup. It’s multiple choice. Rose and Ross Cavanaugh had five babies—quintuplets, who were all raised at the B&B long before they agreed to convert it to an inn. You’re staying in what were my Uncle Eric’s and my daddy’s rooms. They live there and there now.” I show Isaiah two homes located on opposite sides of the property. “See there? You can just make out the color of the house I lived in as a little girl. My daddy planted trees for privacy. Over the years they’ve filled in.”
“You must see your parents quite a bit.” He bites his lower lip.
“They don’t stalk me, if that’s what you mean. It’s nice having them near, but everyone’s busy. My half-sister Gracyn’s got kids. She’s married to an old friend of theirs. My life is about as footloose and fancy free as anyone who isn’t a stone’s throw away. Mostly, I see Gracyn every day since we work together and I see her half-sister, who is my best friend, a lot, too.”
“That’s convenient.”
“And weirdly complicated for everyone outside of the family to understand, since Rhiannon’s daddy is also my uncle. But when that’s all you’ve ever known, it’s just normal that my mom and Rhi’s dad had a baby together when they were teenagers and then fell in love with other people.”
“I think I got it.” Isaiah gives me a lop-sided smile. I interpret it as him accepting my matter-of-factness on the subject.
“Anyhow, Kingsbrier went through a huge transformation around the time the winery became successful.” I feel warmer from exertion as the field opens up and the rest of the estate comes into view. We pass the empty parking lot for the vineyard’s banquet hall, and the stables at the veterinary clinic. “Cavanaugh Construction built most of the buildings you see. That’s the company Grandad started before he met Gran. The winery was his retirement plan. He and Uncle Cris planted the original trellis over there almost forty years ago.”
“Impressive.”
“Thanks. It’s beautiful when the grapes are coming into season. I’ll never leave, but nobody misses coming home at harvest unless they have to. Even if someone doesn’t live or work here, we’re all dedicated to Kingsbrier’s legacy. Tied to one another. Ross and Rose taught us to dig our roots deep.”
“It’s a lot that you open your family home and all of this to outsiders. Do you lose a lot of tourist dollars closing down the inn?”
I’ve heard the disappointment in the voices of guests who want us to host late December weddings and holiday celebrations. We treat everyone who comes here on vacation like family and they want that experience included at other special times. But boundaries exist for a reason.
“We do, but it’s worth it,” I reply, replaying the excitement when old ornaments come out of the attic.
The house takes on a uniquely informal flair of just being the place we’ve always called home. It’s also the one time of year that my niece and nephew experience what it was like for our parents and for us. We can’t share our traditions with anyone else if we haven’t experienced them for ourselves first.
Our boots, damp from the grass, hit the first step on the wraparound porch of my Uncle Cris and Aunt Daveigh’s Victorian. I knock, but much to Isaiah’s chagrin, see Auntie D through the window and don’t wait to walk inside. Isaiah apologizes to her for the informality and for making himself backdoor company before introducing himself.
My aunt raised three sons and couldn’t care less .As long as you wipe the mud off on the mat, it’s all good.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” Aunt Daveigh greets Isaiah before wrapping me in a hug. “And to see you, Cass. Rhiannon stopped in, too, and she’s somewhere around here. I’ll bring y’all to the studio to see if she’s there.”
“Actually, Mrs. Sanchez, can I get a moment with Cassidy?” Isaiah asks.
I watch Aunt Daveigh step away, thinking about how I’ve always striven to emulate the things people like about her. Never one for a ton of makeup, my aunt is a natural beauty, who doesn’t hide the faint sparkles of gray and white that fleck her rich brown curls. She has a fun-loving side and a sincerity that attracts enduring friendships like a bear takes to honey. She’s also as gracious as the live-long day and understands that alone is inferred.
“Is there any nice place around here for dinner?” Isaiah interrupts my musings when my aunt is out of earshot.
“The nicest place is a steakhouse this side of Houston… How can you be hungry again?”
“I have the same question. Maybe it’s the walk. Maybe it’s you.”
Did he say what I think he said? His flirting must’ve gone to my head.
My belly flip flops.
“I’d like to take you out later as a thank you,” Isaiah continues.
His offer is commendable, but I’d have done the same for anyone as I have for Isaiah. This morning was perfect in contrast to last night. I don’t want to press my luck. I’m happy with a simple thank you.
“I appreciate that. Except, I doubt you’ll score reservations at this hour.”
“The people who work for me take care of those details.”
“You don’t have to. There’s a dress code. You brought nothing else to wear.” I roll my lips, trying to give him an out.
“Again, people take care of the details. I’d like to repay your kindness with kindness. What do you say, is seven okay? I, uh, know where you live. I already have the directions memorized.” He taps his forehead.
My mouth forms an “O”. As I stare at him, gaping and trying to figure out how to respond, a piercing squeal breaks into my thoughts.
“Oh, my God, you’re Isaiah Roomer!”