Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
CASSIDY
I say Isaiah’s name and heat flashes in his eyes. Since I opened my bedroom door, the man has looked at me like I’m the first course on tonight’s menu, instead of the nightcap.
He’s tucked me so close to him I’m practically sitting on his lap. One of his hands he laced with mine. The thumb of his other hand caresses the cut out on the side of my dress.
His light touch is driving me wild. There’s no discreet way of crossing my legs to relieve the throbbing between them. And without a partition between the front and back seats, we have little privacy. I’m uncertain if we are speaking in hushed tones because Monty is an audience, or if the attraction I have to Isaiah is leaving me breathless.
I also have an acute awareness that the bells going off in my head aren’t Christmas chimes. Nothing says “out of your league” like a chauffeur/bodyguard on a first—and likely last—date.
I’m challenging myself not to think about how often Monty pretends not to hear Isaiah’s back seat conversations. It has to happen often. I can’t help wondering if the bodyguard thinks I’m as ignorant as the other women who Isaiah has flirted with who have sat next to him in the seat I currently occupy.
There are so many jumbled questions running through my mind. Thoughts creep in about Isaiah’s late wife. Did Monty keep secrets from her?
I flinch, reminiscent of when the B&B has no vacancy and I’m busy and distracted and mistakenly reach for a hot pot.
“The steakhouse, do you like it?” Isaiah asks, sensing my apprehension.
My skin prickles as he runs a thumb over my wrist, and the ugly thoughts disappear.
I wouldn’t have recommended it otherwise. I nod because the cat’s got my tongue.
Isaiah—the nice guy in my kitchen this morning, who asked me how I take my coffee and sent me a dozen roses—is paying attention to me while wearing the Tom Ford suit that Isaiah Roomer, the country singer’s, assistant had delivered to Kingsbrier. She made the impossible-to-get dinner reservation, and his bodyguard is driving us to Houston.
This is not normal and I’m so fucked.
And it has nothing to do with Rhiannon’s crazy theory that, given a few special considerations, I’d slip my panties off for a celebrity. I couldn’t sleep with anyone if either of us were in a relationship. I have enough respect for myself that, hypothetical or otherwise, cheating is cheating.
We pull into the restaurant parking lot. Monty goes inside to let them know we’ve arrived. I guess this is the part where he scopes out the place? I can’t believe I’m out with someone who travels with security and needs to make sure a public space is safe before entering.
“Hey Cass, where’d you go?” Isaiah dips his face toward mine to get my attention.
“It’s just… different worlds.” I’m not used to this.
His face pinches. “Give it a few minutes and you’ll forget Monty is even here. It’ll be back to being you and me.”
“Do you go everywhere with him?”
I can’t imagine shopping for fresh produce at Richardson’s Market with a burly guy hovering. Does Monty case the freezer section so Isaiah can enter an aisle to choose his favorite flavor of ice cream? What happens at the checkout? Does his security guy make everyone maintain a certain radius from him?
And why am I trying to make sense of the piddly things that are part of my normal life when it’s obvious the man does indeed have “people” who take care of everything? My family is an institution around these parts. Yet, none of us could swing a table on short notice by dropping the Kingsbrier-Cavanaugh name.
“I have someone on the security staff with me most of the time. But sometimes I need space, too. Gatlin reassured Monty the estate had top-notch security because of something that happened with Gatlin’s mom?”
It’s more of a statement than a question and I don’t want to interrupt Isaiah with a story about something that happened long ago, or my family’s investment in Walsh Security, the surveillance company that monitors the entire property.
“I loved your offer for him to stay at the inn, but I didn’t ask Gatlin to find a room for Monty for a reason. And I won’t be sorry when he drops us off at Kingsbrier and heads back to his sister’s.”
I’m stuck taking Isaiah’s word. I agreed to come to the steakhouse for dinner. It would be rude to ask him to bring me home because I’m ignorant about his everyday life. Just because Monty isn’t featured in the tabloid photographs doesn’t mean Isaiah’s bodyguard isn’t around when they are taken. Heck, Monty’s probably responsible for ensuring Isaiah hasn’t been on dozens of magazine covers. I’m not a dumb blonde. Of course, he’d have a security guard given Isaiah’s celebrity status. But why hadn’t I thought of that before?
Monty reappears at the entrance to the steakhouse, waving us in. Isaiah extends his hand to help me out of the car, but unlike leaving the mansion or on the drive, I can’t feel the warmth of him at my side. He walks a few paces behind me into the restaurant with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets.
Heads turn as the buttoned-up young hostess, who I’ll give credit to for at least trying not to gawk, shows us to a secluded booth. She tells us the owner will be there momentarily. He’ll be personally taking care of us.
The restaurant has an intimate vibe. Waitstaff remove menus from the settings after diners order instead of handing them out. The seating, lush leather with high backs, surrounds a parquet floor. I have a vague memory of my parents and grandparents dancing on it at an anniversary party when I was a little girl. The emotions I have in my current surroundings are as familiar as they are at Kingsbrier.
However, as the hostess drags a long, heavy drape across an arcing pipe suspended from the tall seat backs, the feeling is altogether new and unique.
I fold my hands in my lap. My nervousness changes on a dime into shyness.
“We’re alone again, Cass.” Isaiah grins.
“I noticed.” I return the smile, heat beating off my cheeks.
“You’re awfully far away.”
“So are you. Is… was that intentional?”
His lips form a line. “There’s not much of a story to post if anyone out there took a picture. It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you—”
“It’s to maintain your privacy.” I finish the sentence.
“I, um, I get that this is hard for you.” He shakes his head in a self-deprecating manner. “I’d forgotten… I forget what it’s like when there aren’t extra people hovering. The change over the past eighteen hours has been nice.”
“Yet you fell right back into being a star.”
“Can you meet me halfway, Cass?” He pats the space separating us. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to get to know you. Now, I’m back to feeling like I’m walking around with my ass showing.”
I peer around. “Did I miss that? I could’ve sworn you kept your pants on when you were shirtless trying to steal sugar.”
Isaiah laughs and holds his palm upward. “Sit closer to me. Tell me about all of your favorites on the menu and tell me why I have to try them.”
His request is so sweet.
I lightly grip his fingers and we slide to the center of the booth. Our thighs graze and, in the small quiet space, something clicks. We’re the groggy, happy people who sipped coffee together again.
Two hours later, the table is obscured by plates. Isaiah insisted we sample every thing I suggested.
“This is a lot of food to go to waste.” I clutch my stomach, leaning against the upholstered cushion.
“Let’s have them pack it up. That steak will go great with eggs. Actually, those grilled veggies might make a great omelet.”
I lift a brow. “Isaiah Roomer gets doggy bags?”
He puts his elbow on the table. “Would you hold it against me if I admitted I didn’t? You might have made me feel bad about being wasteful.”
“Second question. Who is reheating all of this?” My index finger wanders from plate to plate.
“Not the girl who has made it known she’s on vacation. I can assure you of that. I could attempt it… with your help.” He grimaces.
The drinks we’ve had with each course have gone to my head. I can’t contain the laughter that bursts out of me.
“That’s me doing my job.” I won’t wait on anyone.
“You could tell me what to do.” His breath moves past my ear.
“Does anyone?”
Isaiah stops to ponder. His brow pinches, making me curious if someone did. “No,” he responds.
“Well, I’m stuffed and I doubt I’ll be hungry again soon, but the leftovers give me something to eat for tomorrow. I agree. Let’s pack them up!”
“Are you planning to share any, or am I totally fending for myself?”
“When?”
“Breakfast.” He shrugs. “Dinner?”
“Because your personal chef is preparing your lunch?”
“Your Aunt Daveigh offered homemade fried chicken, and hell if I’m passing that up.”
My heart beats overtime. “You’re staying?”
“Cris, Jake, and I are making progress. Things are coming together quickly. None of us wants to break the momentum.”
“How long are you staying?” Did I squeal? I did not! Squealing is for groupies. “It’s Christmas. Don’t you have anyone to get home to?”
Isaiah studies an exposed spot of wood grain the dishes don’t cover. “I, uh … Kylie and I both had stage parents. Her dad was her manager, and she cut them both out of her life when they tried to go Brittany on her. My dad passed and my mom found a new pet project in the half brother she had during her second marriage.”
I take Isaiah’s answer to mean he and his mother aren’t close. The daughter of a quintuplet, I have a huge, involved family. Sometimes too involved. But four of the babies from my generation—me, Rhiannon, Gatlin and Gatlin’s cousin, Cadence—were all in the same grade in school. We grew up looking out for one another. I can’t imagine distrusting any of them.
A hollow spot opens up in my heart that Isaiah doesn’t have anyone to confide in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Ask a question of me I haven’t had to ask of you?” he says in sad surrender. “It’s harder for me to talk about myself when I’m surrounded by everything that’s you, Cass. Your life is far more interesting. I also doubt you want to spend any time with a guy who drones on about a dead wife.” Isaiah holds up an empty ring finger. “That’s not exactly the picture I want to paint for a beautiful girl on my first date since before Kylie and I got engaged. It’s me who is sorry. I was married, and I’m rusty at this.”
“You haven’t dated.” My jaw, hanging low, clops tight at his reply.
Isaiah’s right. I need to cut him more slack. While I’m excited to find out what makes him tick, I don’t particularly want to reminisce about past lovers. Except, because my last date ditched me for his ex, I can’t help comparing myself to Kylie and the “why me” has me wary.
Which is funny because I’ve spent a significant part of my career pondering why not me?