Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Isaiah Roomer was spotted by country fans having an intimate dinner in Houston. The singing sensation, who strayed from the spotlight since the death of his wife, was accompanied by an unidentified blonde woman.
CASSIDY
“Are you sucking up?”
My smart mouth buys me a shirt to the face at the wrong moment. I miss Isaiah’s bare chest by a fraction of a second. I can’t say I mind because the woodsy scent of his cologne lingers on his clothes along with a hint of perspiration. And now that I’m intimately aware of what a sweaty Isaiah smells like, it has my lady parts doing a dance. The rumpled shirt falls into my hands, giving me enough time to glimpse him pulling a vineyard tee over his stomach.
Damn, did he have to be this sexy?
Double damn, did I have to let him give me that many orgasms?
I don’t know who is in charge of merchandising at the winery’s gift shop. Whoever it is, they did an impeccable job of choosing the heathered cotton. It binds to his biceps and pecs like a second skin, making my mouth water, and reminding me of what being less than a hair’s breadth from him is like.
Proving he gives as good as he gets, Isaiah teases, “The only thing I’m sucking on is—”
“Shh!” I scamper over the concrete floor and cover his mouth. “Shoplifters. There are video cameras in the store.”
Isaiah slips a hand around my waist and makes a muffled sound. His eyes grow wide with mock-annoyance. Then he licks my palm to get a rise out of me.
“Yuck.” I wrinkle my nose.
“So, I can lick your pussy, but tonguing your palm is a hard stop?” he murmurs in my ear.
“Do you really want all of this on camera?” I blush.
Isaiah tilts his chin up to the square wooden beam rafters. “No.” Sullen, he drops his grip on me just to grab me back into his arms, kissing me with reckless abandon.
My toes curl and my entire body heats the way it had when we returned to bed after soaking in the tub.
I’m breathless when he finally decides the show we are putting on is over.
“If you post this to the internet, I will sue you for defamation of character!” he yells to no one in particular.
“Whose character?” I laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” Isaiah is in public and the video footage belongs to my family.
“Yours.” He brings his thumb to his lip, putting space between us, and pretending he’s interested in everything else the store sells.
“If it’s poor form to wear the guy’s winery tee to his house, what would happen if I brought wine?” Isaiah selects a few bottles at random and puts them by the register.
“Uncle Cris would definitely think you are working an angle there.”
My granddaddy’s passing made my Uncle Cris the majority share owner in Kingsbrier’s vineyards. The quintuplets control the remainder as a legacy trust that includes the inn and the estate-owned land.
“I guess these are all my souvenirs then. Put the shirt and everything else on my tab, along with the cost of my room last night.” He drops a few sundry items next to the wine.
“You didn’t even sleep in your room last night.”
With a smirk, Isaiah places a finger over his lips and points to the camera. “Gatlin and I agreed to an overnight. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”
“Of who?” I round the counter to scribble the items we’re taking along with us on a notepad.
“Your family.”
“Not me this time,” I confirm.
I feel Isaiah at my back and a telltale tingle at my core.
“No you. I very much want to take advantage of you again. If you’ll let me.”
I turn, caged in by the lithe man in a watermelon pink tee that sets off his brown eyes. When I look down at his heart, the scrollwork “K” that’s the symbol for the estate gives me the kind of thrill a girl shouldn’t read into. The kind I need to ignore because it’s lying to me about how this guy could be the one .
In the daylight, I’m kicking myself for being forthright about my reasons for not leaving the ranch. The topic is irrelevant and not anything worth sharing. I don’t need anyone’s pity or their sarcasm. I could have gone to cooking school the same way that Rhiannon went to art school. No one forced me to stay. It was my choice to dabble with my favorites from Benita’s box of recipes, and under the tutelage of the banquet hall’s original head chef, I was content with the decision to forgo a formal education, and I’m still comfortable with it now.
Not to mention, everyone who leaves comes back. My daddy might’ve thought he was stuck here after his accident, but in the end, he even conceded that Kingsbrier is in his blood and where he wanted to raise his family. So, if this place is a magnet for my kin, there’s no real reason to leave, anyway.
Besides, Isaiah Roomer, the country singer, is about to go on tour. Between his writing sessions and me letting him in my pants, Isaiah has gotten all he needs from this patch of earth. He’s not staying. Which means I shouldn’t, make that couldn’t, care less what Isaiah thinks about my silly little career or my choice to stay safely ensconced in a world everyone else wants to escape to on their vacation.
He bends to kiss me, but I press a fingertip to his breastbone and duck out of the way.
“You’re going to be late.” I say, pushing the ugly thoughts out of my mind.
Isaiah steps back and I stuff his souvenirs into a wine carry bag. He insists on carrying it on the short walk to my aunt and uncle’s house.
I’m not sure why I put up a fight about that kiss. All I know is every time I think about Monty coming to pick Isaiah up my chest constricts.
It’s as if my vacation is ending too soon, even though I have plenty of days off left without Isaiah here. After Christmas Day, I’ll need to fill them with something, so I’m not wandering the halls aimlessly.
We’re quiet approaching the Victorian. A sense of loss overtakes the fun we had. The ensuing silence is uncomfortable. I worry Isaiah is reacting to me. I’m making it awkward.
Way to go Cassidy. I think. Is this how you want a superstar remembering you?
Moreover, is this how I want to remember Isaiah—with me blowing the final minutes we have together because I was too immature to act adult about the whole affair?
Ugh. Affair.
Does that describe what this is? Is Isaiah a widower putting on his training wheels for rebound sex before attempting a new relationship?
Or worse, did I accept the crumbs a man was willing to offer?
Oh, hell. I can’t begin to wrap my brain around that.
I reach for the knob.
Isaiah covers my hand. “Are you free later?” he asks earnestly.
“No.”
“Oh.” His voice drops.
“It’s Christmas Eve Eve. There are a lot of boxes that have to come down from the attic and I drew the short straw.”
“Maybe an extra set of muscles would help it go quicker?”
I lick my lip and peer up. Isaiah has a tentative smile, and he’s just so handsome that I can’t see a reason to say no.
The door flies open, breaking the spell, and I jump back.
“Was it locked?” Aunt Daveigh’s brows cross.
“Oh, ah , no.” I stumble over the threshold.
“Sorry Mrs. Sanchez, I was just asking Cassidy if she’d agree to be on the lookout for a delivery. I’ve had these jeans on since I left Tennessee. If I wear them much longer, they might be able to walk away on their own.” He pulls the cotton t-shirt fabric at his midsection. “She did hook me up with a fresh shirt, for which I am obliged.”
“My husband will appreciate seeing you sporting that. So, anytime you want to wear it around Nashville, go right ahead.”
“I will definitely do that.”
“Come on in, both of you.” She beckons us further into the house. “Cass, your mama is in the kitchen with Paisley getting everything ready for lunch. Isaiah, Jake and Cris are already in the studio waiting for you. Do you remember the way?”
“Yes, ma’am I do.” Isaiah squeezes my elbow. “Thank you, Cassidy,” he says, his expression serious. “I’m glad you agreed.”
All I can do is nod and watch him walk away.
In the kitchen, ingredients cover every counter. Paisley is stirring spices into a huge silver bowl of flour. My mother leans a hip to the freestanding range, opening a box of macaroni.
“Hi, sweetheart!” My mama calls, opening her arms.
“I didn’t expect you to be here.” I sink into her fluffy sweatshirt, giving her a big hug.
Mama, and Daddy for that matter, lucked out. Gracyn and I never grew taller than either of my parents. We’re still looking up to them, and not just for advice. Their relationship survived some difficult problems early on. I think witnessing the bull-headedness they exhibited, their unwillingness to give up when the going got tough, is also what’s made my half-sister’s marriage to a much older man work.
I’d like to believe the reason I haven’t settled down yet is I’ve seen how good a marriage between the right partners is. Seeing as I don’t date often, the other option is I’m picky, so I’m sticking to door number one.
“We’re making enough to feed a small army.” Mama tells me. “Stick around. Daddy will be here in a while and he mentioned this morning he’s barely seen you since Thanksgiving.”
In anyone else’s house, it might be weird if the hostess hadn’t extended the invitation, but that’s just sorta the way it happens around here. There’s always room for one more at the table. Still, when Auntie D hands me a knife, a cutting board, and a head of red cabbage, I spread the sarcasm on thick.
“And that none of you can make coleslaw without it being watery has nothing to do with it?”
Daveigh slides the mayo, apple cider vinegar, and sugar toward my chopping station. “You are so talented, Cass. We just don’t want to fail in front of you.”
The pot my mother is waiting to heat comes to a boil. She rolls the sleeves of her short crewneck sweatshirt and pours the macaroni in. “Ow!” She yelps, splashing hot water on her hand by accident. She wipes it on the flared leggings covering her trim thighs. “See what we mean,” she jests, though my mother isn’t a horrible cook.
“How’s your houseguest, Cassidy? Aside from Isaiah regretfully being young enough for me to be his mother?” Paisley asks.
I’m shocked when my mother snickers.
“What? We’re old, not dead!” Mama intones.
“Or blind,” my aunt adds. She stops plucking grapes for a fruit salad. “Did Isaiah wear what he had on yesterday to dinner last night? I thought he had reservations at the steakhouse.”
Paisley makes a low “ ooh” . Her eyes roll back in her head because anyone who has gone there understands the restaurant is that good.
“Who did he go with?” Mama pipes up.
“Why do you think I know these things about Isaiah?” Is it hot in here all of a sudden?
I rinse my hands under the faucet and dry them. Then I pull my hair back with a rubber band I had in my pocket, and spin to open the upper cabinet where my aunt keeps the ingredients for peanut butter and honey sandwiches. When I turn around, all three women have stopped what they are doing and are gaping at me.
“Cassidy, did Isaiah take you to dinner?” Mom is astounded.
“Where did he get a suit from?” Paisley, who owns a clothing store, wants to know.
Auntie D’s gracious disposition and restraint notwithstanding, she looks like the cat that ate the canary. I’m pretty sure Daveigh took some sort of vow of secrecy when she married Uncle Cris… Or maybe he made her sign an NDA, too.
I cradle a bottle in my palm, gratified I don’t have to explain getting dumped by two men in swift succession. “My love life isn’t up for discussion.”
“That’s perfectly fine since we were more interested in Isaiah’s,” Paisley laments.
Mom makes a funny face, sewing her mouth shut, and we return to our cooking stations.
“Have you finished the book for Brier’s book club yet?” Mama asks me.
I love this about my mother. She knows when to drop it.
“No. I’ve been distracted,” I admit, mixing coleslaw dressing into the bowl of green cabbage shavings.
“Was it while watching Isaiah walk away in those jeans or toward you in a suit?” Aunt D points a banana at me and the three of them collapse into a fit of giggles.