Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
CASSIDY
“I just realized there is no kitchen in this suite.” Bellamy saunters into the bedroom wearing a blue halter dress with feather accents. She holds the hem of the shimmery skirt up in one hand. The straps of her high heels are hooked in the fingers of her opposite hand.
After hearing him say in no uncertain terms I wasn’t cooking for anyone, I’m positive the reliance on room service was intentional on Isaiah’s part.
Getting flustered in the kitchen isn’t something I do. I can grab an extinguisher and put a grease fire out in no time flat. Cooking provides a pleasant distraction from whatever I have to dwell on. Although, the afternoon by the pool made me forget my worries for a short while.
I wipe my clammy hands on the fabric dressing table’s stool pad that I’m sitting on. My bare arms and my feet clad in open-toed stilettos are ice cold. The rest of me is an inferno. I hope I don’t arrive at the awards with massive pit stains from my body’s inability to regulate its temperature.
A modish woman with wavy brown hair has curled my hair and pinned it back. She’s putting the finishing touches on my makeup. Isaiah is with his stylist getting the royal treatment. Having someone in the suite grooming him in one room and me in another reminds me that tonight my Isaiah is also the Isaiah Roomer.
Isaiah and I haven’t seen one another since he gathered his tux and entered the second bedroom after we’d showered and dried off from swimming. It feels a little like keeping the bride from the groom before a wedding. Vespa, insisting that the evening has to go off without a hitch, flits back and forth between the rooms. Normally cool as a cucumber, she might actually break a sweat.
I’m glad Bellamy and Rhiannon are here for moral support. If they weren’t, I’m not sure what awards show decorum locusts Isaiah’s assistant might unleash. She’s so full of staunch advice for interacting with the press, she’s directing my every move.
“Blot.” The makeup artist pops a tissue between my lips. Then she continues, adding a second layer of lipstick.
I spy glimpses of myself in the mirror. The dramatic effect she’s created around my eyes, and the entire experience, makes getting ready for prom night look like kindergarten graduation.
I’m wearing a daring red A-line gown. It’s a sleeveless, one-shoulder design with a side ruffle. I’d wanted it in a deep blue, but got overruled by you-know-who. Dark colors aren’t in season and, on the arm of country’s hottest celebrity, I have to make a bold statement.
This afternoon, a courier delivered a red box from Cartier containing exquisite teardrop earrings and a matching platinum and twenty-three karat diamond necklace It is as dainty slipping between my fingers as it is imposing wearing.
The delicate set had to have cost a fortune. Far more than I make in three to four years combined. I told Isaiah he went overboard. Doing the honors of slipping it around my neck, he responded that it made up for the rectangle of plastic on a nylon rope he gave me at Christmas, which is my favorite gift I’ve ever received.
I haven’t taken either the necklace or the earrings off since. Although it’s because I’m petrified I’ll misplace them.
The makeup artist is packing up her case as Vespa makes another round, rattling off more nuances I should be aware of.
I’m beginning to think ramping my anxiety is an intentional game she’s playing and Vespa wants me to fail.
“Just smile,” Bellamy repeats. She’s poised, seated on the edge of the bed next to Rhiannon.
Ruched at the waistline, the base of my cousin’s strapless dress is tawny color and the black overlay makes it look like she’s nude underneath. It’s not funeral wear, but interesting nonetheless that Rhiannon’s apparel is darker than mine.
Her cell chimes with an incoming text.
Rhiannon flips it over to read. “Uncle Cris is waiting for me in the lobby.”
“Is it weird you’re being photographed tonight instead of being the photographer?” I ask, rising on shaky legs, and quadruple checking the earrings are still dangling from my lobes.
“No. I heard Isaiah Roomer’s girlfriend was making her first public appearance. Nobody is going to want a picture of li’l ol’ me.” She puts her phone inside her clutch. “It would have been a coup to have been able to bring a better camera than what fits in this bag, though. I’m going to need Uncle Cris to invite some celebs I expect to see tonight to his studio. Otherwise, I’ll never cross them off my list.”
“I thought I topped your bucket list?” Isaiah grins from the doorway. Gatlin stands behind him, ready to go.
Simultaneous matching low moans directed at our men escape Bellamy and me. The DJ and the country crooner are so hot in their formalwear, it’s like watching a pat of butter melt on a steamy biscuit.
Isaiah is clean shaven. His stylist trimmed his sex-styled hair and the cocky grin on his face indicates he’s aware of how good he looks. He approaches me with a confident swagger.
I’m salivating over a man, wanting as much to enjoy the way his broad shoulders fill out the suit jacket as I want to strip him out of it. And his shirt. And his pants.
What’s more is, he’s mine.
Isaiah is one-hundred percent committed. I’ve never experienced this with anyone else I’ve dated. I don’t worry who this absolute stud is taking to bed because the only times Isaiah refuses to lie with me are the nights our baby girl and I are peacefully sleeping. And he makes up for not slipping into our room by slipping inside me as soon as we’re alone.
I am the luckiest girl on the planet. I adore the way he cares for me and I fall deeper in love with Isaiah every moment of the day.
I love our life. I’d love it without the gown or the diamonds. I’d love for our every day to be nothing but me, Aria, Isaiah, and his guitar.
It’s crazy to think about the experiences I would have given up, living an amazing life on a cramped tour bus, if he’d left Kingsbrier and I stayed in my comfort zone.
Maybe Gatlin’s older brother, Dash, is onto something?
Isaiah’s knuckles caress my cheek, careful not to move a curled lock out of place.
“I can’t wait to show you to the world. You’re stunning, chou.”
Deep in my bones, I feel like the version of perfection he tells me I am whenever he sees me up to my elbows in dough and covered in a fine layer of flour.
I run my palms over his broad shoulders and down his chest. With shaky hands, I straighten his already straight tie.
He leans in to whisper so no one hears, “I don’t think you comprehend the effort it takes for me to be a gentleman when your family is around.”
I suck in a breath, and shift in my high heels, my thighs rubbing together.
“The front-row seat for the lovey-dovey is great. I’ll have one helluva speech if you ever get hitched, but tick-tock, y’all.” Gatlin taps his watch.
“Gatlin! You’re ruining their moment!” Bellamy slaps her husband in the gut.
“Listen, we’ve got a car waiting downstairs.” He nudges his wife toward the doorway.
Isaiah’s security detail is supposed to arrive in an alternate vehicle. I’m about to suggest it’s silly and the six of us can ride together, when I see Bellamy shake her head at me. She stops herself from planting a tooth in her lipstick and ruining her makeup. Red seeps up her collarbone.
Ew.
Isaiah releases an inelegant snort.
“What?” I ask, my ears burning as the others file out of the suite. The door to the second bedroom is closed so Aria doesn’t get upset seeing us leave.
He keeps us a few paces behind, walking to the elevator, teasing, “For someone who isn’t shy in the bedroom, your reaction is funny.”
“Other people can have as much sex as they want. I dipped in the dating pool for a long time and just decided as a single person I didn’t want to hear about it or be aware of when it’s happening... Between the men Rhiannon picks up and the stories that circulate about Bellamy and Gatlin’s exhibitionism—”
“Wait, those are true?” he shout-whispers with a raised brow.
“I don’t know!” I squeak. If Isaiah has heard the rumors, perhaps they have merit. “He’s your friend. Ask him. Then keep it to yourself.”
“Would you…” his voice trails suggestively.
“I seem to recall you have a certain fantasy about a picture window.”
“So that’s a ‘yes’.” His grin is full of mischief.
I twist from his grip, cautious as I walk the final few feet backwards. I lick my lower lip—letting his pupils flare—and I leave it at that.
The elevator ding isn’t what makes Isaiah speed up. It’s catching me by the waist.
We meet Uncle Cris outside the hotel under the portico. In a strange turn of events, a humble Isaiah takes our family picture to send to Aunt Daveigh and everyone at Kingsbrier.
“We’ll be about twenty minutes behind you,” Gatlin says as we load into the cars.
The auditorium is five minutes away at most.
My nose wrinkles and Isaiah snorts again, helping me into the limo and taking his place snug at my hip with an arm around me.
“Nervous?” he asks, approaching the venue.
“How much should I tip the limo driver to take me back to the hotel?”
“You’ll do great. Do you need a minute? We can circle the block like Gatlin and Bellamy. I have a few tricks up my sleeve guaranteed to take the edge off.” Isaiah brushes his thumb over his chin and winks.
“Don’t go there. That’s my cousin you’re talking about.” I remove his hand from his face.
He’s skittish, wanting everything to go our way as well.
Isaiah kisses my knuckles, flashing me a broad grin. His brown eyes dance.
When he’s happy, I’m happy. When we’re silly with one another, I’m happy. He’s always patient with me and has been in tune with helping me to relax and be comfortable in any situation. It’s ridiculous to think my anxiety over public appearances will ever go away, but I haven’t found this level of contentment with anyone. We’ll make it through tonight, and every other night, because we trust what we have and we’ve grown to rely on each other.
He brushes his soft lips over mine as the driver pulls up to the curb.
Vespa’s instructions were that Isaiah was the celebrity fans were coming to see, therefore I needed to exit the limo first. We break the rule when Isaiah opens the car door. He gets out, waves to the throng of excited country music listeners assembled on the street, and turns around to interlace his fingers with mine. My heel hits the ground and I grip his palm, feeling like a princess in a carriage. My breath comes in quick bursts, matching the flashbulbs going off in blinding succession.
An event manager with an earpiece and dressed from head to toe in black draws us further along the red carpet. We’re right behind my uncle and my bestie. Rhiannon claps for us as the crowd roars. Uncle Cris puts a solid thumb up in Isaiah’s direction, indicating to the reporters he has nothing but good things to say.
Joy paints their expressions, and I return a genuine and excited grin.
Paparazzi shout Isaiah’s name as we pause for pictures. They call my name, vying for a front page shot. “Look here, Miss Cavanaugh… Over this way, Cassidy.” Instead of ignoring their presence, as is my habit, I tilt my chin left and right. It’s as exhilarating as it is overwhelming. I wish the attention they give me stayed where it is. Fifteen minutes of fame is easier to deal with than photographers chasing you down the street.
The event manager leads us to a female correspondent from an entertainment show. Vespa gave me ample notice this will be one of many stops we’re expected to make along the red carpet. It’s obvious the woman is thrilled she’s the first to snag Isaiah Roomer.
The din of the crowd and entertainment broadcasts conducting dueling interviews is tremendous. The videographer has a tight shot on Isaiah and the reporter. I move to the side as Isaiah leans in to hear the reporter’s questions.
Someone passing behind us touches my back. I look over my shoulder. Steve plasters himself against a nearby wall, acting inconspicuous.
“Cassidy?” The reporter says, regaining my attention. She wants me in the shot.
“Yes?” I smile brightly, to hide the tremor in my voice.
Good lord, my cheeks are going to ache tomorrow.
“Rumor has it you are an excellent chef. What are your plans when the tour wraps?”
“Cook for Isaiah without having to worry that the bus is about to take a sharp corner?” I say in a self-deprecating manner.
My reply makes the reporter titter.
“She’s being modest,” Isaiah announces. “I’m a lucky man. I get to sample the recipes Cassidy tests out. She has a cookbook in the works. Down home southern cooking. Old family recipes. It all tastes amazing. You’re going love it.” He looks directly into the camera.
I do? It does? They will?
“Good luck. We’ll be looking forward to that.”
“Thank you,” I reply out of sheer politeness.
There’s hardly a chance for me to get over my bewilderment when we’re ushered to another reporter.