Chapter 6 #2
Panic spikes through me. The last thing I need is for Bianca to blab to Axel that I’m a reporter. There has to be a way to salvage this. I look her in the eyes, trying to make my voice authoritative. “That would be a huge mistake. It’ll ruin your reputation.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Are you threatening me?”
“No,” I say neutrally. “I’m only pointing out a fact.” I lower my voice. “I’ll get my story, and no one will be the wiser. Neither Axel nor Zoe will ever have to know who I really am.”
“That you’re Jovie Chord?” She arches an eyebrow in triumph.
I didn’t realize that Harmony told her who I was. “Yes,” I admit. This horrible woman could lead to my undoing. It’s unnerving that someone like her knows the chink in my armor.
She looks past me at the door. “This has gone on long enough.”
Before she can go back inside, I grab her arm, tamping down my panic. “Harmony won’t be happy to hear that you didn’t hold up your end of the agreement.” I don’t know what the agreement entailed, but I’m taking my chances.
Blessed hesitation creeps into her eyes.
I strengthen my position. “Harmony’s not one to cross.”
She whips around and points a finger in my face. “You’d better watch yourself. No funny business with Axel.”
Funny business. Seriously? What I do with Axel is none of this woman’s business. “I’ll get my story, and that will be that.”
We eye one another in a challenge.
“Fine.” She lifts her chin in the air. “The sooner the better. Then I can be rid of you and your conniving ways.”
The words are a sucker punch, straight to the gut. My hand goes to my hip. “Just what do you have against me? I’ve never done anything to you.”
She studies me through venomous eyes. “Zoe is a close friend. She wants this party to be perfect, and I don’t want anyone—you—messing it up.”
“No one’s messing it up.” As if I had the power to make Axel Cox do anything.
She sniffs. “We’ll see. You’ll find instructions on how to decorate each tree in one of the plastic bins. I expect everything to be done to the letter.” She straightens her shoulders. “Contrary to what you might think, the buck stops with you.”
Keep your mouth shut, a warning voice urges, or you’ll make things worse. But I just can’t help myself. “I’ll be sure and relay this info to Consuela and Diego.”
Daggers fall from her eyes as she marches away.
Axel turns from the stove as I enter the kitchen. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
He studies me with skepticism. “What did she want?”
I wave a hand. “To make sure the trees are decorated properly to suit her hoity-toity taste.”
His eyes widen before he bursts out laughing. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“You asked.”
His eyes spark with amusement. “I see how it is.”
Seconds later, I’m laughing too, which helps to lighten my mood.
Sooner rather than later, I need to call Harmony and tell her what Bianca said.
Hopefully, Harmony can flex some muscle to keep Bianca in line.
I don’t want this whole thing to blow up in my face.
Cold chills race down my spine. I squelch them, pointing to the stovetop. “Whatcha making?”
“French toast.”
I step up beside him. “Need any help?”
“You could slice some strawberries.”
“Point me in the right direction.”
“The fridge.”
Seeing the French toast, my eyes go wide. “You’re burning it.”
“Am not. I like ‘em crisp.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Crisp doesn’t mean black.” The stench of burning bread invades my nostrils.
His voice pitches high. “They’re burning!” He reaches for the handle to pull the skillet off the eye and then yelps, flicking his hand. “Hot!”
“Oh, no.” I jump into action and grab an oven mitt from off the counter. Sliding it over my hand, I remove the skillet and turn off the eye. Meanwhile, Axel is holding his burnt hand.
“Is everything okay?” Consuela calls.
Axel winces. “Yep, I’m okay. Just a flesh wound.” He tosses me a droll smile.
“Let’s run some cool water over it.” We go over to the sink. He holds his hand under the faucet as I turn it on.
He sighs. “That feels better.”
Turning off the water, I reach for a nearby kitchen towel and blot the wound dry. The skin on his index finger is red, but thankfully, there are no blisters.
“How could I be so stupid?” he laments.
“It happens,” I say practically. “Do you have any anti-bacterial ointment?”
He motions with his head. “In the cupboard.”
I go and retrieve it. “Let me put it on you.” Gingerly, I apply the ointment. Being this close—touching his skin—is intensely intimate. “Are you gonna be able to play the guitar?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ve had worse.”
“Worse, huh?”
A boyish grin breaks over his rugged face. “Much worse.”
The moment slows. Memories from last night come rushing back as I look at his mouth. As if reading my thoughts, a low chuckle rumbles in his throat, sending his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
I jerk. “What?” Geez, talk about embarrassing. Why does he have to be so dang appealing? My own living, breathing kryptonite. I’m in trouble.
A wicked glint lights his eyes, turning them pristine blue. “Nothing.”
I shove his shoulder. “You should be thanking me for taking care of you instead of harassing me.” Bantering is so easy with him.
He laughs. “This isn’t harassing, but if that’s what you want.” He lunges forward and tousles my hair with his unhurt hand.
“Hey.” I try to dodge out of his reach, but he ruffles my hair even more.
“Stop,” I laugh, batting at him. When he lowers his hand, I smooth my hair. “Now you’ve done it,” I say primly. “My hair’s a wreck.” The way his eyes pop lets me know he thinks I’m serious. This is too good not to milk. I put on my best pout.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
The corners of my mouth quiver with unreleased laughter. Finally, I can’t hold it in any longer. A guffaw spews out, and then I throw him a taunting grin. “The joke’s on you.” I make a show of pointing to myself with both index fingers. “You’re the one who has to look at this all day.”
He clips a startled laugh. Then his gaze softens with appreciation as his eyes move over the length of me with a thoroughness that heats my blood. “No complaints here.”
Wow, the things this man does to me. “T—thanks,” I stammer, blinking fast. What now? The urge to kiss him is so strong I could swim in it. “Um, maybe we should make another batch of French toast. I’ll take the helm.” Hold it together, London. You’re no longer in junior high.
A smile plays on his lips. “Don’t trust me, huh?”
I make a point of looking at the burnt toast. “Well …”
He holds up his hands. “Alright, I hear ya.”
“Why don’t you cut up the strawberries? And I’ll make the French toast.”
He pushes out a long, beleaguered breath, eyes dancing with mirth. “If you insist.”
“I do,” I chime as we share a smile. What am I going to do about this crazy, mixed-up situation?
I can’t fall for Seth—Axel … again! It was hard enough when I was a kid.
Another rejection from him might just do me in.
I don’t want to spend the next decade licking my wounds and harboring more resentment.
And yet, how am I supposed to resist him?