CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hendrix
I t’s massive.
Jase’s house, that is. Although the thought and the term conjure up a strong visual of his erection in Vegas.
Yeah. Sue me for thinking it but a girl has to fixate on something when her life has been put in a blender and turned on, and to my own detriment, which is what first came to mind.
I shake my head and chuckle at how stupid my thoughts are, especially when I’m standing in a backyard situated on the edge of a canyon. Jase’s house is nestled in the Hollywood Hills overlooking Santa Monica with hints of the ocean in the distance.
The house itself is big and bold and overwhelming. It’s concrete walls with curved edges and travertine floors that could be so very cold but somehow feel warm and welcoming. The bottom floor feels open and flowy with one end of the house leading down a hall toward where there’s a recording studio. The upstairs has one wing with a primary suite that’s separated from the other side by a loft of sorts. That space holds all kinds of BENT accolades and other rock memorabilia, and on the other side of it, where I’m staying, has a couple of en-suite bedrooms.
To be honest, I feel like an impostor living in an extravagant resort. I have a closet full of new clothes that don’t feel like they’re mine regardless of how many times I see them hanging there, color coordinated, and beside a binder from the stylist of how I can use each item.
Then there’s all this space and comfort. The peace and quiet and the time to just sit without the bakery downstairs calling to me to come work.
And when Jase is here, regardless of how many times he tells me to make myself at home, I feel like I’m invading his space and privacy. So it’s times like right now when he ventures into the city to do whatever he does, that I feel like I can explore.
But I do know what he does, because the past two days he’s made sure to find me before he leaves to give me a detailed explanation of where he’s going and when he’ll be back. The studio. A stop at Nathaniel’s office. Then back to the studio before he heads home. For a man who has a reputation that he cares about no one, I’m beginning to think whoever started that rumor has never really met the real Jase Gizmodo.
Or maybe he doesn’t want them to.
But he’s gone for the day and I’m going to revel in this time to myself. It’s been six months of working nonstop toward making the bakery a success and so the past four days have felt like heaven. No early morning wake-up calls to bake. No constant thoughts of how to survive. No need to explain where Paul went to the few regular customers I have.
Just a sign on the door that says closed until Wednesday. Yes, I feel guilty about doing even that. But the thought of not having to live paycheck to paycheck for a while and being able to pay Barney and Annie in full in the next few weeks makes it palatable.
So palatable that I even might be enjoying myself as I relax at his luxurious poolside. Who knew I’d get to be so good at pretending?
First, at being blissfully ignorant of the gigantic order I have to fulfill and second, of the fact that there’s a diamond ring currently creating a tan line on my finger.
I sink farther into the chaise lounge, welcome the sun’s warmth on my skin, and the quiet in my head that hasn’t been quieted in forever.
“What are you thinking about?”
I jump at the sound of Jase’s voice and instantly panic. “Hi.” I’m in a bathing suit . “I didn’t know you were home.” A bathing suit that is small and ill-fitting and oh, man . “Why are you here?” My legs are flat, which means my ass and thighs are spread and probably look like bloated pancakes .
Oh.
My.
God.
He chuckles, his brows narrowing. “I’m here because I live here?” His pitch goes up at the end of the sentence as if he’s not certain whether that’s the right answer or not or more like why he’s answering it at all.
“Yes. Silly question.” My body heats as embarrassment and insecurity hits me. “You said you’d be back at like four.” Well after I’d be out of this bikini and in something more... covering.
“We finished early,” he says.
“I hope you don’t mind that I came out here.”
His eyes rake over my body as I take the rolled-up towel from behind my head and try to subtly and eloquently cover my thighs and stomach. “Don’t cover up on my account.”
I snort and keep covering. “I’ve seen your dates. Toned. Tanned. Perfect . You’re damn well right I’m going to cover up.”
He reaches out and puts a hand on my wrist to stop me. “Hendrix. Stop .” His words are a mixture of disbelief, warning, and surprise. “You’re beautiful.”
I open my mouth to refute him, a response I’ve acquired over the years to put myself down before someone else does front and center, but the lift of his brows and the disdain in his eyes stop me.
“And no, I don’t have to say that because you’re my wife.”
“Thank you, but I still think you’re full of shit.”
He sits down on the cushion so that his hip is next to mine, his hand is resting over me and next to my opposite hip, and tsks. “Three days into our marriage and you’re already criticizing me.” He lifts the beer to his lips and chuckles around his sip. God, he’s gorgeous . And not just attractive because of his looks or the ink that covers his skin, but... his smile, the light in his eyes, the way he looks at me and makes me feel... like I’m the only thing he sees.
And I don’t know how that makes me feel when clearly right now I’m terribly uncomfortable in my own skin.
But he’s sitting next to me, touching me, and I can’t stop focusing on how close he is and how charmed I am by him with each interaction.
“You’ve been busy.” I try to sound nonchalant. Try to show that I’m not thinking about how easily that hand he’s put on the other side of my hip could run over my bare skin or how it might feel.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. This was all stuff that was scheduled before... this needed to happen. We’re in the middle of a writing phase so sometimes, time escapes us.”
“You’re working on new material?”
He emits a heavy sigh. “Some days, yes. Other days it feels like we’re pulling teeth. And still cool either way.”
“Just getting to hear you say that is cool,” I say and then worry I just sounded like a fan rather than whatever it is that I am. “But this isn’t music for the tour, is it?”
“No. God, no. We’re not that insane. The tour is for the last album and old stuff, but we like to write the next one before we head out. Or at least start the process so that we’ve established a baseline sound for the next release and can tweak it and work on it when we get sick of playing the same shit night after night.”
“I always wondered about that. If musicians get sick of playing and hearing the same songs.”
“It depends on the day, really. At this point, we don’t really have to think when we play our older stuff.” He takes another sip. “What about you? Are you sitting out here creating cookie designs in your head?”
“That sounds so trivial compared to what you’re doing.” I chuckle.
“I’m not creating world peace here. Just music. Just entertainment.” That hand I was thinking about? Yeah, he turns it to palm the side of my hip and gives me a good shake. A shake that has an ache firing inches away from where those fingers rest. “Come on now. Why do you always put yourself down?”
“Habit. It’s easier. It’s—”
“Bullshit,” he finishes for me. “You’re a business owner. Many people have dreamed of doing that and few do, so don’t sell yourself short.”
“No, just sell myself to a rock star who needs to get married so I can keep said business open.”
“Stop.” He shakes me again with his hand on my hip. “No more of that when you’re with me. He might have allowed you to do it, but I won’t.”
Why is that sexy? Jase taking ownership of something that really isn’t his?
He dips his head down so we’re eye to eye. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
“No. I want to hear some enthusiasm. Yes, Giz. You’re the best husband a woman could ever ask for,” he says with way too much cheer.
“Yes, Jase. You’re the best husband a woman could ever ask for if she were actually looking for a husband.”
He rolls his eyes but smiles so bright it could light up a room. “Now, that’s more like it.”
“I’m only here to make you happy,” I tease.
“Remember that,” he says and then takes a sip. “Especially when I tell you that your peace and quiet is going to be disturbed because Halle will be here in a little bit.”
“Halle?”
“My assistant. She’ll get your schedule and compare it to mine and let you know the events you’re needed at and whatnot.”
“Okay.”
“There probably aren’t many, so don’t worry about being forced to be with me too much.”
I nod as I meet his eyes. Doubt creeps in. “I promise I won’t cramp your style.”
He levels me with a look. “If I didn’t like you or think you were gorgeous, if I didn’t think you were sane and intelligent and would make my life easier, I wouldn’t have asked for you... so stop with whatever I can see going through those eyes of yours.”
Am I that transparent?
“Yes. You wear your emotions on your sleeve,” he says, answering my own question, startling me.
“It’s just a lot to be thrust into. Self-doubt is normal. Self-doubt when I know how cruel women are to other women, especially when they’re anonymous behind keyboards and are even harsher.”
“Well, raise up your hand and point to your wedding ring if they question it. That’s all that needs to be said.”
“Until we divorce and they say I told you so .” He looks at me like I’m unhinged... and he’s right. I am being just that. But it’s been an absolute whirlwind of a week, that I’m surprised my head is even screwed on the right way. It’s only natural for me to question, to wonder, and to feel a little unsteady.
I wouldn’t have asked for you . . .
He’s right. I’m here because he picked me, because he wanted me to be here. I just have to learn to accept it and stop comparing myself to others.
Easier said than done.
But if there’s one thing I know about men, they hate a whiny woman and that’s exactly what I’m being.
I rest my hand on his arm and squeeze. “I’m being ridiculous. I apologize. I’ll work on it.”
“It’s understandable, you’ve stepped into a huge role and I’m extremely appreciative. Yeah?” He waits for me to nod. “Okay. Good. We’ll probably leak the photos soon too. Just so you know.”
“I assumed as much. I planned on heading back to the bakery in the morning, if that’s okay? I know the plan was to make it look like we were on a honeymoon, but people know you’re out and about on your own so that kind of negates that. Plus, someone had to have seen you in Las Vegas and is bound to say something soon.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Regardless, we have a plan. So that big order is coming up?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you hire someone to help you? So you’re not so stressed about it? I can help out if you need it.”
I barely hold back my snort of humor. If the women, young and old, who were awestruck by him in Josie’s are any indication, there wouldn’t be much help happening. Imagine that in my tiny bakery.
“I’m fine. I’ve got it handled.”
“You should hire someone. To man the counter up front at least while you work in back?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” How do I explain to him that I don’t have a line of customers that goes out the door or the phone ringing off the hook with orders so I don’t need to hire anyone else? Pride has me making excuses. “My clients for the big order are big in the Bollywood scene. I had to sign all kinds of agreements about their privacy. They only wanted me working on their order.”
Yeah, that fib isn’t going to hold much water.
“They’d know if you didn’t ice cookie number five hundred and twenty-two versus if someone else did it?”
Case in point.
“You’re right. It sounds ridiculous. I’ll figure something out.” I lean my head back and close my eyes.
Jase shifts and moves off the chaise. I don’t want him to go. While I’ve enjoyed the quiet and time to myself, it’s also rather isolating when you’re in a place that’s not your own.
I open my eyes to see where he’s going and gasp softly when his face blocks the sun and narrows to be my entire field of vision. His hands are on both armrests and his body is leaning down over me.
“I get this feels awkward—the house not being yours and not having your everyday comforts—but use it like it is and let me know what you need so it does feel like yours. I know this ring feels heavy—mine does too—but it’s going to be okay. And, Cookie? When you look in the mirror later, try and see yourself through my eyes because you’re gorgeous.” His voice is back to that seductive silk, and I wonder why he chose being a drummer over lead singer because... damn.
My body heats and as much as I want to squirm in my seat to abate it, he’s so damn close. He’d know why I was doing it, and I don’t exactly want him to know that’s how I react to him.
“You better stop with all these compliments,” I say. “You keep proving to be the exact opposite of the public persona people say you are.”
“What’s that?”
“A good guy. A catch. Husband material.”
He quirks a brow. “We’ll keep this between us.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you should let the world see this side of you and then Judge Righteous Prick might hear about it.”
“Nah. This isn’t for everyone to see. Just the people I care about.”
Well, that hits me squarely in the chest...
“I have to get back to work.”
“You’re leaving?”
“No.” Another flash of a smile that has me catching my breath. “Here. At the house. I’m going to work for a bit. Then hit the gym. Then probably back to writing.”
“Okay.” I infuse cheer into my voice. He wasn’t kidding about not impeding on my life. And while I am fine with that, a simple, “Hey, you want to eat dinner together?” would be nice.
But this is what I asked for, right?
“Jase, you know that you don’t have to give me a rundown. You don’t owe it to me to tell me where you are every minute of every day.”
He pauses and something flashes through his eyes I can’t read. He softens his voice and says, “Yeah, well, I know what it’s like to wonder if someone’s coming home.” He shrugs. “It’s a habit of mine—good or bad.”
So many questions I could ask, curiosities I could satisfy, but I just nod and murmur, “Okay.”
“Okay?” He chuckles and then stills when he looks up before looking back down at me. “It’s not a bad thing to be informed.”
“I never said it was. I just don’t want you to feel like—”
And then without any warning, Jase leans over and cuts the comment short by brushing his lips over mine.
My lips shock open and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between them and meet mine.
It’s only been a few days, but the reminder of what his kiss tastes like and how it makes me feel comes roaring back like a tidal wave about to pull me under.
Thoughts evade me as I slide my hands around his neck, thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him closer to me.
I forget to breathe and that this is pretend because all I can see and feel and want is Jase.
And before I can fully process the plethora of feelings the kiss caused—desire, confusion, want, disbelief—it ends.
His smile is crooked and his eyes are dark with desire when he looks at me, as our labored breathing mixes with the sounds of birds chirping.
“Jase?” I ask when my synapses fire.
“Making sure we’re still good to sell this.” He winks and his words jar me.
“Oh. Of course.” My words sound as jilted as I feel. Can’t a guy give a girl a warning ?
He takes a few steps back and scrubs a hand over his jaw as he stares at me.
“What’s that look for?” I ask.
“You may have been one of the most random decisions in my life, Cookie Cutter, but I lucked out.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because damn, girl, you can kiss.”
And without another word, he turns on his heel and heads back into the house. I stare at his distressed blue jeans and black T-shirt-clad back as he goes.
I’m never going to survive this.
Not when kisses like that are going to be the norm and me being left without any sort of relief is part of the plan.
Talk about torture . . .