Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
BELLA
Jackson’s confused and angry face confirms what I suspected to be true all along.
Taking a gig with Jackson Bedd’s future brother-in-law had bad idea written all over it.
“What are you doing here?” he finally sputters.
All I can do is up the wattage on my everything is fine smile. I tried to warn Ethel that this might happen. But she seemed smitten by the idea that we had worked together on the West Coast, as though she’d never seen the cocky side of her youngest grandson.
A side that all of LA and everyone in the music industry knows all too well.
“I’ve been in town helping coordinate the launch parties for Bacon’s new restaurant,” I say, anxiety thrumming beneath my skin. Jackson looks less than pleased to see me, but I can’t deny the small thrill being here gives me. There’s something satisfying in seeing the humble beginnings of America’s most famous rock star, not to mention sleeping in the room next to the one he grew up in. I feel like it gives me a leg up somehow. And I really need it, based on how hard he’s glaring at me.
“His restaurant is already open. Colleen told me.” A condescending smirk begins to emerge on his face. “So why are you still here?”
I try not to focus too closely on his features. The man was recently voted America’s Sexiest Something, and I hate that I actually agree with the decision. But from this close, it’s hard not to notice the amber flecks in his green eyes or the untended scruff on his jaw. Every time he moves, his leather jacket rustles with barely contained masculinity. If I could somehow forget about the hundreds of egotistical annoyances he’s inflicted upon me over my career, I might actually fall in love with him based on his appearance alone.
But thankfully, he’s far too off-putting for that to happen.
“During the restaurant launch timeline, I kinda got to know your family.” I send a small smile toward Ethel, who’s watching me warmly.
“Bella has been such a great help since she showed up,” Ethel says.
“So you live here now?” Jackson sounds like he might pass out from confusion.
“No, no, not permanently,” Ethel says with a small laugh.
“Colleen and I grew close while I was working for Bacon’s launch,” I explained. In the background, there’s a distant thud. Followed by another thud. Neither Jackson nor Ethel react, so I ignore it too. “And then the idea for the Fork Lick Festival came up?—”
“The Strawberry Jam,” Ethel interjects proudly.
“—so I signed on to help with that, which means I’ll be around until that’s over.” I offer a tight smile. I haven’t mentioned to anyone yet that spearheading this festival is my ticket to the promotion I’ve been angling for. My boss agrees—if I can pull this off from start to finish on my own, I’ll be ready for the next level.
In the background, the thumping grows more urgent. I blink a few times, looking between Ethel and Jackson, but they don’t seem to be aware of it.
“The Strawberry Jam?” Jackson narrows his eyes.
“Isn’t it so punny?” Ethel grins at her grandson.
“I suppose.” Jackson sighs, the thumping growing louder, more urgent.
“It was your grandmother’s idea,” I tell him. Thud. I look around, still unsure where the noise is coming from. It seems to be coming from within the house, like a farm version of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Perhaps it’s the suppressed attraction I harbor for Jackson finally slamming its way out of my subconscious. “What on earth is that noise?”
Jackson waves a hand dismissively. “It’s just Baabara.”
“Wow.” I peer through the kitchen, spotting just an inch or so of sheep fluff through the window. She’s headbutting the door, desperate to get in. “I’ve never seen her act like that before.”
“She can’t stand being away from Jackson for too long,” Ethel adds. “Anyway, Bella has been helping get all the details in place. For such an overwhelming project like this, we really needed an expert.”
“And you found the right person,” I add with a smile. Jackson only narrows his eyes at me.
“So when’s this festival happening?” Jackson asks.
“Mid-June.”
His eyes widen. “Wow. Two more months of Fork Lick. You think you can stand that?”
“It’s been lovely here so far,” I say, not adding that it only took me two days to explore every last corner of downtown Fork Lick. “Besides, there’s plenty to keep me busy on the farm in my downtime.”
“She’s been helping with the seedlings,” Ethel tells him.
He doesn’t look convinced. “C’mon. I know she’s a city girl.”
Another thrill races beneath my skin. Jackson Bedd claiming to know something about me does strike a certain chord in the fangirl portion of my body, but luckily, my head knows the truth about him. He’s an insufferable rock star who doesn’t care who he hurts as his star rises. And if there’s one thing I don’t have time for, it’s famous musicians who think people should worship the ground they walk on.
Which is exactly how Jackson Bedd behaves whenever we’ve had the misfortune of working together.
“You’d be wrong about that, Jackson, but I’m not here to educate you,” I say with a smooth smile. I’m not a city girl—I come from a small town in northern Ohio called Bayshore. Sure, it’s not as small as Fork Lick. But it’s nothing like Los Angeles. Not that Jackson Bedd cares to know the real me.
“Oh, is anyone hungry for a snack?” Ethel blurts, rising from her stool.
“No, I’m fine,” I tell her. “In fact, I was just going to head back up to the room. I’ve got a phone call scheduled with my family. You two have a lot of catching up to do, I’m sure.”
It’s hard to miss the look of relief on Jackson’s face. “You heard her, Gran. She’s got a phone call to make.”
I make my exit, scampering up the narrow wooden staircase as quickly as I can until I’m safely locked in my bedroom. My heart is pounding, though I can’t exactly say why. Reminding myself of all Jackson’s negative qualities seems wise, but there’s just something swoon-worthy about seeing him in a leather jacket in the middle of the shabby chic farmhouse he grew up in.
How many women in America would kill to be in my position right now?
I think about this as I settle into the creaky but comfy queen bed. As a high-volume event planner working for one of the world’s most prestigious companies, I’ve worked with more celebrities and musicians than I could shake a Grammy at. This means most of the magic has worn off.
I’ve learned to see celebrities for who they truly are. And while it’s easy for the most famous of the famous to lose their grip on reality, my job means I’ve still got both feet firmly planted on the ground. I only dabble in luxury; I don’t live there permanently.
In fact, I don’t live anywhere permanently. Not LA. Not Bayshore. Not Fork Lick. Not in luxury, or in this farmhouse. A weird heat grips my chest; that’s been happening more often these days. I don’t know what’s going on—is this a quarter-life crisis?—but I know how to ignore it.
I distract myself from my thoughts with a quick phone call to Piper, my cousin who was practically my sister growing up. I journal. I catch up on emails. Just when I feel like I’ve got my head screwed on straight again, I hear a noise that makes every inch of my skin perk up.
The soft notes of an acoustic guitar.
A deep shudder of pleasure courses through me as a hauntingly sincere song begins somewhere downstairs. I’ve never heard it before; all I know is that the chord progressions are honey and I’m a desperate worker bee.
I crumple back into my bed, letting the music wash over me.
Sharing space with Jackson Bedd is going to be a little harder than I planned on.
Good thing he’s only here for a quick visit.