Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
BELLA
“Another round?”
The voice of the server jostles me out of my focus. I’m on the back patio of Lick Your Fork diner, surrounded by still-empty planters awaiting their spring plants. My table is cluttered with papers, my laptop, and my drained cup of subpar coffee.
“I’ll take another cup, thank you.” I smile at the server, who fills my cup from her steaming full carafe. It’s an abnormally warm late-April day today, but I gather my jacket tighter around me. I came here primarily to brainstorm, choosing the patio for its relative silence. Inside the diner is a cacophony of clinking silverware and laughter, but out here, I can reach a deep focus state.
Which is what I need in order to figure out my best plan of attack for approaching the Fork Lick municipality.
Once the server tops me off and I’m sinking back into my work zone, I review the notes from all my research and planning over the past week and a half since the Strawberry Jam was conceived.
I have two major problems: no headliner, and no approval from the town. The problem with Fork Lick hosting this festival is that there’s no precedent. Nothing this big has ever been done here, and the municipality has no guidelines for anything like it. So I’ve got to approach them and convince them it should be done, regardless of town size, precedent, or anything else.
I’ve worked with my fair share of small towns and event newbies in the past, and they can be some of the hardest sells.
But it’s okay. I’m a professional. That’s why I accepted the job when the Bedds needed someone to bring their vision to life.
That and the dream life waiting for me on the other side of this event.
I smile to myself, letting the feeling of future accomplishment wash over me. I can already taste this promotion. I’m a traveler at heart, and this new position promises to send me gallivanting across the world extensively . My boss couldn’t promise exactly where I’d end up, but I wriggle excitedly in my seat as I imagine what life could feel and taste like soon. Espressos in Italy? Parisian croissants? Moroccan moments? I might be putting my cart before the horse, but this is part of my process, part of how I’ve advanced so quickly, and so young, in the event planning world.
A distant squeal yanks at my focus. I look around the empty patio.
Another squeal, followed by manic laughter.
“Oh my god, oh my god!”
The sounds seem to be coming from the front of the building. I listen for another moment or two, then bury myself in my work once more. My proposal for the town leaders is almost done, and then I’m going to head over to the municipal building—in person, since it’s literally across the street—to get on their schedule.
In an ideal world, I’d have my headliner arranged before approaching the city. The musical act determines just how much local bed and breakfasts, hotels, and restaurants stand to benefit from the event, which is crucial for making my case. I wish it could be Jackson himself, but that’s a pipe dream. I already reached out to his agent, and the appearance fee he quoted me made me choke on a baguette.
Besides, Jackson strikes me as the type of guy who wouldn’t perform for free—not even for his own family. And they backed up my suspicions. Which means that even though I’m sleeping five feet away from America’s Sexiest Bachelor, there’s no hope for getting him into this festival.
The back door of the diner flies open. Jackson stalks onto the patio a moment later, beelining for me. The chair scrapes against the cement as he yanks it out, then plunks his butt into it, directly across the table from me. His dark brows are drawn together, and he’s watching me like he’d rather slap me than whatever is about to come out of his mouth.
“Ex…cuse me?” I stammer. I see curious looks from patrons inside the diner as the patio door slowly shuts.
“Why did you tell my family I was too expensive?” he demands, his words practically a knife point. Even though he’s seething, it’s hard to focus on anything other than those amber flecks in his eyes and the wisps of dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s in the rock star jacket again, and his arrival sent a decadent waft of designer cologne and leather my way. I swallow hard, trying to remember what he asked me.
“Because you are?” I can hardly make sense of what’s happening. Why is Jackson here? And how did he get so handsome and angry ? He looks like he’s about to verbally lash me, and I hurry to add, “I called your agent. I did my due diligence. I found out how much it would be to hire you for this event, and it’s way too much.” I laugh in spite of his anger. “Do you even know how much they’re asking these days?”
“It doesn’t matter how much they’re asking,” he spits out. “I would never dream of charging for something like this. Did it ever occur to you that I might be willing to do it for free, to help out my gran?”
“I never assume something like that in my line of work,” I tell him. “I’m a professional. I follow the standard event procedures.”
“This isn’t exactly a regular event,” he shoots back, fire in his eyes. “I’m not some rock star being hired for an emotionless gig. This is my family. This is about the future of Bedd Fellows Farm.”
“I did bring it up,” I tell him. “But between my professional experience and the opinion of your family members, the consensus was that you doing it for free was a no-go.”
His chin dips, and the air between us crackles. I wouldn’t be surprised if a storm suddenly rolled through.
“And not a single person thought to ask me before writing me off?”
The question thumps to the ground. I open my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing. This touched a nerve for him—and I can see why. I bite my bottom lip, feeling ashamed.
“I thought it was best to follow procedure. I may have miscalculated.” I swallow hard, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “So you do want to headline it?”
“ Yes .”
“For free?”
“Of course,” he says.
Excitement trembles through me, but I try not to let it show. I don’t want to be like Gertie the Groupie out front, squealing because Jackson Bedd walked by. If I can attach his name to this festival, my promotion will be not just assured, but guaranteed. I’ll be traipsing through Customs in some distant airport in a matter of months.
“But there’s an important caveat.” His hard-edged voice suddenly sounds uncertain. His jaw flexes for a moment as his gaze washes over my papers on the table. “I can get the show on my schedule, but I…” His throat bobs. “I probably can’t perform any Single Grain songs.”
I blink. I can think of at least four Single Grain songs that have been cycling through radio play since last summer. The man’s songs are everywhere. Except for Fork Lick, apparently.
“Why is that?” I ask.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to finagle the rights to perform them,” he admits in a quieter voice, as though others may be listening in.
“Aren’t they your songs?”
“They are…but they aren’t. Not technically.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to piece together whatever it is that he’s not saying. “So you’re saying the label wrote the songs for you.” It feels like an ah ha moment. This would explain why he’s been so skittish. So weird .
“Not that.” He sighs, running a hand through his longish tresses, mussing it up even more. He’s one hair tousle away from starring in a moody Gucci ad, and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle seeing him this close up.
“Your band members wrote the songs,” I offer.
“No. I wrote them.” His tone leaves no room for argument. He leans forward, running his thumb back and forth over his knuckles. “I don’t own them, though. The label does.”
The way he admits it—sullen, almost embarrassed—makes me want to wrap my arms around him in a hug. “Maybe you can still play them, especially since this isn’t a profitable venture for you?—”
“They’ll never allow it.” He sniffs, leaning back in his chair. Something hard slides across his face. “I don’t want to get into it. But I just know they won’t.”
“Jackson, why do you sound like you signed a deal with the devil or something?”
“Because I fucking did.” He laughs bitterly. “Listen, don’t repeat anything you heard here, okay? I shouldn’t have said anything. If I catch wind of any of this floating around, I’ll know exactly who to come looking for.” He sears me with a glare before he stands, the chair legs scraping the cement again. A moment later, he’s got the door open and is storming back into the diner. I see people scampering away from the door, gawkers who’d been spying on our conversation.
Once the door shuts behind him, I stare at my laptop screen for a while, trying to make sense of what I just learned.
I know who can help me: Piper, my cousin who’s practically my sister.
I’m finally in the same time zone as Bayshore, my hometown, so I know calling at eleven a.m. on a weekday is safe. Besides, Piper is the boss of her own shop now, a marshmallow shop at that.
When she picks up the phone, she sounds breathless. “Hello?’
“Jeez, did you run a few laps before answering?”
“I left my phone up front. This store is longer than you’d think.”
I laugh, but it dies quickly. I still haven’t been back home to see her new shop. There’s that wrench in my chest again. “Hey, I don’t want to keep you, but if you have a few seconds to hear my latest conundrum?—”
“I always have time for a good old-fashioned conundrum.” Her phone rustles a bit, then she adds, “If I leave quickly, it’s become someone came in. But for now, I’m alone. Your secrets are safe with me and the marshmallows.”
“Cute. I love the idea of squishy, homemade marshmallows bearing all my deepest secrets.” We snicker, and then I plunge forward. “I’m staying in Jackson Bedd’s childhood home?—”
“Oh, God.” She huffs loudly. “ Jackson Bedd? From Single Grain?”
“Yeah. What?”
She sighs dramatically. “You always talk about these celebrities so casually. You remember I’m a plebe, right?”
I snort-laugh. “You know how I feel about celebrities, Piper. They’re the same as you and me.”
“Then what’s the conundrum with Jackson Bedd? Other than potentially not being able to stop staring at him.”
I bite my bottom lip. She’s not too far off the mark with that one. “You know he and I have had… friction throughout the years.”
“Mm-hmm. And not the pelvic kind.”
I snort. “Well, I might have been wrong about him. And I’m kind of thrown for a loop.”
“Why is that? You can be wrong about somebody.”
Something hot balloons in my chest, and I struggle to find the words. “I just didn’t want to be wrong about him because I…” I can’t say the words on my heart. If you let down your guard and know the full truth about him, you’ll just be one more woman fawning over him. And he’d never feel that way about you. “It’s easier to not be interested in him. But the longer I share this house with him…”
Piper sighs dramatically. “Trust me, I hear you. You’re lucky I can read between the lines, Bella. You don’t have time for a man, not even one as sexy as Jackson Bedd. But listen, isn’t there even just a tiny hookup on the table? Because, I mean, if you get the opportunity?—”
“No. Definitely not.” Which is a total lie, because every ounce of my body wants a hookup with Jackson Bedd.
“Yeah, that’s probably smart.” She lets a frustrated groan rip out of her. “And if I’m being honest, I should follow your lead.”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh at her conundrum. “What happened?”
“I met a guy in Cleveland…”
“Tell me more.” I can’t fight the grin. Piper is notorious for being critical and standoffish when it comes to romantic partners. So the fact that she has any man to speak of is surprising.
“It was just a one-night thing. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I did it. And now…I don’t fully regret it, which I regret.”
“You regret not regretting it?”
“Listen, it doesn’t make sense. But I’ll never see him again, so the amazing sex is a moot point.”
My cheeks hurt from how hard I’m smiling. “What’s his name?”
“Kru.”
“Like…the cabin crew of an airplane? Crew cut socks?”
“Kru like…I don’t know what! Crouton, maybe. Hell if I know,” she grumbles.
“He’s your fiancé, you should know these things,” I tease her.
The exasperated and dramatic sigh she lets rip makes me laugh. “Fiancé?” she shrieks. “Never. Not unless you and Jackson Bedd are next in line at the little chapel in Vegas.”
We’re both cracking up now. “You know that’s never happening.”
“Listen, I gotta go. I’ve got marshmallows to sell.” Piper sends me off with a quick Love ya , then I’m back on my own in Fork Lick once more, staring down the screen of my laptop.
A few things are certain after that conversation: I miss Piper like crazy, and I’m way overdue for a visit to Bayshore.
And there’s more to the Jackson Bedd story. Way more.
I want to get to the bottom of it for more than just work reasons. He’s offered me a glimpse into an intriguing side of him that I hadn’t imagined existed. And even though I shouldn’t care—I absolutely do.