The reality of my situation is setting in, and I come very close to calling a halt to my little charade, but then I remember the stubbornness on Yvonne’s face when I tried to tell her the wedding was off.
Over my dead body, Preston, she said.
Yeah, no. I’ll be taking my chances here with the Nashville princess, thanks.
Jenny tugs the NDA out of my hand with two pink fingernails before going to the car and putting the papers back in the passenger seat. She retrieves her yapping dog and a guitar case.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Walcott,” she tells Vaughn with a smile. “You look nothing like your father, but you’re every bit as lovely.”
Finn snorts around his cigarette but covers with a cough when she turns her smile on him.
“Lovely to meet you as well, Mr. Reed. I’m sure Mr. Maxwell will be in touch if there are any further problems with the wiring.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, barely hiding a smile. The only thing Finn knows about wiring is how to hot-wire a car.
“Wonderful.” Jenny beams at us, although her smile slips when she looks at me. “I’m going to go take a look inside. Could I trouble you to bring my stuff in?”
“No trouble at all,” I say sarcastically. “I’ve been waiting for the honor.”
She either misses my sarcasm or ignores it, sauntering up the wide steps toward the open front door, and we all turn to watch, my mouth practically watering at the sight of the back of her thighs.
“No trouble at all, huh?” Finn says from beside me.
He’s right. I’m totally fucked.
Jenny
Okay.
Can we all please take a moment of silence to appreciate the sheer beauty that is southern men?
Or at least these three southern men.
Apparently I’ve been in L.A. too long, because the rough, hardened yumminess of the men below has me a little more aware than I like that the rumors about me and Shawn are the closest I’ve gotten to having any actual action in a long time.
It’s been six days since the story broke. The hype’s decreased, um, not at all, courtesy of the fact that four more married guys I’ve never even met have stepped forward and claimed intimate knowledge of my nether regions.
Let’s just say “Homewrecker” is seeing a resurgence on the charts, and for all the wrong reasons.
Hence…me and Dolly in the middle of nowhere. Just the way I want it.
I move the sheer curtain of the bedroom window to the side slightly so I can get a better look at the three guys. They’re all good-looking in their own way. Mr. Walcott’s about what I expected. My quick Google search only brought up pictures of his late father, but judging from the fact that the young Mr. Walcott is wearing a full suit even though it’s close to eighty-five degrees outside tells me he’s a chip off the old block in style, if not exactly in looks. Walcott Senior was fair with blue eyes, but his son has black hair and brown eyes and killer dimples.
The other one—the electrician—is equally yummy in a bad-boy kind of way. He’s all rippling muscles beneath a tight black shirt, close-cut brown hair, and hazel eyes. His quick smile promises a good time, just like his guarded gaze promises to leave you the next morning.
But it’s the third guy, the caretaker, handyman, whatever, that I can’t seem to stop looking at.
Of the three, he’s the least flashy. He doesn’t have Preston Walcott’s buttoned-up polish or the unapologetic sex appeal of Finn Reed.
His dark blond hair is a mess, his face is just a touch too narrow to be strictly handsome, and he needs a shave. His white T-shirt looks like the basic variety you’d buy at Walmart, but he fills it out nicely. Jeans too.
You know that feeling you get sometimes? Well, okay, rarely. That feeling when you meet a stranger’s eyes and something inexplicable and intense sizzles between you?
That.
That’s what happened between me and Noah Maxwell, at least on my end.
And then…
And then he had to go and open his mouth. It would figure that the first guy I’m attracted to in a good long time turns out to be a total jerk. It would also figure that I’m stuck sort of living with him for the next few months.
The three guys finish talking, and I’m tempted to take a quick pic to send to Amber so she can verify the masculine goodness until I remember,
(a) that’s creepy,
(b) I’m supposed to be off the grid, and
(c) even if I wanted to send a message, there’s no service here.
I brace myself for the sense of panic to set in, but am surprised to find that I only feel…relief?
Relief that exactly four people in the world know where I am right now: Mom, Dad, my little sister, and Amber.
I didn’t even tell my agent, which you can imagine went over really well.
It’s just me and Dolly for the next few weeks.
Oh, and Noah Maxwell.
And his dog.
I feel a little bad for being bitchy about the dog. Yeah, the big guy’s a little intense, and I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t going to eat Dolly or hump her to death, but it wasn’t the Lab I was responding to when I got snippy. It was the way the dog’s owner summed me up in about half a second and decided he didn’t like what he saw.
Fine.
If Noah Maxwell wants the spoiled diva, that’s exactly what he’ll get.
I move away from the window as I take in the bedroom. It’s exactly like I remember, although Mr. Walcott wasn’t lying about the house being in bad shape. The wallpaper’s more off than on, and though everything’s clean, there’s a definite air of disuse about the place.
Over my dead body, Preston, she said.
Yeah, no. I’ll be taking my chances here with the Nashville princess, thanks.
Jenny tugs the NDA out of my hand with two pink fingernails before going to the car and putting the papers back in the passenger seat. She retrieves her yapping dog and a guitar case.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Walcott,” she tells Vaughn with a smile. “You look nothing like your father, but you’re every bit as lovely.”
Finn snorts around his cigarette but covers with a cough when she turns her smile on him.
“Lovely to meet you as well, Mr. Reed. I’m sure Mr. Maxwell will be in touch if there are any further problems with the wiring.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, barely hiding a smile. The only thing Finn knows about wiring is how to hot-wire a car.
“Wonderful.” Jenny beams at us, although her smile slips when she looks at me. “I’m going to go take a look inside. Could I trouble you to bring my stuff in?”
“No trouble at all,” I say sarcastically. “I’ve been waiting for the honor.”
She either misses my sarcasm or ignores it, sauntering up the wide steps toward the open front door, and we all turn to watch, my mouth practically watering at the sight of the back of her thighs.
“No trouble at all, huh?” Finn says from beside me.
He’s right. I’m totally fucked.
Jenny
Okay.
Can we all please take a moment of silence to appreciate the sheer beauty that is southern men?
Or at least these three southern men.
Apparently I’ve been in L.A. too long, because the rough, hardened yumminess of the men below has me a little more aware than I like that the rumors about me and Shawn are the closest I’ve gotten to having any actual action in a long time.
It’s been six days since the story broke. The hype’s decreased, um, not at all, courtesy of the fact that four more married guys I’ve never even met have stepped forward and claimed intimate knowledge of my nether regions.
Let’s just say “Homewrecker” is seeing a resurgence on the charts, and for all the wrong reasons.
Hence…me and Dolly in the middle of nowhere. Just the way I want it.
I move the sheer curtain of the bedroom window to the side slightly so I can get a better look at the three guys. They’re all good-looking in their own way. Mr. Walcott’s about what I expected. My quick Google search only brought up pictures of his late father, but judging from the fact that the young Mr. Walcott is wearing a full suit even though it’s close to eighty-five degrees outside tells me he’s a chip off the old block in style, if not exactly in looks. Walcott Senior was fair with blue eyes, but his son has black hair and brown eyes and killer dimples.
The other one—the electrician—is equally yummy in a bad-boy kind of way. He’s all rippling muscles beneath a tight black shirt, close-cut brown hair, and hazel eyes. His quick smile promises a good time, just like his guarded gaze promises to leave you the next morning.
But it’s the third guy, the caretaker, handyman, whatever, that I can’t seem to stop looking at.
Of the three, he’s the least flashy. He doesn’t have Preston Walcott’s buttoned-up polish or the unapologetic sex appeal of Finn Reed.
His dark blond hair is a mess, his face is just a touch too narrow to be strictly handsome, and he needs a shave. His white T-shirt looks like the basic variety you’d buy at Walmart, but he fills it out nicely. Jeans too.
You know that feeling you get sometimes? Well, okay, rarely. That feeling when you meet a stranger’s eyes and something inexplicable and intense sizzles between you?
That.
That’s what happened between me and Noah Maxwell, at least on my end.
And then…
And then he had to go and open his mouth. It would figure that the first guy I’m attracted to in a good long time turns out to be a total jerk. It would also figure that I’m stuck sort of living with him for the next few months.
The three guys finish talking, and I’m tempted to take a quick pic to send to Amber so she can verify the masculine goodness until I remember,
(a) that’s creepy,
(b) I’m supposed to be off the grid, and
(c) even if I wanted to send a message, there’s no service here.
I brace myself for the sense of panic to set in, but am surprised to find that I only feel…relief?
Relief that exactly four people in the world know where I am right now: Mom, Dad, my little sister, and Amber.
I didn’t even tell my agent, which you can imagine went over really well.
It’s just me and Dolly for the next few weeks.
Oh, and Noah Maxwell.
And his dog.
I feel a little bad for being bitchy about the dog. Yeah, the big guy’s a little intense, and I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t going to eat Dolly or hump her to death, but it wasn’t the Lab I was responding to when I got snippy. It was the way the dog’s owner summed me up in about half a second and decided he didn’t like what he saw.
Fine.
If Noah Maxwell wants the spoiled diva, that’s exactly what he’ll get.
I move away from the window as I take in the bedroom. It’s exactly like I remember, although Mr. Walcott wasn’t lying about the house being in bad shape. The wallpaper’s more off than on, and though everything’s clean, there’s a definite air of disuse about the place.
