Courtship of the Cake (17 page)

Bear grinned. “See?” he said to Nash. “He totally likes his gift. He wanted you to teach him a few chords before bedtime.”

“Classic stall move.” Quinn thrust her skewer into the fire, like a champion fencer going for the winning point with her foil.

“If it wasn't so late,” Nash said hastily. “We still have to drive to Philly. We haven't even checked into our hotel yet.”

“Hotel, schmotel. You should totally stay here,” Bear suggested.

Holy hell.

Dani's marshmallow caught fire.

GUEST BEHAVIOR

“Bear?” Quinn managed through gritted teeth. “A family consult first would be nice.”

Embarrassment flamed my face and I felt about as crispy as my burnt marshmallow. I knew Bear meant well, but Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick, he was clueless. Quinn had all but rolled up the welcome mat when we arrived.

Bear waved off his sister's drama like he had heard it all before. “We've got tons of room here and this way, Logan can get to know his dad better. And vice versa. Isn't that why he's here?”

Quinn narrowed her eyes and focused in on Nash. She had no camera to hide behind this time. “Is that why you're here?”

“He's my kid. Yes. Dani and I . . .” Nash paused, and that was my cue to take up his hand. “We want to be a part of his life, and him to be a part of ours. Summer's almost over and . . . I want to show him stuff. Like fishing and guitar . . . and maybe take him places, like the Philadelphia Zoo.”

“Are you crazy? I don't care that your girlfriend knows her ABC's.
You don't speak his language. You haven't given a rat's ass to get to know anything about him for the last ten years! I wouldn't let you cross the street with him, let alone the county line!”

Bear laid a hand on his sister's arm. “My point exactly. Why should Nash and Dani spend money on a hotel all the way in the city and keep driving back and forth?”

“Why shouldn't he?” she sputtered. “He's got tons of money to go blow on a beautiful suite at the Four Seasons.” Her finger jutted in the darkness toward the driveway. “He's got a goddamn Porsche!”

The Porsche belonged to Riggs, but neither of us commented. For all I knew, the guy I showed up with could have a garage full of them back home in L.A.

Nash jutted his chin out. “That's right. We
are
booked at the Four Seasons. It's not like I counted on anyone keeping a light on for me in these parts.”

I watched his eyes trail to the dark edges of the property, and wondered if it was the spot where his dad's trailer had stood. Sure enough, he turned on Quinn. “I'll bet you tore it down, didn't you? Got rid of the old white trash eyesore?”

“No,” Quinn said, but didn't elaborate.

“I converted it. It's her darkroom,” Bear informed him. “She didn't want all the chemicals in the house.”

Nash laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks. “Perfect, Quinn! So perfect. Shut everything off and leave everyone in the dark, right?”

Quinn ignored him, focusing on her brother instead. “I'm trying to run a business here, Bear.” Exasperation laced her voice. “Not a home for your wayward friends.” She waved her skewer toward Nash and Mick.

Mick lived here, too?
One glance in his direction, and I felt like someone had pulled my charred, brittle shell away, leaving nothing but that melted, sticky center. The vivid visions I'd had of his sex-den
bachelor pad faded until they were as sheer as the lace curtains hanging in the Half Acre's upstairs windows. Surely he did not entertain his women here?

He stood, keeping his eyes on the fire. “I was just leaving.”

“You've been saying that since you ran away from New Orleans, Mick,” Quinn accused. Hearing his name, and that city, dropping from someone else's lips had a surreal feeling to it. “Yet here you are! At least you cook a decent breakfast. Which, by the way, Dani, is served from eight until ten.”

She stomped off toward the house.

“In case you didn't know it, that was a yes,” Bear said with a grin. “I knew she'd cave.” He fished into his pocket and tossed something to Nash. “Back atcha, man.” Two keys clinked together. “Number twelve. Best room in the house.”

ALL-NIGHTER

Holy hell. They always say “what doesn't kill you makes you stronger,” but I knew my willpower had no chance against that woman staying under the same roof as me.

And knowing she was behind closed doors with Nash would surely kill me.

I eased the Night Kitchen van through the still, dark New Hope night. Most people were probably home, vegging out in front of the TV or in bed by now. Or out on the make in bars. Or in bars trying to make something of themselves, like Bear. Passing the tavern where his band would soon take the stage was like having a car speed past you with its radio blaring. The noise level rose, but only for an instant before I glided down the silent hill toward the bakery.

The lights were on at the Night Kitchen. My team. They had started without me. I pushed open the door, the din shattering my thoughts about Nash and Dani. Soundgarden blared from the sound system, and trays banged in the back. Tom, my right-hand man, gave a wave from behind the huge mixer, which sounded like it was prepping
cement rather than cake batter. The interior was the antithesis of night: fluorescent lighting, gleaming countertops, flour and sugar blinding white in shiny steel bowls.

Sheena was the crumb-coat queen, only taking a break from prepping cakes to chug the iced coffee sweating on the counter beside her. Doris, a holdover from Sindy and Walt's reign, was my supplier of Monday morning breakfast-to-go items: six kinds of croissants and muffins would be tucked into baskets, along with cinnamon buns cooling on the counter, by the time she left to curl up with her husband Ivan, who worked an overnight warehouse shift. And my aunt would be in bright and early to sample one of the goods before she hustled them into bags for her commuter crowd.

But the night was still young, and it was mine. I
was
a rock star, and this was my arena. I wove through my team, who were all moving from one task to another without even asking me what I wanted them to do next. It was a seamless, relentless business, and we all loved it. I hauled a sack of flour in, contemplating what I would make Dani for breakfast.

INNER SANCTUM

The room was charming, less stuffy Victorian and more rustic English cottage. Its walls were washed in a soothing pale gray, and the iron and brass king bed beckoned invitingly with its crisp linens of white and pale blue. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not a hint of chintz or a tassel to be found. The only throwback appeared to be a well-worn vintage velvet chesterfield sofa in an amazing olive green, nestled next to the fireplace. I ran my hands over its rolled arms, relishing each deep-buttoned tuft. Laney always joked about lying on my invisible psychiatrist's couch, and this specimen appeared to have been plucked from her imagination and made to order.

Nash kicked off his snakeskin boots and collapsed on the bed. “The inner sanctum,” he announced to the ceiling. Propping himself up on an elbow, he added for my benefit, “First time I've been allowed past the first floor.”

“Are you okay with this?”

“I should be asking you that.”

I thought about the suite at the Four Seasons, sitting untouched,
un-checked-in. With my own bedroom and turndown service. And the closet full of new-with-tags clothing from the finest stores in Rittenhouse Square, wifey-wear all purchased by Riggs's assistant to prime me for this visit. Along with the spa appointments booked for my downtime, for when I wasn't on the clock. Here I would have to be on the clock, keeping up appearances, at all times.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, considering the fact that Mick Spencer had a bed under the same roof, somewhere within this grand old mansion.

“How many rooms do you think they have here?” I asked.

“It doesn't matter. Asking for separate rooms would raise a major flag.”

“It's fine. I'll take the couch.”

“Why?” Nash stretched his arms out like an eagle about to take flight. “More room on this king bed together than separately in the bunks on the bus.”

He had a point. And had his mission been to take advantage of me, he'd had plenty of nights on the road in which to probably do that. The bed rustled invitingly as Nash nestled his head into the pillow and yawned.

“You're not going to sleep with your clothes on, are you?” I asked him.

He lazily worked at the button fly of his jeans and wriggled until there was a pile of denim and balled-up socks on the floor. Guys. Even the high-maintenance types were slobs.

My jeans were sticky with marshmallow goo, and the fire pit had infused my sheer blouse with its smoky smell. I made my way across the room and pawed through my backpack for a clean T-shirt to wear. “All right. Turn around.”

“Oh please. You've seen—and touched—every part of
my
body, except for my junk.”

True, I had massaged the buttocks of a rock star. I had pinched the man's earlobes, for God's sake. And dragged my fingers between each of his toes. Still, I shot him a pointed look.

“Like I haven't seen you naked before,” Nash scoffed.

“Um, it's a little different when you're covered in glitter and airbrush paint,” I mumbled, modestly holding my nightshirt to my chest and blushing at the memory.

“Funny, it takes the power of destiny and fate to bring some people together.” He grinned, pushing his hands behind his head, elbows out. “All we needed was a really strong ganja goo ball.”

“That was
not
a goo ball.” I would've recognized it right away if it had been, and would not have touched its sticky-ass poison with a ten-foot pole. No, this was a huge, blue-ribbon-prize-at-the-fair-winning chewy cookie, sparkling with sugar and studded with luscious chocolate chunks. It looked like it had been baked with loving care by someone's gingham-apron-wearing grandmother. Not by some junkie scientist, clarifying butter for baking with the strongest strain of cannabis on the planet and leaving it on a tour bus. When I saw the plate of them on the narrow counter of Nash's bus that day, covered with plastic wrap and topped with a bow, for God's sake, I couldn't resist. I had been so good about sticking to my rule of no sweets after dark. What harm could come from eating this glorious cookie in the middle of broad daylight?

I should've known. All baked goods were dangerous.

Nash shifted to lay like Tut in the tomb, his arms tight across his chest and his hands clenched. I thought of all those CDs he'd signed earlier, his autograph spreading joy to hundreds who believed in his music like a newfound religion.

I lowered myself gently on the bed next to him and ran my fingers between the grooves of his knuckles on one tight fist. He sighed, allowing me to take his forearm and lift it away from his chest. I studied the veins and tendons with a light touch, reading the guitarist's arm like a road map, tuning in to subtle pulls and twists.

In a gentle squeezing motion, I worked my hand down his arm, pulling as I went. It was a slow process, but my reward was the
therapeutic pulse of heat as the tissue gave in to me. His hand went slack, and I began to milk his fingers, grasping, locking, and pulling down on each one. He gave a groan as I stretched his thumb, locking his elbow. I braced it and eased his pinky back to finish his left hand.

“Thank you, China Doll.” His breathy praise was better than any tips in the jar. I smiled, cradling his head and massaging his neck before moving to his opposite side to begin the process all over.

Nash was at his truest state when he was at his most vulnerable.

•   •   •

Lemon and maple sifted into my dreams. I snuggled into the stockpile of crisp pillows, relishing the rarity of waking up in a real bed after months on the road. Now
this
was hospitality. Despite Quinn's chilly reception, her qualities as an innkeeper were top-notch. I gathered the Swiss-dot duvet closer to my chin, its just-off-the-clothesline fresh scent enveloping me. The silence was almost loud, with no sound of crew calls or load-ins. Threads of long, flaxen hair covered Nash's face, and he was snoring lightly, his lips pursed like it was finally his turn to make wishes over birthday candles.

I hoped he was being careful what he wished for.

I propped myself on an elbow to study him. Headlining artists hit the stage after dark, so Nash had a moonlight tan at best. His bare shoulder looked pale against sheets of robin's-egg blue. Maybe he'd get a little color while we were here for the week. I set a little reminder to have him show me around the grounds, and around town.

As I arched into a delicious stretch, the press of Mick's fingers at the small of my back, guiding me through the party tent, came to mind so vividly that I gasped.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

Nash's challenge to his old friend had been an innocent joke yesterday. But if he knew my and Mick's not-so-innocent history together . . .

It's all eyes on me, China Doll. I'm your world. Got it?

I moved to push the hair off his forehead, but paused, thumb in the spot where his own hand rested during the party. Fingers splayed wide.
Father.

Nash was a dad.

His son was adorable.

We're just one big happy family here
, were Quinn's words.
Don't say we didn't warn you.
Quinn was going to be a challenge.

As was Mick.

I sighed and looked at the bedside table clock. It was eight o'clock on the nose. What I considered “sleeping in” was what Laney called “an ungodly hour” or, more aptly, “ass o'clock in the morning.” Sharing an apartment with me and my up-and-at-'em habits must have been cruel and unusual punishment for her back in the day.

Well, at least I wasn't the only early riser in this house. Someone was whipping up something amazing in the kitchen. I doubted it was Mick, as I had heard his van crunch up the gravel and his tender footfalls in the hall as he passed by my door at about two
A.M.

Not that I had been listening for them or anything.

The room transformed as daylight sifted through the casement windows. Last night it had been a cozy nook; now it was bursting with light and I could see it was actually quite large, taking up a corner of the house, with windows on two walls. We had a beautiful claw-foot tub in the bathroom that overlooked the orchard, and a skylight above it.

I couldn't help but wonder if Bear had given us the honeymoon suite.

After ensconcing myself into a jog bra, I pulled my T-shirt back on, knotted it at the waist, and threw on a pair of running shorts. I could see paths snaking through the orchard that were perfect for a morning mile. Maybe Nash would be up by the time I got back, so I wouldn't have to face the breakfast crowd alone.

Bed-and-breakfast etiquette had always stymied me; were we really
supposed to sit at a communal table and break bread with total strangers? I guess we did a similar thing with each new tour, but . . . that was tour. Crew usually sat with crew, security with security, and the talent held court with their entourage. Taking sustenance before a long, hard day of work was essential, not like exchanging pleasantries over French toast with couples on their weekend getaway without the rug rats.

I tiptoed down the hallway, counting the closed doors as I passed. Number six had a sign hanging from it that looked as if it had been made with a kids' wood-burning craft kit.
Don't wake the sleeping Bear
, it warned, complete with a growling grizzly face to accompany it. I smiled, running the tip of my finger over the indentations.

“Oh, hello.” A caramel cat trotted toward me, tail straight up, and headbutted my ankle. “Where'd you come from?” I whispered. He repeatedly rubbed his cheek against the raised panels on the wainscoting lining the hall, with muted thumps.

I followed the cat down the L-shaped hall to a set of stairs, but I noted it wasn't the beautiful curved staircase Nash and I had used last night. Down was down, so I took them anyway, and found myself right in the middle of the kitchen.

Talk about your frying pan, into the fire. I had jumped in, feetfirst.

Mick was standing at the stove, legs splayed in faded jeans. He was effortlessly flipping the fattest pancakes I had ever seen onto a platter. I watched his handiwork: dusting the tops with powdered sugar, dribbling fresh blueberries from his fingers. Bacon was crackling in another pan, coffee was gurgling from the machine on the counter, and the cook was whistling the White Stripes' “Seven Nation Army” as he worked. He was in his element, and I had fallen down the rabbit hole, watching him.
Now what, Dani?
I had lingered too long to try to sneak back up the stairs and find an alternate way. And to get out the side door, I'd have to walk right past him. Indecision paralyzed me.

“Women who walk into my kitchen are in danger of being put to work, you know.”

His back was still to me, but I pictured him biting back a smile from those full lips. I crept in closer, taking in the full Victorian kitchen. Elegant crown molding and antique white cabinetry smartly met with a white subway tile backsplash and updated black granite countertops. I admired the open shelves lining one wall, marveling at what had to be a matched service for fifty people. Everything was neat as a pin and white, with pops of rose color here or there that hinted at its former era. It was stark and romantic at the same time.

As was the shirtless, aproned guy in front of me, sporting a wicked case of bed-head and hands full of breakfast food.

“When do you ever sleep?” I stammered.

He grinned, dragging the plate tantalizingly under my nose as he turned to set it on the huge kitchen island next to me. “I catnap. Hi, Bacon.”

“Do you always talk to your breakfast meats?” I asked, amused.

“No, but I talk to the cats here.” He ducked his head to gesture at the furry friend who had escorted me down the stairs, currently weaving between his denim-clad legs and staring up at him expectantly.

“There's more than one?”

“Oh, you won't see Olive anytime soon. She's shy.” He pushed an oven mitt onto one hand and waved it. “Hi to you, too.”

“Good morning. Smells amazing in here,” I murmured. In addition to the steaming-hot pancakes and the bacon he was hustling off the stove, I spied fresh fruit, croissants oozing with rich chocolate, and a loaf of bread, baked to cracked perfection and studded with sunflower seeds.

I swear the almond extract he used in the bakery must have permeated his skin, as it was ever present and mingled with notes of coffee and cinnamon as he brushed past me.

“Grab that platter, will you?”

He carried the plate of baked goods on one palm and the bacon, still sizzling in the cast iron, in his mitted hand. I followed him into
the dining room to the large table, which was elegantly set. “That's all Quinn's doing,” he said, referring to the cut crystal water glasses and multitude of cutlery. “Normally we all eat, hunkered over the kitchen island, when there are no guests.”

“How many guests are here today?”