When in Rome(6)

“You can stay in my guest room tonight, if you want. There’s a lock on the bedroom door so you can feel safe while you sleep…Unless there’s someone you can call tonight who will be able to come get you?”

“No,” she says quickly. I can’t read the look on her face. It’s guarded and defiant at the same time, and dammit, I wish there was more light out here. There’s something my brain is trying to put together about her but I can’t quite make it out.

“I…” She hesitates, like she’s looking for the right words. “I was actually headed to stay at a bed-and-breakfast near here for some time away from work. So…as strange as it is, I think I will take you up on the use of your guest room tonight and then tomorrow I can call to have my car towed somewhere to get it fixed?” Why does she phrase it like a question? As if she’s waiting for me to confirm that’s a good idea.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug that conveys I don’t care what her plans are as long as they don’t include me doing anything else for her.

She nods once. “Okay, then. Yep…let’s…see your house, Noah Walker.”

A few minutes later, after helping her get a bag out of her trunk and carrying it up to my front door, I step inside my house and hold the door open for her to walk through. When she passes me, her soft, sweet smell slips under my nose. It’s so opposite of my me-scented home it scrambles my brain for a second. It takes a big eraser and smudges over my usual I’m happy being alone thoughts and doodles in obnoxious little hearts.

She hesitates with her back to me, taking in my living room. It’s not much, but at least I know it’s not garbage, either. My sisters helped me furnish the house after I renovated it, saying I needed a Traditional Farmhouse decor style, whatever the hell that means. All I know is now I have some rustic, wooden-looking shit that cost me a lot of money and a big white comfy couch that I rarely use because I prefer the leather chair in my room. It’s homey, though. I’m glad they convinced me to do it and didn’t let me keep living like a miserable bachelor when I moved back here.

My eyes trail from my couch to the little wisps of dark hair clinging to beads of sweat at the back of her neck. And then as if she can feel my gaze on her, she turns sharply. Her eyes collide with mine, and my stomach drops off a cliff. It makes sense now why she wouldn’t tell me her name. Why she didn’t want to get out of her car. Why she looks like she’s been standing on pins and needles this whole time. I know exactly who Smart Mouth is, and any prayers Mabel is currently sending up to heaven are going to waste because I will absolutely not be letting myself form any attachments to this woman.

“You’re Rae Rose.”





Chapter 3


    Amelia


“No, I’m not!” I say quickly—panicky—with darting eyes that make me look like a squirrel trying to protect a precious acorn secret. I want to stuff that secret into my cheeks and run.

He doesn’t flinch. “Yes. You are.”

“Nope.” I give a serious shake of my head. “I don’t even—who is that singer, anyway?” I don’t quite make eye contact with him. I’m not a coward—I’m just not particularly courageous.

“Never said she was a singer.”

I scrunch my nose. Looks like Wilderness Ken has me cornered.

“Okay. You’re right. It’s me,” I say, letting my hands rise and then fall back to my sides. I refrain from tacking on a dejected and angsty, Now what do you want? But I can’t say that because Rae Rose is never rude to fans.

I was thrilled when he looked at my face outside and didn’t seem to know who I am. It was a stroke of good luck that made me feel as if maybe this adventure wasn’t a completely terrible idea. Now I’m back to doom, gloom, and terror. Don’t get me wrong, I love fans, and I love getting to know them. I just prefer for our introductions to happen when I have a security team around and not when I’m alone in the middle of the night with this somewhere-over-six-foot man.

And now this is the point where fans either pretend they know very little about me, but I catch them staring at every turn, or they start flipping out and crying and having me sign random stuff. Sometimes I’m asked to call their mom or their best friend. Take a picture. Just something that lets them prove to their friends that they really met me. Maybe I could just go ahead and preemptively offer him a trade: one VIP ticket in exchange for not murdering me tonight? Seems like a good deal to me.

I step back into my Rae Rose skin. It’s softer, gentler—more regal than mine. Rae Rose is everyone’s best friend. She’s pliable and easy to love. “Well, since the cat is out of the bag, I’d like to offer you a VIP backstage ticket to an upcoming concert in exchange for letting me stay here, as well as financial compensation, of course.”

I look into Noah’s eyes. They’re bright green. Startling, sharp, and almost unnatural in their intensity. They’re nearly the exact color as the stripes on a wintergreen peppermint candy. Pair those eyes with the strong set of his scruffy jaw and the stern pinch of his eyebrows—and the effect is…unnerving. But oddly, not in a frightening way.

With his arms still crossed, he raises and lowers a shoulder. “Why would I want a VIP ticket?”

That’s not a question I was expecting. I flounder, and when I speak, it’s a bumpy delivery. “Umm…because…you’re a fan?”