Why wasn’t I more careful about what music I picked? In my defense, it’s my cleaning playlist, and I wasn’t intentionally trying to be insensitive. Nor is it my fault he broke her heart. Sometimes you have to live with the consequences of your actions.
Once I finish in the kitchen, I head into the living area, searching for messes. The cabin is spotless, but I dust the bookshelves and polish the oak coffee table, taking my time, dragging it out to get in my hours.
It’s a beautiful place, full of character. Exposed logs topped by cathedral ceilings and plush rugs beneath plump leather furniture make me wish I could just sit and stare at the stone fireplace, sipping hot chocolate. But I can’t, so I head down the hallway. On the left must be the bathroom because the hum of a shower cuts off as I pass.
I hustle toward the master bedroom.
Same thing in here, spotless. The rustic king-size bed is unmade, but there are no clothes strewn around the room. I guess it’s surprising to me he's tidy, because one of Trinity’s lyrics says she picked up her dignity instead of the mess he always left everywhere. Hm. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf.
An acoustic guitar rests in the corner, and I walk over to it, trailing a finger along the neck, wondering if he plays. With a name like Fender, he must.
Whether he’s musically inclined isn’t my business, so I pull back the red and black buffalo check comforter to strip the sheets and throw them in the laundry. As I bundle them up, I catch a whiff of cologne. It smells like sunshine and pine… so good. Before I can stop myself, I bring them to my nose and inhale the intoxicating scent like a weirdo stalker.
Bad idea.
Because a deep voice says, “Are you sniffing my sheets?”
Three
Fender
* * *
“I, uhm…” She frantically tugs at the pillowcase, not answering my question. “I’m just going to throw these into the laundry. They could use freshening.”
I smirk. She’s not fooling me.
And I know she knows I know she’s caught.
I’m still miffed over the Trinity song, so when her sparkling blue eyes flit to my chest, I decide to give a little payback.
Hands on hips, I flex my pectorals. “Ok, I’m going to get dressed.”
She doesn’t move, eyes homed in on my chest.
“Ok, that’s a good idea.” Her gaze drops to the white towel low on my hips.
She licks her pink lips, and damn, if I don’t mirror her action. Unexpected lust courses through me, and I try to ignore it by clearing my throat.
“I’m going to get dressed… alone,” I say.
Her eyes reach mine after taking a slow exploration up the length of my stomach and chest. Finally, she nods. “Yes, I’m outta here.” She rushes past me, out of the room.
I’d say I won that round. Right? It’s not uncommon for women to swoon over my body. I typically spend more hours in the gym than I do on set filming. I’m not sure the pain and gain were worth it, because she did something to my heart. It flipped, or stopped, or something catastrophic when she stared at me with those big baby blues.
A woman has never affected me like her. I wish I could say I had this pulse racing phenomenon with Trinity, but I didn’t. Maybe if I did, we’d still be together, and I wouldn’t be trending on Twitter. Probably not, because, well, she’s a liar.
For all I know, Rachel is too. It’s not like it matters, though. She may be beautiful, but my stay here is temporary. I do not need to break another heart while I’m here in Alaska, so it’s best I don’t have these unwanted heart flips when she’s around. Because one thing I’ve realized about being in Hollywood, it’s that the paparazzi love when you mess up, but when you mess up twice… they go ballistic.
I won’t be messing up.
Ever.
“Do you think you can go to the store for me?” I ask Rachel before she leaves.
She cleaned the house in record time after our moment in the bedroom. Pretty sure she just freshened the sheets in the dryer.
“If you make me a list, I can bring the stuff by next time I come to clean.”
I cross my arms over my favorite Jaws t-shirt. “When will that be?” I’d go myself, but who knows what type of publicity I could run into while I’m shopping. Let’s just say if the paparazzi catches wind I’m hiding out here in Alaska, my life will be over. This small town will turn into a breeding ground for men with cameras. I’m sure the locals would despise me more with the paparazzi lurking around their winter village, popping out of the tinsel and Christmas trees to snap photos of yours truly.