I WAS ON EDGE ALL DAY. The Entertainment sections of the morning papers were full of write-ups about Corey Knox and his publicity stunt at Paws For Thought. I scanned each article, looking for my name. Nothing. Thank god.
It never occurred to me that there was a specific reason my name wasn’t in the papers.
By the day’s end, I was strung tighter than a harp. I snapped at Lucas when he asked what my plans were for the evening.
“Nothing. No plans. Ever.”
He blinked at me and raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re not seeing –”
“No.” I glared at him.
He smiled blithely and shrugged. “If you say so.” He leaned against the counter, watching me as I hung up my apron and slipped on my coat. “Did I mention that’s a cute scarf?” His smile became a toothy grin.
“Fuck off, Lucas.”
He laughed as I stormed out of the shop, bumping into a customer on my way.
“Oh! I’m so sorry – Bryan?”
It was actually nice to see one of my regulars for a change.
“Hey, Ashlyn. You’re leaving early?”
I smiled warmly at him. “Yeah, a little. I have some stuff to do tonight.” He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “But I’m not in too much of a hurry to say hello. How are things, Bryan?”
He grinned crookedly and blushed. “Pretty good, thanks.”
“How’s the car?” He’d been working on that old MG for months.
Bryan laughed. “Purring like a kitten,” he said. He adjusted his baseball cap. “I think I might be able to take her on the road this week.” He dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in...” He trailed off.
“That’s so sweet of you.” I bit my lip thoughtfully. “I’ll see what my schedule looks like and let you know?”
He glanced up at me and nodded eagerly. “That would be awesome. I think you’d really like her. She’s the same colour as your scarf.” He pointed at the silver-grey pashmina around my neck. “That... That’s really pretty, by the way.” He blushed again.
I laughed lightly. “Thanks, Bryan. It’s my new fashion statement for autumn.” I wasn’t about to tell him why. Lucas was already ribbing me for that. “I have to run, Bryan, but it was really nice to see you again.” He looked like he might want to give me a hug, so I patted him on the arm and stepped to the side. I liked my regular customers, but I wasn’t equipped to get involved with any of them. “Have a good evening.”
He nodded slowly, and I threw him a wave over my shoulder. Even just that little bit of friendly interaction was enough to slow my steps and help me breathe properly again. Maybe I could even forget about who might be showing up at my apartment that night.
#
I WAS IN THE MIDDLE of writing when there was a knock at my door. I glanced over and frowned, then kept working.
The knock came again, and I sighed, rolling my eyes. Buster meowed at me from the sofa.
“Oh, you want to get it? Great.”
Buster meowed again.
“Fine.” I saved my file, closed it, and got up. I didn’t trust that cat as far as I could throw him. He’d already played merry hell with the science fiction novel I’d attempted last year. Eighty thousand words, gone, because someone decided to stomp all over my keyboard.
Little shit.
Another knock.
I hesitated, then edged towards the door and peeked out the spyhole. Well. That shouldn’t have surprised me. I was tempted to let him wait there all night.
“What do you think, buddy?” I asked Buster. He stood up on the sofa and stretched. “Should I open the door, or just let Mr Corey Anthony Knox stand in the hall until Doomsday?”
Buster yawned, showing all his teeth.
“You’re a big help,” I muttered, and opened the door.
“Hi.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Corey held up a clear plastic bag and smiled wryly. “I brought dinner.” The bag held two small cartons decorated with black and green swirls. “Hope you like Thai.”
I pulled off my glasses and closed my eyes briefly, rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead.
“Ashlyn?”
I sighed heavily and slipped my glasses back on. “I thought you said this was too stalker-ish.”
He shrugged. “You suggested it.”
“I most certainly did not!”
Corey glanced from left to right, scanning the hall. “Can we fight about this inside?” His smile faded. “It’s just... I managed to get here without anyone knowing, and I’d rather keep it that way.”
My heart pounded in my chest, and I stared at him. “Seriously?” I whispered. My voice seemed to have disappeared, along with the sensible part of my brain.
He nodded. “Seriously.” The look on his face became almost plaintive. “Please, Ashlyn?” I bit my lip, hesitating. “Let me in?”
I stepped back, opening the door a little wider so he could enter. I caught the scent of his cologne, and my knees went weak. As I closed and locked the door, he turned, his gaze sweeping over me. I blushed a little. I’d stripped out of my work clothes the minute I got home, and now I was just wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top.
“I’ll go change into something less comfortable,” I said crisply. “You can put the food in the kitchen.” I looked up at him. “You do know how a kitchen works, right, Mr Movie Star? Or is that not in your job description?”
He laughed. “I think I can figure it out.”
I craned my neck to look around him. “Come on, Buster. Bedroom.”
Buster just gazed at me with his sleepy gold eyes.
“Bustopher Jones. Come.”
Corey smirked and turned towards the kitchen. Buster hopped off the sofa and followed him.
Traitor.
I stomped off to the bedroom and pulled out a pair of yoga pants, then dragged a white Oxford shirt from my closet, shrugging it over my tank top. Rolling up the sleeves as I made my way into the living room, I stopped dead in my tracks at the end of the hall.
My uninvited guest was sitting on the couch, and Bustopher Jones was curled up on his lap, purring so loudly I could hear it from where I was standing.
Corey glanced up and smiled. “I like your cat,” he said, petting Buster’s head. The purring intensified.
I stared stupidly at them both.
“He hates people,” I said.
“Really?” More petting. More purring. “Maybe he just hates all your other boyfriends because he knows they’re no good for you.” Corey grinned.
I gave him a dark look and swept past the sofa towards the kitchen. “I’ll fix dinner.”
“I’ll help,” he said, starting to get up.
“No!” I whirled, holding up both hands. “Don’t! If you try to get up, he’ll –”
Buster flexed his paws, and Corey hissed a breath through clenched teeth.
“Fuck! Claws!”
I winced. “Yeah, that.” I had to hold a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. “You stay and nurse your wounds.” Corey still had his teeth bared. Buster was settling again. “I’ll be right back.”
I pulled the cartons from the bag and cracked them open. Pad Thai and basil-fried rice with chicken. Nice. I grabbed bowls from the cupboard and called into the living room.
“Do you want a drink? I have water, lemonade, or Coke.” I separated the food into portions and pulled open a drawer. “And chopsticks or a fork?”
Corey’s reply was slightly strangled. Buster must have been kneading his leg.
“Chopsticks. And water’s fine, thanks.”
I brought out Corey’s bowl and glass first. “Sorry my dining room table is a little crowded,” I said, inclining my head. My laptop was set up at the foot, and papers were scattered across the entire surface. “Someone was helping me this evening.” I glared at Buster, who purred contentedly and ignored me.
Corey chuckled. “No problem.” He took the bowl and glass, then looked down at the cat. Buster meowed.
“No,” I said flatly. “You had dinner already.” I grabbed my food and water from the kitchen and sat on the arm of the sofa, my feet on the cushion. Corey glanced up at me with a curious expression, and I smiled innocently. “You’ll see,” I said, by way of explanation.
He did see. Almost immediately. No sooner had he put down his drink and picked up his chopsticks, than Buster realised there was food. The best kind of food: people food. He pawed at Corey’s bowl.
“Just push him off your lap,” I suggested, taking a drink to hide my smile.
“And risk him puncturing my femoral artery?” Corey shook his head and held his bowl up, just out of Buster’s reach. “I don’t think so.”
I laughed. “Yeah, he needs a trim. Sorry about that.” I took a bite. “I’ve been busy.”
Corey looked up at me again. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, only my life’s work.”
He stared at me. Buster managed to get a paw into his bowl, flipping out a piece of chicken and sending it flying across the living room.
“Fuck!” The cat leapt off him and dashed after his prize. Corey sighed, and I giggled wildly.
“Sorry, Foxy,” I said, sliding down off the arm of the sofa and sitting cross-legged on the cushion. “But at least he’s not going after your mongoose.”
Corey stared at me for a beat, then burst out laughing. I smiled behind my chopsticks.
“He’s pretty cute when he’s not being a little shit.” We both watched Buster devour the chicken.
“You mean, when he’s not being a cat?” I said, reaching for my water. “Because they kind of go hand-in-hand.”
Corey laughed again. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
We ate in silence for a while, as Buster licked his paws and washed his whiskers. Then he waddled over to the sofa and pawed at my knee. I shook my head.
“No way, buddy,” I said, scraping up the last few grains of rice. “You’ve had your little treat.”
He meowed, and I shrugged.
“Sorry, handsome.” I dropped a hand and scratched behind his ears. “Maybe after Corey leaves tonight you can have a snack.”
I felt Corey’s eyes on me. His voice was soft.
“You assume I’m leaving.”
My head shot up, and I stared at him. He gave me a half-smile.
“Did you just invite yourself over for the night?” I asked.
He shrugged and lowered his bowl. There was a single piece of chicken left in it, and I felt a strange pull in my chest. I knew what coming; there was no question. But when it happened, it took my breath away, and my heart threatened to crack.
“Come here, bud.”
Buster left me, waddling over to the other side of the couch. Corey put the bowl on the floor, and Buster dove in, snatching up the chicken in his teeth and running off with it, into the kitchen. Well, as fast as twenty pounds of fat and fur can run.
I watched. Just watched. Watched as Corey Knox treated my cat with all the love and affection that he’d probably given to Zack in his youth. I stared into my empty bowl and blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall.
“I’ll clean up,” I mumbled, unfolding my legs and swinging them over the side of the sofa.
Corey picked up his dish and stood. “I’ll do it,” he said, holding out his hand. I looked up into his handsome face. He smiled down at me and winked. “I know how to work a sink.”
I laughed softly and handed him my bowl, watching him as he strode into the kitchen. His ass looked incredible in blue jeans. I shook my head and grabbed my water glass, draining it, then got up and walked to the entrance to the kitchen. I leaned against the doorway and watched Corey as he washed up.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Checking up on me?” He grinned and went back to the dishes. “I swear I know what I’m doing.”
I laughed again and brought my glass to the sink, setting it on the counter. I hesitated for just a moment, then wrapped my arms around his waist and held him. I felt him stop working, stop moving. For a few minutes, we just stood there, him leaning against the sink, me resting my cheek against his soft t-shirt, against the muscles in his broad back. He was so warm. So comfortable. I never wanted to move.
“Ashlyn,” he murmured at last.
I shook my head.
“Angel.” He chuckled softly. I felt him shake out his hands and reach for the dish towel that hung over the sink. “Come on, baby.” He turned in my arms, and I looked up at him. He took my face in his warm, strong hands. “If this is how you react when I wash the dishes, Ashlyn, I’ll clean your whole fucking apartment.”
I laughed, pushing away from him. He dropped his hands and grinned at me, then reached out and brushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from my braid. He leaned back against the sink, his hands on the counter on either side of him.
“Do you want a drink?” I asked, turning away and heading to the fridge. I pulled out the lemonade and looked back at him. “I think I have some rum in the freezer.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Sure,” he said, returning to the dishes. I fixed us drinks, occasionally glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. It was hard to accept; this handsome, successful, wealthy man, standing in my kitchen in jeans and a t-shirt... washing dishes. It felt strange. It felt oddly comforting.
It felt like home.
Pain exploded in my chest. Not a physical pain; nothing so obvious. Just a rush of memories, surging through my heart and my mind. Standing at that same sink. The phone ringing. Thinking it was Kathleen; dropping the phone and crumbling to the floor when it wasn’t.
I took my drink and wandered into the living room, settling on the couch again, my legs tucked under me. This wasn’t the time. I had a wonderful, amazing man in my apartment, who had brought me dinner and knew how to wash dishes. Every woman’s dream, right? I pushed the pain away and slowed my breathing, my eyes closed.
I felt the shift in the air as he crossed in front of me. Smelled his cologne as he moved to sit next to me. The dip of the sofa cushions; the creak of springs. His eyes were on me. I took a deep breath and looked up, smiling quietly at him. He smiled back, then reached out and lightly tapped my nose.
“What’s going on in that pretty head, Miss Sinclair?”
I laughed softly. “Not important,” I said. I nodded to his glass. “What are we drinking to?”
He grinned mischievously. “Oh, I don’t know... any suggestions?”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. It’s your turn.”
He laughed. “But you know all the best toasts.” I smirked, and he looked thoughtfully at the print above my mantelpiece. It was my Salvador Dali – Saturne: Kronos 1964 (Early) – signed by the artist himself. It was the first thing I’d bought with my third royalty cheque. Corey nodded to it. “That’s...”
“Dali,” I said, taking a drink.
“Fucking disturbing,” he corrected, and I nearly spit out my lemonade. He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, peering at the print. He squinted closely at the bottom corner, then turned to me, his eyes wide. “Is that – I mean, is that genuine?”
I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my Oxford shirt. “It’s a genuine print, if that’s what you mean.”
He shook his head. “That,” he said, pointing to the bottom right corner of the print, without looking at it.
I chuckled. “Yes. It’s signed.”
He whistled softly. “Fuck. That must have set you back.”
I shrugged. “Maybe a little,” I said. Actually, it had cost me three thousand dollars. But I wasn’t going to tell him that.
He leaned against the mantel and studied me. I dropped my gaze and focused on my drink.
“What do you really do, Ashlyn Sinclair?”
I sipped my drink, not looking at him. “I write,” I said simply.
“You write.”
I nodded.
“No shit.”
I looked up. “No shit.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head. “What do you write?”
Now it was my turn to study him. How much did I want to let him in? The image of him washing dishes flashed in my mind, and I gave a mental shrug. It was a fair trade.
I set my drink on the coffee table and got up. Without speaking, I left the living room. He followed me.
In the spare room, he whistled again.
“Shit. This puts the one at the Ritz to shame.”
I blushed slightly. To be honest, I thought I might have too many books. Three walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with heavy bookcases. They were all full to overflowing. I stepped into the room, sliding my old reading chair towards one corner, then leaned down and grabbed a book from a lower shelf: The Rule of Threes. I stood up and held it out to him as he gazed around the room.
He took the volume from my hand. “Hey,” he said, glancing up from it to look at me. “I’m reading this.”
I nodded. “I know,” I said, pushing past him, out of the library and back into the living room. He trailed after me, reading the flyleaf.
“It’s pretty good,” he said, dropping onto one end of the sofa and crossing an ankle over his knee. “It’s kind of a mystery thriller, about about this engineer on an oil rig, who –” He stopped abruptly, his head jerking up. He stared at me for what seemed a very long time.
I settled onto the couch and picked up my glass.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed.
“It’s just a book,” I said, taking a sip of lemonade. I didn’t look at him. Instead, I focused on the Dali above the fireplace. Fucking disturbing? I snorted softly into my drink.
From out of the corner of my eye, I saw him flip the book over and look at the spine, then at the photo on the back. He glanced up at me, then back at the book. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said slowly, “but you look nothing like this guy.” He turned the volume in his hand again. “And I’m pretty sure your name isn’t Darius Chapman.” He set the book on the couch between us. “Something you’re not telling me, angel?” He turned towards me, wedging one knee against the back cushions.
I heard the smile in his voice, and looked up at him. I tapped the photo. “It’s a high school friend of mine,” I said.
His smile vanished. “Boyfriend?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little late to be asking me that?”
He looked down into his glass. “Never too late to find out you’ve fucked up another relationship.” There was a hard, bitter note in his voice. He stared at the book, then took a healthy swallow from his glass.
“Corey.”
He swirled his drink.
“Corey, look at me.”
He took another swallow, draining his glass, then set it on the coffee table.
I put my drink down and reached across the sofa, crooking my finger and placing it under his chin. If he’d fought against me, I never would have been able to lift his head, but he wasn’t that stubborn. His eyes met mine.
“He’s dead,” I said flatly. I picked up the book and tossed it onto the coffee table as Corey stared at me. I looked back at him, my eyes flashing. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Corey.” My memories made the words come out more sharply than I’d intended. “No boyfriend. No parents. No family. I have a cat and a disturbing Dali print.”
“And a writing career, apparently.”
I shrugged.
He leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “How did he die?”
I swallowed thickly. “Lung cancer,” I said. From the way he drew in a sharp breath, I knew. “Who did you lose?”
He looked down at his hands. “My mom.”
I bowed my head. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” He took a deep breath. “Dad fell apart a little. He almost sold the farm, but I was moving up, and I was able to help him by then.”
“Still,” I said. I looked up at him. He seemed so lost. I shuffled towards him on the sofa and slid my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest. He held me tightly, and I could hear his heart beating. He kissed the top of my head, and I closed my eyes.
“What happened to your folks?” he murmured into my hair.
I shrugged again. “My father was an engineer. He was killed in an explosion.” I didn’t need to specify that he’d worked on an oil rig. Corey was smart enough to figure that out. “Mom went off the rails. My Aunt Kathleen took me in. And then she –” I stopped. I didn’t want to go there. Not yet. I squeezed my eyes shut.
He pressed his cheek against my hair. “I’m sorry, angel.”
I nodded. “Anyway. That’s what I really do. I work at Déjà Brew because I collect stories. And then I write about them.”
I felt his chuckle, deep in his chest. “I could give you stories, angel.” He kissed my head again.
“I’m sure you could give me a lot of things.”
He reached down, sliding a finger under my chin, lifting my head. “The whole world,” he murmured, and my heart started aching again.
“In a glass bubble,” I whispered.
He smiled and wrapped his arm around me once more. “It’s not so bad.”
I studied him. “You enjoy it.”
He nodded, still smiling. “I like playing a role. I like the attention. Having an audience.” He shrugged, and chuckled again. “You said it yourself: I’m the opposite of people.”
I laughed softly and rested my head on his chest again.
We sat like that for a long time before he spoke.
“So why not write under your own name?”
I tensed. “Personal reasons,” I said.
I felt him look down at me. “And they are?”
I glanced up. “Personal,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
I said nothing.
He took a deep breath. “I sleep with a stuffed animal.”
I blinked at him. “Sorry?”
He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “When I’m on location, I –” He smiled faintly. “His name’s Gilbert.”
I remembered the stuffed elephant on the chair in his suite. The one with the cute green bow-tie.
“Mel’s the only one that knows.” He grinned weakly. “Well. And you.”
I knew why he’d told me. I took a deep breath, remembering his words at the shelter.
Let me in, Ashlyn.
“My aunt’s name is – was – Kathleen Wainwright.”
He frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?” He looked at nothing for a minute, as though searching for a memory. Then his eyebrows lifted, and his gaze shifted back to me.
“The Kathleen Wainwright?”
“There’s more than one?” I asked bitterly.
He stared at me. “Holy shit, Ashlyn.” He pushed me up, away from him. His hands were around my upper arms, and he was looking intently at me. “Are you Kathleen Wainwright’s daughter?”
I swallowed, hard. “That’s what the papers said, yes. Her ward.”
He blinked. “No wonder you’re so afraid of publicity,” he murmured. “She was –”
“Murdered, yes,” I snapped. “I remember it well.”
He frowned. “Angel...”
I shook my head and stood abruptly, pulling away from him. I picked up my glass and took a long drink.
“I read about it when it happened,” he said softly. I focused on the Dali print, fighting back my tears. “Ashlyn, it wasn’t the fame.” I looked sharply at him, and he must have seen the anger in my face, because he held up both hands. “It was her stalker. Not the fame. Not the publicity.” He rose gracefully, moving to stand beside me. “That bastard might well have been hunting her before she even touched the stars.” He took the drink from my unresisting fingers and set it on the mantel, turning me to face him. “Ashlyn – I would never let that happen to you.”
I shook my head again. “You can’t predict the future,” I said. “You can’t know.”
“Then why live at all?” He took my chin in one hand. “Why not just lock yourself away and... and...”
“Write for a living?” I said quietly.
He blushed again. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Pretty much. I mean, how good a writer would you be if you never left the house?” He let go of my chin and brushed a fingertip against my nose. “You’d never experience anything. You’d never hear peoples’ stories.” He looked up with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “You never would have met me.” That winning smile again, lighting up the dark corners of my heart.
I laughed in spite of my memories. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you, Corey Knox?” His smile changed to a grin. “You don’t really think you’re going to change my mind, do you?”
“I’m seriously hoping I will,” he said, kissing my forehead.
I sighed and shook my head once more. “I don’t know, Corey.” I reached for my drink, finishing it, then setting the glass back on the mantel. “I mean –” I looked back up at him. He was grinning like an idiot. “What?” I frowned. “What’s so –”
He grabbed me, picking me up and spinning me around. I held on for dear life, my eyes wide. “Hey, hey!” I struggled in his grip, and he put me down, still grinning broadly. I held a hand to my head. “Okay, if the vodka wasn’t making me dizzy, that did it,” I said, glaring up at him. He threw his head back and laughed. “What’s so funny?”
He took my face in his hands. “You have no idea how good it feels to hear you say that.”
I blinked. “Say what?” I frowned and pushed his hands away. He slid them off my cheeks and rested them on my shoulders.
“That you don’t know.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?” I snorted. “That’s what has you grinning like a fool and spinning me around like a tilt-a-whirl?”
“Ashlyn.” He brushed the loose hair off my face. His grin turned into a smile, and he searched my face. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “It’s the first time you’ve said anything other than ‘I can’t’.”
I opened my mouth to give him a snarky response, when I realised he was right.
Something had shifted inside me.