Текст книги "Broken Crown"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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I stand up. “I’m going out for a while.”

“I’ll be gone by the time you return.”

“Listen, it’s not you.”

“You already said that.”

I look at her mountain of junk in the hallway. Seeing her stuff stacked by the front door makes me feel like an asshole. Worse, it reminds me of the day Chrissie moved out, that I watched her leave and did nothing to try to stop her. It makes staring at the girl’s boxes an unpleasant thing.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” she says. “I thought I could get it into the car before you came back from your run.”

I shift my gaze from Aarsi’s things. “You don’t need to move out. But you need to stay out of my way, keep the house running and be otherwise invisible.”

Aarsi’s smile this time is beaming. “I can do that.”

“I may not be back until tomorrow.”

She nods.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And you’ve been working for me for what, about five years?”

Dimples in her cheeks this time with her smile. “You pay very well.”

“Well, Aarsi, it’s good to know I’ve done someone some good.”

“You’ve done lots of people lots of good. I don’t just mean your music. All the charity. You are a very generous man.”

“Charity is tax deductible. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

“I don’t believe that at all.”

“Well, you should. We are all creatures of self-interest. Some of us just hide it better. What kind of music do you listen to?”

“I’m into world music. But I like your music. My boyfriend is deployed in Afghanistan. He plays you in the Humvee when he’s on patrol. Your early stuff. All the stuff from the eighties.”

“Ah, the music from when I was young and angry.”

“You’re still young.”

She flashes me a smile that is flirty and pert.

Damn her.

“We’ll get along fine if you stay out of my way. There are only two reasons I ever fire a housekeeper: climbing into my bed or talking to the press. I don’t fuck young women who work for me.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do.”

Her entire face is now deep crimson. I wasn’t positive before the blush that her flirty tone had been an invitation to fuck her. It’s good that I dealt with that upfront.

I take from the collection of cars in my garage the Mercedes with its darkly tinted windows. I notice the UCLA parking decal hanging from the rearview and I realize that this is the car Aarsi has been using for her private use.

I almost climb out, but instead decide to toss the decal on the windshield of the Porsche parked beside it. I just want to get past the fucking tabloids at the end of the drive without incident. That the girl has been using this car and the windows are too dark to see in will hopefully help facilitate a quiet escape. If I’m lucky the press won’t follow me.

Damn Shyla and her drama.

 

 

Chapter 7

I’m trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 1 for an hour. It’s after 4 p.m., even though I’ve only gone twenty miles, before I catch my first glimpse of Pacific Palisades, Chrissie’s new home since Jesse’s death. She sold the Santa Barbara house four months ago. Linda Rowan gave me that news and elaborated on it no further.

I wonder why Chrissie moved. I never thought she’d leave Santa Barbara again. Perhaps the memories are too painful to live in the house she shared with Jesse. Perhaps she just wants to be closer to Jesse’s family because of their kids.

I turn up the narrow tree-lined road to her house and pull into Chrissie’s long, circular driveway. Her modest Pacific Palisades estate is surrounded by only a four-foot-high, two-bar white fence. There are no high stucco walls with a gate for privacy or security.

I park the car and sit for a moment, staring at the house. This is not wise, Chrissie. This house may have the look of your house in Santa Barbara, the feel of continuity might be a good thing for the kids, but it is not wise and certainly not safe.

This is fucking LA. Don’t you ever think, Chrissie? It’s charming. But it’s charmingly stupid.

I climb from the driver’s seat and go to the door. I ring the bell. I wait. Why does it always take forever for someone to answer the front door?

I’m about to head back to my car for my phone to call her when the front door is opened wide. Oh fuck. I stiffen. It is Grace Harris, Jesse’s mother.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims in disbelief.

“Close. Lucifer,” I tease and force a laugh.

Grace smiles. “I’m sorry. You surprised me. I was expecting the pizza delivery boy.”

“A welcome surprise, I hope?” Tentative. Careful. Cool. We used to be on friendly terms, but I’m feeling grossly uncomfortable with her today.

“You are always welcome, Alan.” She struggles to adjust the infant in her arms. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“I wasn’t certain I would be after a year. I’m terrible at keeping in touch.”

Grace gives me an exuberant hug, which she manages with the baby in her arms. “Year or not, you are always welcome.”

The pizza delivery boy has the unforgivable timing of arriving while we are still passing pleasantries at the door.

“Jesus Christ!” He shouts too loudly from behind me. “Aren’t you—?”

“No, Dave Grohl is touring and American.”

The boy stares at me. I feel my head start to throb again. I just want fucking inside the house so I can see Chrissie.

“Would you mind signing my hat?”

Crap. I stare at the boy. He looks like a nice kid, fresh-faced Boy Scout type, and deserves to be treated politely. It will give him something to amuse himself with while delivering pizza.

How amusing can that be?

“Sure. No problem,” I tell him.

The pizza is dumped on the porch. His hat and a pen are shoved at me. Grace goes into the house, fishes through her purse in the entry hall for money, and pays him.

“Grab the pizza when you’re done, Alan.”

I give the cap back to the kid. He won’t stop talking. It doesn’t feel like he’s leaving here anytime soon without rudeness. I don’t want to be rude to the kid. Fuck, I’ll outflank him.

 “I don’t play in the LA area for another eight months. Scribble out your name and address and I’ll send you two backstage passes. Would you like that?”

The boy’s jaw drops. I take his information, shove it into my pocket and watch him leave.

“You better not disappoint that boy, Alan,” Grace chides as I follow her into the kitchen. “He’s a nice boy. Lives up the road. Plays with Ethan and Eric in the front yard when he has the time without being asked to.”

Ethan and Eric. Chrissie’s six-year-old sons reduced to playing ball with the neighborhood scout/pizza delivery boy. Jesse had been a devoted father. It’s impossible to comprehend the size of the void in their lives without him.

I settle on a stool at the island counter in the center of Chrissie’s gourmet kitchen. “How are the kids doing?”

“The kids are doing well. We’re a strong family.”

I nod. I don’t know what to say.

There is silence between us as she settles the baby in the bouncer on the counter. She puts a plate of pizza and a beer in front of me. I’m not hungry but I start eating anyway to be polite.

She sits on a stool across from me and gives me a thorough study. She starts fiddling with her elegant, silvery chin-length hair, a nervous gesture, then the smooth skin of her face tightens inch by inch.

She frowns. “What’s wrong, Alan? What is going on in your life to make you so unhappy?”

Sincere concern. God, I love this woman. Would I be the man Jesse had been if I’d been raised by this tender woman?

I shrug. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m tired, stressed, working and drinking too much, I’m sure you’d think. But I’m good.”

She shakes her head. “Call me. I mean it, Alan. Call me. Even if it’s only to tell me goodbye and that you’re leaving LA.”

I stare. Both that speech and her tone were odd. “I’ll call. I’ll be in LA for the next three months. I’m not on the road again until April. We can do lunch. Dinner. Think about it so it’s decided before I call.”

“A gauche, trendy restaurant in the Hollywood area would be so amusing. There are times your life is a circus, Alan. I don’t know how you live in it.”

I laugh. Somehow I just got chided for my lifestyle without her saying a single direct word. Damn, she must reading the tabloids. Absurd and sweet.

“With twenty-two grandchildren, Grace, your life is a circus, too.”

“Twenty-three.” She picks up the baby and turns her so she faces toward me. “Meet Khloe. She joined us in August. Isn’t she beautiful?”

The baby is beautiful. Dark hair, flawless olive-toned skin and what would surely be enormous blue eyes.

“All the Harris grandchildren are beautiful. It’s good that they are since your family procreates in excess.”

She gives me a sharp rebuke with her eyes. I tense. Shit, maybe I offended her.

“There is not a time a baby is born that it is in excess.”

She abruptly leaves the room.

I shake my head. Fuck. Good one, Alan. Marvelous way to start this visit. Piss off Jesse’s mother. That’ll go over great with Chrissie.

I go into the family room with its wall of glass overlooking the back lawn. The room has a cluttered and whimsical charm. Oversized cream couches. A large-screen TV. A table scattered with the half-joined pieces of a puzzle. The two Pulitzers that are Jesse’s hanging on the wall with Chrissie’s gold and platinum records. The mess of the kids is everywhere. I navigate through toys, books, and an odd assortment of shoes in varying sizes.

I stare out through the French doors at the shadowy, covered back patio and across the yard. My gaze locks on my target.

Chrissie is sitting near the patio on the grass beneath a tree with the twins flanking her sides. She is reading to the boys. She looks more beautiful than any woman has a right to look in faded jeans, a black cotton tank top, blond hair in a ponytail, no jewelry except her wedding band, and her delicately featured tanned face without makeup. She looks stunning.

I take a moment to enjoy the sight of her and struggle to put back into order my internal arrangement. Now that I’m here, I realize I should have called her first, but I always used to drop in on the fly during her marriage to Jesse.

But this is different, I remind myself. The last time I saw her we were in bed together. And I can feel there is a lot going on inside this house that isn’t good. Nothing has felt normal, the way it used to, since I arrived here.

I hear a loud bang, and turn to find a tote bag lying on the tile entry floor. Kaley is standing across the room, staring at me. She’s changed a lot in a year. She’s taller. Must be nearly five feet eleven. Her hair has grown. Her dark curls are halfway down her back. She looks more mature, less like a teenager. She is strikingly beautiful.

She pulls her earbuds out. “How long have you been here?”

My eyes widen. The combination of the unexpectedly hostile stare and the tone of her voice makes me tense.

“Well, hello to you, too, Kaley.” She rolls her eyes and doesn’t return the greeting. “I just got in to LA a few hours ago.”

“Does Mom know you’re here?”

“No. I wanted to surprise her.”

Her eyes flash. “Oh, there is definitely going to be a surprise here today.” Hostile and cryptic this time.

She marches across the room toward the kitchen. What is up with that? Kaley and I have always been tight. She looked at me like she hates me.

I debate whether to follow her. After a few minutes, I go into the kitchen. She’s rummaging through the fridge.

I lean against the counter and wait for her to turn toward me. She opens some sort of ready-made container and starts picking at it with a fork.

Is she ignoring me?

It’s an overplayed joke. I’ll try it anyway. “You used to like me a little, love.”

She doesn’t look up. “Very little.” She said her line. Improvement.

“You look good. How do you like living in Pacific Palisades?”

“I fucking hate it here.”

My eyes widen. Kaley didn’t used to swear. But she’s nearly eighteen.

“How’s your mother been?”

She pins me in a look that is withering.

“I’m out of here.”

In a flash I’m alone. What the fuck just happened?

I rake a hand through my hair and stay against the counter, trying to acclimate to the vibe here.

“Alan.”

I look into the family room. Krystal Harris is racing toward me, an enormous smile on her face. That’s more like it. More the welcome I’m used to here.

She’s changed a lot in a year, too. At nine, with her black hair and blue eyes, the term enchanting pixie always come to mind when I see her. She is confident like Jesse had been. Beautifully fragile like Chrissie. Absolutely lovely like you’d expect a daughter of theirs to be.

I swoop her up into my arms and give her a playfully loud kiss on her cheek. “Hey, sunshine, how are you doing? It looks like you’ve grown a foot since I’ve last seen you!”

She nods. “Three inches. Mommy says I’m going to be tall like Kaley. I’ve missed you. It’s been a year. You’ve never gone a whole year without visiting. Why don’t you come to see us anymore?”

I fight to keep reaction from my face. Krystal has an IQ that exceeds that of an MIT professor. It doesn’t surprise me she dropped in bullet-point style and laser accuracy each thing troubling and different about this past year.

What surprises me is it’s troubling to her.

I set her on her feet. “I’ve been working, love. I’ve been out of the States on tour.”

She frowns. “You were in LA in September. I saw it online. You didn’t visit us. Mommy was upset. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to.”

There are any number of ways I can interpret that one; none I want to deal with today.

I touch Krystal’s cheek. “It wouldn’t have done your mother any good for me to visit in September. How has she been doing, kiddo?”

Krystal giggles. “It sounds so funny when you say ‘kiddo.’ It doesn’t sound at all like Daddy with a British accent.”

Oh fuck. What the hell had made me call her kiddo? I never do that. That was Jesse’s pet term for the people he loved. I’m relieved to see that it didn’t upset Krystal. It makes her grin larger.

“Mommy is good.” Her eyes sharpen on me. Her brow crinkles. Worried. “You look terrible.”

“I’m getting old, sunshine. It happens to the best of us.”

Krystal pulls herself up to sit down on the counter close beside me. “I downloaded your new release from a bootleg site. Mommy doesn’t like me to do that since it cuts you from the royalties, but she doesn’t let me listen to your music so I can’t buy it. Too many bad words in some of the tracks. I did a remix. Do you want to hear? I turned it into hip-hop.”

I laugh. I have missed this little girl. I didn’t comprehend how much until now.

“Did you really remix me into hip-hop? Is the hip-hop an improvement? You’ve got your grandfather Jack’s talent and his wicked sense of humor. What did your mother think? Did you show her what you did?”

Krystal shrugs. “No. I’d have gotten into trouble and Mommy doesn’t talk about you anymore.”

She stares at her fingers. That bombshell makes my insides sharply adjust. Chrissie doesn’t talk about me anymore and Krystal is wondering why. Krystal has a dangerous sensitivity for a child. She picks up on things in the adult world that no child should be capable of for its own wellbeing. I can tell by her expression that she knows something is wrong between her mother and me, and she is troubled by it.

“Don’t worry, Krystal. Everything is going to be fine. It’s all different for us and it will take time until everything feels normal again. I loved your dad, too. He was a good man, and a good friend. I miss him every day. Are you all right, love?”

She stares at me perplexed “I will always be all right. Daddy loves me. You don’t lose love just because somebody goes away.”

Poignant words from a nine-year-old. It sounds like something Chrissie would say. I can tell that they are heartfelt and I am appalled with myself for being slightly jealous that it is this easy for her.

“Mommy is going to read for another half hour. Would you like to see the rabbits Uncle Sandy gave me for my birthday?”

Uncle Sandy, Jesse’s brother, a music promoter. “I saw your Uncle Sandy in Tokyo a week ago.”

“I know. I heard him tell Mommy. He was backstage at your concert and you had dinner together after the show. He said that being forced to eat in his socks gave him the flu. That you didn’t talk about anything and that you looked like hell. He thought Mommy should call you. She told him to butt out. She snapped at Uncle Sandy. He was surprised by that. Mommy never snaps.”

She slips down from the counter, grabs my hand and tugs me through the house to the side patio door.

There are two elegant structures on the lawn which one has to assume are Chrissie’s idea of hutches.

“Dang it,” she exclaims in irritation.

“What?”

Krystal drops to the grass before a hutch, opens the cage and lifts out a ball of gray fur.

“This is the male. One of the twins put them together. I promised Mommy I wouldn’t let that happen again. Why are boys such idiots? Why do they miss the obvious? Put them together in the cage and we’ve got more rabbits. We almost couldn’t find homes for them all last time. Mom’s going to be pissed.”

I find myself grinning. “You say the most outrageous things, love.”

She shoves the gray lop-eared creature into the other hutch. “Do you want to know their names?”

“I don’t know if I care to know any rabbits on a first-name basis.” I run a hand through my hair and note the disappointment in her eyes. Fine. I’ll ask. “What are their names, Krystal?”

She points at the one in front of her. “That one I named after Mommy. Her name is Chrissie.”

I make a face, and bite back a laugh. “I bet that went over well with your mum.”

Krystal shakes her head. She points to the gray bunny. “That one I named after you. That one we call Manny.”

Oh fuck.

The blood starts to riot through my ears. I can feel color on my face like a burn. I am being confronted about my past with her mother. Fuck, what the hell does she know?

“Krystal, why would you do that?”

I stare at her.

Her eyes widen. “I always name my pets after the people I love. You look very strange. What’s wrong?”

I find her explanation not cute.

“I don’t care for having a rabbit named after me.”

She stares silent and pouty at the cages. Damn, what is she trying to do here? I am being dragged through a minefield of innuendo by a little girl.

“Are you reading the online tabloids again? Is there anything you’ve read that you’d like to ask me about? It’s mostly garbage, Krystal. I hope you know that.”

She stares at me with her enormous blue eyes. “If I asked about the things I see we would be here forever.”

Fuck, I don’t know what that means, or how I should answer that one.

I place a kiss on her hair. “I love you, Krystal. I want you to remember that always in case I don’t visit again for a long time.”

I don’t like her reaction. She springs to her feet. She stares, her eyes anxious and searching, then runs away.

Before I can stop her, she’s gone, disappeared around the house into the main back lawn.

Good one, Alan. You’ve blown it again. I’m out of my depth. Fuck, I should never have come here.

 

 

Chapter 8

I turn the knob on the side door of the house. Oh fuck. Locked. I do a quick study of the yard. No gate over here. The only direction to go is through the backyard.

I round the side of the house onto the patio.

“Hello, Alan.”

My startled gaze locks on Chrissie.

She is sitting on the edge of a patio table, bouncing the book she was reading against her fingertips. The yard is empty. The boys are gone, the French doors closed. I can tell by her expression she knew I was here before she saw me.

“What a man of eclectic vices you’ve become,” she says before I’ve collected myself enough to even say hello. “To top off the list I’ve been reading in the tabloids of how you’ve amused yourself on tour, you’ve become a voyeur to the lusty pursuits of rabbits. What an exciting life you live.”

I tense. She said that in a silly way, but there was bite in each word. I fight not to let my anger stir since it is appropriate that her first words to me should be critical. I owe her that.

I take a moment to regroup. I can’t tell what direction this is going to go. I’m getting a dose of the playacting. Nonsensical drivel. But I don’t know what’s underneath the façade.

Anger?

Hurt?

This could take off in any direction.

I opt for nonsensical as well. “I need to take a page from the rabbits, Chrissie. The male is discreet, he is modestly quick and delightfully charming in the afterglow. Somehow it makes him all the more tolerable to the female.”

Oh fuck, what made me say that?

She shakes her head in a dramatic and cutesy sort of way. “Don’t do that, Alan. We would all be living in a boring world if you became discreet, modestly quick and charming in the afterglow all on the same day.”

Direct hit.

“I love you, Chrissie. How much longer are you going to make me wait for you this time? Five years? Ten? Let me know so I can pray, fast and mentally prepare.”

Her expression doesn’t change. Not even a hint of reaction.

“I wasn’t aware that you were waiting,” she says smoothly. “A phone call might have been useful to get the message to me. Hell, I would have even settled for a text.”

Aggravated, I run a hand through my hair. How like her to drop the mistakes we both own solely on me. “Then you are the only one unaware on seven continents, love.”

Her brows lift. “Really? How irritating that must be for the women in your life. No wonder you’ve run through so many so quickly this year. You irritate them.”

Fine. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Enough.

“Not quickly, Chrissie. While I’m there I give it my all.”

There. Hopefully, she’ll be ready to back off on this charade. I hate the playacting. She knows it. It’s not a good sign that she’s leading with it.

“You’re right. Let me rephrase. You are never quick in the endeavor. There are times you do exceed your exaggerated public persona, Alan. You exceed in the endeavor. Maybe I should take a poll on this. No, it would be an exhausting effort. How many women have you gone through this time? Fifty? A hundred? No, more like fifty. You’re getting older and you’ve only had thirteen months to work with.”

She’s learned to fight in a year. And she’s not just angry, she’s hurt. Deeply hurt. Message received, Chrissie.

“Do you want to talk about the women I’ve had in my life or do you want to talk about us? I’ll talk about both, whichever you care for. I never do bullshit with you, Chrissie. So remind yourself of that before you decide which way you want to take us in this and how far into detail. Why don’t we skip the first topic since not a single woman was of any significance since none of them were you?”

She moves away from the patio table until she is standing.

Her eyes flash.

“I won’t tolerate the women, Alan. If you can’t give me that, go home. Don’t follow me into the house. Spare us both and leave. If you step through that door it’s a promise to me. A promise I expect you to keep. Then we can take some time to figure out what we want to do about you and me.”

She walks away, through the patio door, and closes it behind her.

I sink onto the foot of a chaise lounge and stare. What the fuck happened here? Did I hear her correctly? She moved through the first round with the sureness of a military mastermind. Chrissie defined the ground rules of having a relationship with her—this time—in a series of five unleashed blows masquerading as a conversation.

Christ, I don’t understand any of this. Does she mean what I think she means? That she has already decided she wants to try to give us a go again.

Definitely not what I expected today. Not her calmness. Not her emotional poise. And not how quickly she moved us to the reason I’m here: us.

I take several measured breaths and realize I can’t sit out here all afternoon trying to figure this out. If I delay much longer Chrissie might take that as me debating with myself over whether to follow her.

I go into the house.

I find her alone in the kitchen, tidying the mess on the counter left by the children. They’ve eaten their pizza. The house is quiet. It sounds like it’s empty.

I settle myself on a stool across the island from her. “If you don’t stop force-feeding me shit, Chrissie, you’ll suffocate me before I get a chance to even ask you to dinner.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. She laughs.

“It’s the art of tough love, Alan, and you need it. I don’t need dinner. And monogamy isn’t the worst promise in the world to keep.”

I don’t like being lectured.

“I have always been faithful to you when we were together, Chrissie, and you know it.”

She nods. “I know you were, Alan. But our circumstance is more complicated. You’ve changed and not in all ways better. I can’t let you back into my life, not for a day if this isn’t something you’re going to do the way I need you to. My children come first. Don’t ever forget that.”

I sit back, staring at her.

“Would you like to explain what’s going on, Chrissie? I came here hoping you wouldn’t throw me out the front door. I don’t mind if you’re inclined to skip the preliminaries, we both know what I want and why I’m here, but I wish you’d let me know what it is you want so I can reschedule my calendar. What is it you want, Chrissie?”

Chrissie shuts off the water, turns from the sink, and leans back against the counter. “I’m not throwing you out the front door, but we’re a long way from anything else. This time it has to be my way, not yours.”

“Your way, love? What makes you think that’s a change?”

She smiles, contrite. “I concede your point. I’m sorry. I can see I’m confusing you. You came here expecting a fight and you thought I was going to hate you. I don’t want to fight and I don’t hate you. But that won’t make this any easier for either of us. I can’t be your friend. I’m pretty sure we’ll blur that line. And I won’t be your lover. There are a few issues we need to work through. It’s part of me being sure this time, sure about you, sure about us. Sure about the direction I take my life.”

Sure?

Is she fucking serious?

“I’ve loved you every day since the moment I first saw you. What more do you need from a man to be sure?”

She stares at me, blinks twice, and then smiles, one of her comical smiles. “May it be written on every obelisk and pylon. The tabloids just didn’t do it for me. Too many photos.”

Again, dramatic and exaggerated. Still playacting in round two; not a good sign.

I shake my head. “Tomorrow I’ll purchase all the obelisks and pylons in America. Where do I find them?”

I let out a ragged breath.

I sense we both need a rest in this.

“Your house is quiet, Chrissie. What have you done with your kids?”

Those blues begin to sparkle. “I locked them in the cellar.”

I roll my eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t lock me in the cellar, love. Not being an optimist I’m not dismissing the worry yet.”

She smiles again. The change of subject seems to ease some of her tension.

“In case you weren’t aware, Alan, you were on the patio over an hour. You have a horrible concept of time. Grace took Krystal and the boys home with her. Kaley is staying at a friend’s. You can spend the night if you want to. You look like hell. A night of healthy living couldn’t hurt you.”

I don’t take those words as an invitation to share her bed tonight even though she got rid of the kids. I’m more inclined to believe she is expecting something to happen and doesn’t want the kids to witness it.

“It’s a good thing I look like hell. I’m dead tired. I only reached LA a few hours ago. Us alone in a house—you would never let me sleep unless I looked like hell, Chrissie.”

I regret the joke the second it’s out, because hearing those words aloud reminds me of our last night together and that we haven’t talked about that yet.

She turns and reaches into a cabinet, blowing by that without a response. She pulls out two glasses and a bottle of unopened scotch. She breaks the seal, fills my glass too generously and puts a splash in her own.

“I’m assuming you still drink scotch,” she says.

“Some things never change, Chrissie.”

She picks up her glass, take a sip, and then studies me over the rim. The hold of her eyes makes my heart accelerate.

“You really do look good, Chrissie. As a matter of fact you look wonderful.”

“I wish I could say the same about you. You really do look awful.”

Something about the way her expression changes makes me more aware of this past year. I make a vague gesture with my hands. “It’s just road fatigue.”

“More like roadkill.” She eases closer to me. Her finger moves to lightly trace my chin and upper lip. “And what’s with this? When did the facial hair start?”

I smile ruefully. “Six months ago. I can see by your expression you don’t like it.”

Her lips scrunch up as if she’s holding back a smile. She shakes her head. “No, I don’t. Not at all.”

Her gaze fixes on me more sharply. The thrill of her runs straight into my veins like an elixir. It reminds me why I’m here. Why I put up with so many unpleasant things to be with her.

So I can know this.

The thrill of her eyes. The sound of her voice. The feel of her touch. The smell of her. Her laughter and little gestures missing in all other women.

I lock my eyes on her. “What are the chances if I shave tonight my room assignment will improve?”

She laughs. “Nonexistent.”

“How about in the near term?”

She laughs harder. “That depends entirely on you.”

My tightly coiled nerves unbend.

“On me, huh? You must feel sorry for me and I must really look terrible.”

My gaze roams the kitchen. Her house looks disorganized and untended.

“What is going on here? You’re living in a multimillion-dollar slum. Are you OK financially, Chrissie?”

“I just have Lourdes since the move and I think she’s a little too old to take care of all my kids by herself. I’ve been trying to hire a nanny. But I’m very careful who I trust. Especially now. I haven’t found anyone I feel comfortable with, so for now I live with mess.”

She takes her glass to the sink and seems to spend a lot of time washing it.

“Financially, I’m OK,” she says without turning to look at me. “I took a hit when the real estate market crashed, like everyone else I know. But I’ve had a good year, all things considered.”

“Congratulations on the new release. I was expecting you to take more time off, and then all of a sudden I started hearing you everywhere.”