Page 43 of How to Catch a Rockstar

“You caught me. Guilty as charged.”

“Good. I need you to…”

I sit up and put him on speaker so I can take notes on all of the gazillion things he needs me to do. Typical Mike. His temper is quick to rise but it’s also quick to fizzle out.

I hang up the phone and sigh. I would rather spend the next ten hours lying in this comfortable bed but I’ve got work to do.

I throw on some clothes, grab my work bag, and go in search of somewhere to work since the mattress is entirely too soft for me to concentrate when I’m lying on it.

All the doors upstairs are closed so I make my way downstairs. I didn’t get a chance to study the house last night but wow. Holy cow.

The downstairs is an open concept kitchen/living room/dining room with vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, and tons of light pouring in from the numerous windows.

It’s clearly a bachelor pad, though. If I lived here, I’d add some color with a few pillows and maybe an accent wall. And plants. This place definitely needs plants.

The kitchen, however, is perfect as it is. Especially if it includes the rockstar currently standing there. Without his shirt on.

I nearly falter at the sight of his wide shoulders and lean back muscles covered in tattoos. Tattoos I’ve licked every inch of. My mouth goes dry and I bite my bottom lip as memories assault my body.

“G-g-g-ood morning.” I clear my throat and try again. “Good morning.”

Jett glances over his shoulder at me and grunts. The rockstar drummer is not a morning person.

“Why are you up?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw and his bicep muscles flex with the movement. I never realized drummers had such well-defined bodies before I met Jett. Now I understand why my co-workers want to bag themselves a rocker.

“Phone woke me.”

“Sorry. Mike doesn’t sleep much. And he doesn’t care what time it is when he rings you.”

He grunts again before turning around to pour his coffee. He holds up a mug. “Want one?”

“No caffeine allowed.” I motion toward my belly.

He freezes for a second before apologizing. “Sorry. I can get some decaf.”

I can’t help the laugh from escaping. “You’re going to buy groceries? You?”

“Hey. I know how to buy groceries.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

I set my bag on the dining room table. “Is it okay if I work here?”

“Go ahead. I mostly eat in front of the television anyway.”

My stomach rumbles reminding me a mini-bag of pretzels on an airplane does not constitute a meal.

“Do you want eggs?”

“Eggs? As in raw eggs?”

He grimaces. “Who eats raw eggs?”

“Do you know how to cook eggs?”

“I can scramble eggs.”

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