Page 41 of Rumor Has It

And not the kind where I expected her to keep any bigger secrets then a surprise anniversary gift for my wife.

Vespa’s job is literally to fix things for me and make my life easier.

So, why can’t I ask her to find me a doctor and then leave me the fuck alone?

I’m well aware that Cassidy and I hardly know one another. I’m pushing too fast straight out of the gate. I should care more about what happens when whatever is happening between me and Cass implodes. But I’ve been lost for a while now, and finding my bags by the door while I was holding Cassidy enveloped me with an uncanny sense of belonging.

Oh yeah, and the proverbial floor disappearing out from under my feet isn’t exactly a new thing for me. But hell if I’m suffering over it this time. I’m grabbing life by the horns.

Considering Vespa currently believes I’m one bad decision away from career suicide, she probably won’t take too kindly to me telling her I’m finally thinking about myself.

Used to self-centered assholes, my assistant only growls at me for telling her to quit.

Vespa might be prickly, but occasionally in show business you need a viper in your corner so that you can keep up the nice guy act. She stays on with me, and I keep winning this fight because I’m not the biggest asshole she’s worked for.

“Just find me a doctor who makes house calls and keep doing whatever it is you have do to take care of everything else.” I snarl, popping two ibuprofen and swallowing them dry.

You’d think like Monty, she’d be happy for a break from my dumb ass over the holidays.

Annoyed, Vespa hangs up on me.

However, I’m sorely mistaken if I think my biggest problem is dealing with an irritated personal assistant.

Chapter Sixteen

CASSIDY

Isaiah slips into the bathroom and closes the door.

Hearing the lock snick drives me into action. Despite the offer to join him in the shower, Isaiah needs privacy, and so do I. There’s a constant niggling in my brain to take a step away and get my bearings with him. I’m glad for the few minutes by myself.

I get out of bed and don a baby blue rib knit camisole and the matching tie front capris from my pajama drawer. I tug on a thin robe for modesty’s sake. In the dresser mirror, I pile my hair up in a messy bun. The combination is cute and sexy. Wearing this I can still tidy up… Or I can go back to bed.

For real, I’m not busting out the spackle and patching the hole in the ceiling on my own and Isaiah…Phew—the air leaves my lungs in a quick rush… That bruising! He might not be worried, but I’m having an attack of conscience over jumping the man’s bones.

Perhaps a night of Netflix and chill minus the chill is in order? After all, we stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning. Then he got up today to go write with my uncle. It’s no wonder he lost his footing. Isaiah’s probably bushed. As my daddy says, it’s hard to keep the tractor running if it’s not firing on all cylinders.

I walk out of my bedroom to head downstairs. Leaving the door cracked open feels as decadent as walking around the mansion in my pajamas. The late afternoon sun streams in the window above the front door, flooding both floors of the foyer in ambient light. Underneath my slippers, the thick hallway carpet is soiled chalky white.

The B&B is my older sister’s pride and joy. I intend to take responsibility for the damage. However, I understand how much better it will look if I vacuum before letting Gracyn know what happened. Christmas Eve is tomorrow and making Grandad’s home look less of a shambles will be my saving grace.

In the kitchen, I punch the reheat button on the microwave and think about the button of mine he’s used his fingers to push. My core temperature spikes, and I bite my lip, trying to suppress a goofy grin.

How can a man with a physique like Isaiah’s not know how to cook?

Except, Isaiah knows just what to do to make me hot. So, what difference do his eating habits make?

I’m happy to forget my mundane life, serving others who come to the inn in search of relaxation and pampering. I deserve the frivolous fun he’s offering. Being with Isaiah makes me feel like I’m on a real vacation from my life.

I place the gooey plate of desserts into the picnic basket and tuck bottled drinks for both of us on either side. The handles go over my forearm. I wheel the vacuum to the staircase and heft it up the steps in my other hand. I leave the basket of food outside the bedroom door and start vacuuming the hall runner, moving into the suite.

Between catching the falling debris, Isaiah, and then us going at it, the bed brings new meaning to disheveled. The linens need more than a washing. They’re torn and ruined.

The red indicator light stays solid as I vacuum around chunks of plaster, closer to the scene of the crime. The rotating brush flicks more and more chalky dust into the brimming canister. I still have to clean the opposite side of the bed and get Isaiah’s and my filthy clothes to the laundry basket.

It’s probably too much to hope keeping the door closed while everyone is here to celebrate will mean no one is the wiser.

I’m in for it once my older sister sees the damage. After the trust pulled me from the banquet hall kitchen, this the second family business I’ve flubbed.

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