Page 68 of Rumor Has It

Except Cassidy never does.

Chapter Twenty-six

CASSIDY

Initially, I was afraid that I’d rise and shine to Vespa’s company, but it is Isaiah I find in the kitchen each morning. Like yesterday, and every day before, a fresh pot of coffee is brewing. He sets out two mugs and the sugar for him. He even remembers to pour cream into a creamer and put the carton in the fridge.

He doesn’t speak until he’s doctored both cups and he offers me mine, repeating an identical phrase each time, “Yourfuckoffee, milady.”

“You say that intentionally so that I won’t tell you to fuck off.” I tilt my chin down, smirking.

His feet are bare and he’s wearing the abs t-shirt I gave him for Christmas. He’s also developed a perpetual three-day shadow that makes my nipples contract and my lady parts sing, longing for the attention of his mouth.

When I look back up, Isaiah winks, taking his drink to the table to sit and scribble lyrics in his notebook.

I laugh through my nose, shaking my head. This was our routine before, except Isaiah brought the coffee upstairs. It was only when he’d gone away overnight that it didn’t happen. It wouldn’t have gone unnoticed if the day itself wasn’t so mixed up. Yet now, no matter when I wake up, he’s here, using a silent baby monitor as a timer for how long he can stay and watch me putter.

I grab a mixing bowl and preheat the oven. Then I pick through the cabinets for the dry ingredients to make muffins.

“You don’t have to go through all that trouble, you know? We’re hardly a houseful.” Isaiah’s voice startles me.

We don’t talk much in the morning—we never really did; I lounged in bed next to him while he wrote—so the silence in the room is insignificant in that regard. Though I often feel the burn of his eyes on me and wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe because so often I bite my tongue to stop myself from slipping into the ease of our interactions. Since he booked the entire inn, all I’ve wanted to do is commit to my job and, no matter what I have to say to him, I second-guess what’s coming out of my mouth.

I don’t think Isaiah ever wanted my pity over the loss of his wife, but I’m not sure what he expects from the situation he’s put the two of us in.

In the dark recesses of my mind, an evil-spewing bitch tells me his intent was to keep me on my back for the next two months. My lady parts have their own reasons for voting for that kind of crazy because the sex was phenomenal. Then what? I don’t know. The ugly voice is unwilling to view the end of us any better than the way it already stands. I have no reason to believe there is an “us” anymore.

In any event, whether guests need a lot of food or a little, cooking for the people who stay here is my job.

Vespa mainlines coffee. Monty prefers what I serve at brunch. That leaves Isaiah’s other security guy Steve, who arrived yesterday, and Isaiah to feed.

I overheard a snarky comment Vespa made to Isaiah suggesting he’d put on weight over the holidays. Having been the one to see him naked most recently, I wanted to disagree. Except, coming to Isaiah’s defense would’ve been hella awkward.

Plus, there was another instance that I sprinkled the c-word into a conversation when she took the-customer-is-always-right tone with me. The woman is trying my patience. If she can’t get over whatever’s up her ass soon, I’m using those laxatives in the medicine cabinet to get a break from her.

Instead of replying to Isaiah, I show off a six-hole muffin pan as if he’s part of a studio audience thatoohsandahhs. I whip up the half-dozen muffins, set them in the oven to bake and start washing my first load of dishes. After that, I take the pastry shells I thawed overnight out of the fridge along with a fresh head of broccoli, yellow onion, and shredded cheddar. I chop and scramble eggs for puffed pastry bundles.

All too soon, the red light flashes on the baby monitor.

Isaiah cleans up the spot he sat in, stuffing his notebook and pen into his back pocket. Glowing monitor in one hand, he opens the dishwasher and puts his mug on the top rack.

“Do you want a refresh?” He motions to the last swallow in my cup. “I can fill’er up or bus it?”

“No, thanks.” I’ll down the last cold sip once I wash my hands.

“Okay. I was hoping to get Aria out for some fresh air later on. Maybe you’d want to join us?” I see a newfound hesitation in Isaiah’s face.

I probably haven’t noticed because I avoid him whenever possible.

My emotions are all over the place, but the one problem I don’t have? Jealousy. I don’t begrudge Isaiah’s attention to Aria. As a matter of fact, I welcome it. The distractions the baby makes put less pressure on me. I’m glad he’s making her a priority, and I doubt it’s for show. With a heaping dose of humility, Isaiah has been stumbling through figuring out how to care for an infant. Oftentimes, he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get it right.

I don’t even really care that Aria is his late wife’s child. If anything, it helps me understand any resentfulness Isaiah might harbor. Though I haven’t given him another opportunity to speak about the humiliation of her affair.

“I’ll have to see what my plans are after I’m done with the afternoon hors d’oeuvres. If nothing comes up, I’ll tag along,” I reply, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but hoping I get too busy.

The version of Isaiah who slept in my bed isn’t a man who lacks confidence. Celebrity alter ego Isaiah asks me everything timidly. It confuses me even more about who he is.

“There’s always tomorrow. We’ll be here,” he reminds me with a sweet, sheepish grin.

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