Page 8 of Rumor Has It

When I open the front door to accept the food order, I sigh with relief. I sent Isaiah to hide out in the kitchen for his own good. I’m not secretly glad the delivery driver is male. Guys can fawn over other guys. I might not want the visual of Isaiah putting on the charm for whomever he wants, but it’s also none of my business.

Nope. Neither of those things amounts to a hill of beans.

I bring the delicious smelling paper bag to the dining room. Used to setting out meals for guests, I get napkins and silverware from the sideboard in case we need them.

“I thought you’d come back there.” Isaiah flips a thumb over his shoulder.

“Force of habit. Brunch gets served in here,” I reply.

It’s unusual for me to invite guests into the kitchen. In truth, I’m in favor of Gracyn slapping up a shimmery gold “employees only” sign on the wall as you enter. Though experience tells me the difference between a guest searching for a midnight snack and a trash panda is nominal. Thank heaven the overnight concierge’s job is to stay awake and stop people from raiding the pantry.

“I hope you didn’t peek inside the bag. For someone on vacation, you’re doing a lot more than you should.”

I work in hospitality. I can’t help it. Plus, my gran had a thing about manners and making sure people felt at home. I talked a good game to Gatlin, but plunking down in a chair and expecting Isaiah to wait on me hand and foot wouldn’t fulfill Rose Cavanaugh’s standards.

Although letting him serve me is what Isaiah expects as he takes over. He empties the Grille’s wrapped egg and cheese bagels from the bag, and opens containers of succulent bacon and crisp-fried tater tots.

“It’s not gourmet,” he concedes.

“Where I didn’t have to cook it, I won’t complain.” How could I? Isaiah Roomer bought me, Cassidy Cavanaugh, breakfast.

We wind up talking while we stuff our faces with greasy goodness. Isaiah doesn’t say much about his personal life. He does mention the pre-recorded segment with Gatlin that his PR team set up to promote his upcoming tour. It will air in January when the morning radio show returns from hiatus.

“I have a connection to the man in charge if you’d like tickets and backstage passes when the tour stops in Houston. It’ll make up for having to entertain me,” Isaiah offers, shooting me a long, lazy grin.

It morphs into a raucous laugh when I reply, “Aren’t you the man? Besides, my cousin is on the hook for those already.”

“Well played.” His claps echo. “Well played.”

I wink. Isaiah’s forefinger covers the smirk playing his lips. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was blushing.

The rest of our conversation flows easily. I’m an open book. It doesn’t bother me to contribute anecdotes about myself. I understand Isaiah has a right to his privacy. We’re still talking an hour later when he balls the paper wrappers into the takeout bag. Isaiah stands to bring the bag to the trash bin, insisting I can’t lift another finger.

“I hate cutting it short, but Gatlin set up a meeting with his uncle at noon.” He shakes his head as if clouds have parted and he’s stupid. “It just occurred to me that makes Cris Sanchez your uncle, too.”

“He is. I grew up listening to him sing around the bonfire while singers like you were turning his lyrics into billboard hits. He’s an amazing songwriter.”

I’m proud of my family no matter what they do, but I love sharing with people about what it was like growing up here. My generation was fortunate to have some unique and extremely cool experiences.

“You’re telling me. I want to collaborate with him on a few singles for my next album.”

“Jake Ballentine and his wife are staying with my aunt and uncle for the holidays. You’ve caught two birds with one stone.”

Isaiah’s whole face lights up brighter than a sneaky child who found where their parents stashed the Christmas gifts. “I know. It’s impeccable timing. I considered canceling this trip. Last night when Cris confirmed the appointment, I thought I couldn’t be luckier. Then I met you.”

“Keep saying things like that and they’ll go to my head.”

“Maybe I want them to.”

Maybe I do too.

We stare at one another until a blush creeps up my neck and I feel my cheeks burn. I’m quick to look away, trying to get my heart to stop racing.

“I’m,uh,supposed to text Gatlin when I’m ready,” he volunteers his way out of embarrassing us both. “He’s driving us over.”

I should take the olive branch. Be happy I’ve had a neat encounter with a celebrity and move on. But I find myself saying, “Why? It’s not a far walk if you cut through the field and past the stables. Cross the road and you’re there.”

“Those directions sound awfully complicated. I don’t have the best sense of direction and might get lost. Can you show me the way?”

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