Page 99 of Rumor Has It

“Do you want coffee?” I ask to be polite.

“Yes. They have a Starbucks in the hotel. You don’t have to make it.” Vespa kicks a blanket off her legs. She finger-combs her sleek hair and checks her reflection in the window. Then she stands at the counter, tap, tap, tapping her fingernails until the pot has finished perking. So much for Starbucks. “Are you cooking breakfast?”

Isaiah’s curtain moves. “No, she’s not. Cass gets a break. Y’all got one whiff of those muffins and she’s been a short-order cook ever since.” He stands and stretches, lumbering over to kiss the crown of my head. “Order room service.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, inhaling his sleep scent.

I loved baking in his massive kitchen in Nashville. I also loved how Isaiah turned up the heat that afternoon. Like I mentioned, I daydream about him and baking. Except now I have a fond memory combining Isaiah and baking into the same daydream. After hearing his fantasy about me, the idea of christening a new kitchen when the house sells holds a certain appeal.

“Check us in,” Isaiah instructs his assistant, who is scrolling messages on her phone. He pulls my fuckoffee mug, another for him, and a to-go cup with a lid from the cabinet.

She taps a button. “Done. The concierge is sending a bellhop with a trolly.”

“You always have everything under control.” He pours coffee in the three cups, handing her the disposable.

“How long do I have before I have to be at rehearsal?”

“According to the event organizers, less than three hours.”

“That means I’ll be back for lunch,” he tells me. “The suite has a private pool and I need some vitamin D. I want to soak up the sunshine, relax, and swim with the baby prior to the show. Can we get a buffet going, Vespa?”

“Headcount?”

“Everyone we’re traveling with, plus Gatlin and Bellamy, if they’re in town early.”

“What about—” I pipe up. I need all the moral support I can get.

“Yeah, make sure Rhiannon Cavanaugh gets an invite, too.”

“On it.” Isaiah’s assistant reaches for the door handle.

“And, Vespa, book yourself a massage on my tab. That banquette can’t be a comfortable place to sleep,” he tells her while doctoring my coffee.

“Already did.” She smirks on her way out the door.

“Damn. That’s the closest expression to happiness I’ve ever seen cross Vespa’s face,” Monty jokes. “I’ll wait outside for the bellhop.”

Alone, Isaiah and I clink mugs and take slow sips.

“Sleep good?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I grip his shirt front, acting like I hadn’t tossed and turned as soon as the sun rose and my brain came online. “Thought you were coming to bed?”

“I would’ve, but you were out like a light, curled around Aria. It was so sweet. I didn’t want to wake either of you.”

“You could’ve joined us.”

He shrugs. “Vespa had some details to go over with me from the realtor.”

“You’re really selling it?”

“I want us to start fresh somewhere new.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you want,” he replies.

“That’s not a lot of pressure,” I reply sarcastically. “Tennessee or Texas.”

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