Page 3 of Cupid's Beau

“Maaaa.” I grab a piece of carrot from her cutting board and pop it into my mouth. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.” She swats my hand away from the vegetables. “I just think it’s interesting that a single man wants our most private room in the off-season.”

“He’s…” I hesitate. “He’s kind of famous.”

Her eyes light up. “Famous like your father’s friend who thinks his YouTube cooking channel makes him a celebrity, or famous-famous?”

“Famous-famous.”

“Ah.” She nods quietly, before immediately ruining it by asking, “Who is he?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Exactly why I can’t tell you. You’ll try to feed him and adopt him.”

“I do not-” She stops at my raised eyebrow. “Fine. But we should invite him to dinner.”

“Ma, no.”

“Yes, go tell him dinner’s at seven.”

“Ma, I think he wants to be alone. That’s probably why he’s here.”

She gives me her patented mom look. “Go tell him. Or I’ll do it myself.”

I groan. “Fine. But promise you won’t make a big deal if yourecognize him.”

“Neneh, the last celebrity I recognized was Obama.”

I laugh. “Promise.”

“I promise.” She shoos me toward the door. “Now go. And change your shirt - that one has wrinkles.”

I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror, tugging at my fresh shirt. I went with a soft blue sweater that discreetly hugs my curves. Not that I care what Jack Ellis might think about my curves.

The walk up to the third floor feels longer this time. I rehearse different ways to tell him about the dinner invitation, each version sounding more ridiculous than the last. By the time I reach his room, I’m actually missing my writer’s block.

I raise my hand to knock, then lower it. Then raise it again.

“Just do it,” I mutter to myself, then rap quickly on the door before I can chicken out.

Nothing.

I’m about to dip when I hear movement inside. The door opens, and- Oh…

Jack’s removed his hat. His dark hair is slightly rumpled, and that neatly trimmed stubble covering his carved jaw? Fucking delicious. It’s crazy how much better he looks in person than on screen. You would think all the professional makeup, lighting, and camera angles made him look more attractive. But nope. It’s the exact opposite. This close, with him towering over me,his presence is surreal. He’s a man of flesh and bone. I can see strands of silver through his dark hair and beard. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The beauty mark on his cheek that always fascinated me. His…

“Yes?” Jack rumbles, interrupting my thirsty perusal, filling the doorway, one large hand on the door frame.

“Hi! Sorry to disturb you.” My hands twist together. “My mother- um… my parents and I- we’re having dinner at seven, and my mother wanted you to- you don’t have to- but if you’d like to join us…” For fuck’s sake, Neneh, get a grip! I force myself to stop talking.

He studies me for a long moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under those intense navy blue eyes.

“Dinner,” he repeats.

“Yes. My mother’s cooking. It’s really good. She’s making West African food - unless you don’t like- I mean, we could also order-”

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