Page 3 of Concerted Chaos

I’ve been his date to many award shows and events. Spending time with him is usually entertaining; he’s got a keen eye and a sharp wit, and it’s kind of fun as long as his barbed commentary isn’t directed at me. But I hate getting my photo taken and appearing in the tabloids as fans wonder why he’s settling for somebody like me, rather than the movie star, supermodel, or glamorous heiress that he deserves. I get why he does it though: sometimes celebrities like low pressure dates, ones with zero expectations or obligations. Plus I do look fabulous in a gown.

“Agreed,” I concede. “You go in the helicopter; I’ll buy a fancy dress.” And make Powell pay for it.

“It’s a date. Love you, Cass.”

“Love you too, Jace. I’ll text you the details.”

While Powell goes off to try and shower the smell of stale alcohol sweat away, I make a food run. Big greasy burgers, while hard to find so early in the morning, are Powell’s favorite cure. Fortunately, there’s a nearby diner where they make delicious ones, and they’re very mindful of his deadly peanut allergy. His exorbitant tips guarantee that the food is always safe and we are well taken care of.

“Morning, Cassidy,” Mama Nina, the owner, greets me. “By yourself today?”

“I’m getting a to-go order,” I reply. “Powell was out drinking last night.”

She frowns in concern. “That’s unlike him. Is he alright?”

I shrug, not willing to share exact details. “Sometimes he needs to let off a little steam. He’s suffering for it though.”

She laughs then, a deep belly laugh that lifts my spirits too. “No problem. It’s been a while, but I remember exactly what that man needs. You take a seat while I get those burgers cooked up, and I’ll send over some coffee while you wait.”

See? That’s the benefit of going where your brother tends to leave 120% gratuities. He’s always been a spread-the-wealth kind of guy, and the overly helpful staff are fully aware of the benefits of catering to him, and, by extension, me. I tip well too, based on a combination of gratitude for excellent service, a tribute to the years my mother spent waiting tables, and the lack of limits on Powell’s credit card.

As I sit and sip my coffee, a person suddenly drops into the seat across from me. This isn’t a crowded coffee shop, and my table isn’t the only one with an available seat. A diner is certainly not the kind of place people should plop down at a stranger’s table uninvited.

“So your name is Cassidy Corbitt?” The man says. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Messy dark hair, a couple of days’ worth of stubble, unruly thick eyebrows. Where have I seen those lately?

“It’s Blaine-Corbitt, actually. And you are?”

“Tanner. Tanner Smythe. With a y.”

I don’t say anything, merely raise my own neatly groomed eyebrows and wait. I’ve got nothing to offer complete strangers who believe they have the right to harass me in public. When this happens, it’s usually someone who wants something from my brother—a charity donation, a public appearance, perhaps a date.

“This morning?” he finally reminds me.

Oh, him. The face behind the lens. The snoop with the wrong scoop. “You were trespassing on my property. You’re lucky Sir Scrappy and Lady Yip didn’t find you.”

“Who are they, your security team?”

“No, just the coyotes that live somewhere on the mountainside. They’ve been known to attack.”

“You’re bluffing,” he says, but I can tell he is thinking back to any strange noises he may have heard. Typical city boy. Afraid of a little desert wildlife.

“We also have javelina,” I tell him, and, when he looks confused, I explain. “Wild pig-like creatures. They’re mostly blind, really stinky, and they will attack. Mr. Garbagebreath and his pack trapped a guy on top of his car once. We waited forty-five minutes before calling animal control. Figured he deserved it. You don’t want to rile up our desert friends.”

I smile smugly and watch his reaction. Yep, he is definitely not from around here. I can tell he is itching to pull out his phone and look up javelina. I’m betting he spells it wrong.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” He shakes off his momentary concern and seems entirely unrepentant for his trespasses. That’s not a surprise with his type. “I like how you name the animals.”

“Did you get the shot you needed? I hope it was worth the wait.” I smirk a little. Sometimes I amuse myself.

“Got some lovely pictures of the wrong woman,” he says. “You knew I couldn’t use those.”

I shrug. “Some strange creep lurking behind my fence, how am I supposed to know you aren’t looking for me? I could have a stalker.”

“You’re lucky my editor recognized you. He could have run those pictures and outed you as your stepbrother’s secret lover. That scandal wouldn’t play well.”

“Last time that happened, the lawsuit bought me a gym,” I reply, making full and complete eye contact. You have to treat paparazzi like the threat that they are. They skulk about, always hoping to catch you at your weakest. You have to make it clear that you see them and aren’t afraid. It works; he blinks first.

“Wait, really? Like an actual gym?”

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