No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (27 page)

Sighing, I roll my eyes again. “Fine.”

He leaps off the bed and walks into the living room. When he returns, he has my phone in hand. “I’ve taken the liberty of sharing our calendars with each other.”

If I wasn’t so mentally bludgeoned I might protest. “Fine.”

“My sister and the band arrive tomorrow. She’ll stay at the house in her room. Most of the band will stay in the guest house. Except for Sam. God only knows where she’ll sleep.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll only make you cook us dinner tomorrow night. There will be about twelve people and maybe more with company.”

“Not fine,” I reply. “I’m not a caterer. I’ll make reservations. Leave me your credit card number.”

He gets the pouty look again. “Gumbo?”

“No.” My arms cross over my chest. I will not be bullied into cooking for people I don’t know.

“Whatever,” he replies and looks at his phone again. “We usually record all night. We’ll spend Saturday afternoon with Jude.” He pushes some buttons, and my phone dings. “So dinner with everybody Friday night.”

“Fine.”

“Sunday is a sleep-it-off day and work on the album.” He looks up from his phone. “Don’t expect to see me much on Sunday. The band will be laying down music until about . . . probably Tuesday. Then they go home.”

“Fine.”

“Grace will call you with the company card so you can make dinner reservations.”

“Fine.”

“They’re going to love you.”

“Fine.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“Fine.”

He leaves, and I feel as if I’ve been hit by a train. The silence has never sounded so amazing. Oh my goodness. What a day. It’s only seven o’clock, but I could easily fall asleep now and not wake until tomorrow morning. But instead, I hook my phone up to my laptop and begin downloading all the footage.

The hours slip by and before I realize it’s ten o’clock. I post what I have and grab a bottle of wine from my stash. Before I open it, I contemplate going to Eddy’s. I haven’t been in a week, and I miss the gang. But I’m so damn tired. Aaron is a full-time job. It’s hard to believe I’ve only known him a week.

Instead, I put on my worn cotton jammies and snuggle into my couch with my now opened bottle of vino. I haven’t talked to my mom in a while, and I need to do damage control after the whole blow-up at the office, so I give her a ring.

“MK, my beautiful daughter.” This is how she answers every call.

“Hi Mom. What’s new?”

“What’s new? Well, darling, you can imagine the phone call I received today.”

I don’t let her finish. “I’ve decided to work on NoPinkCaddy full-time.”

“So I heard that you—”

“Michael was a dick. Sorry, Mom, but it’s true. I offered to work two more weeks as well as hire and train my replacement. He wasn’t appreciative so I’m working two less weeks, but I don’t want to talk about that any longer.” I swallow hard. “I’ve met someone.”

“So I’ve seen.”

I sit up straight on the couch and ask, “What do you mean
you’ve seen
?” Is she talking about me dancing with Aaron at the ball?

“Phyllis, who I play tennis with, called me a couple of hours ago and said she saw you eating with the rocker who donated to your sister’s charity at that yummy restaurant in the Quarter.”

Frantically, I grab my laptop and search for
Johnny Knite
and click on images. Sure enough, there are multiple pictures of Aaron and me together. They’re not obscene—just a boy and girl having lunch. I sigh in relief. “I found them.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Well, I met him at a bar, but he doesn’t drink. It’s all very strange. I was hoping I would be the first to tell you that I think I really like him.”

“What about Tripp, darlin’? He’s crazy about you.” There’s the million-dollar question. Safe Tripp. Never-been-arrested Tripp. Doesn’t-have-children Tripp. As far as I know, he’s never-made-a-sex-tape Tripp. Life would be so much easier if I could learn to love Tripp.

“Mom, Tripp is a dear friend, but that’s it. There are no sparks.”

“And let me guess. With Aaron, it’s like the Fourth of July.”

I giggle. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“I saw you dancin’ with him at Grandmother’s ball. You two looked like sex on a stick.”

I gasp. “Mom!”

“Honey, I’m not dead. I know sparks when I see them.” She pauses for a beat. “Well, I’m not telling your father until we know this is a sure thing because you’ll probably give him a heart attack, and hopefully, Grandmother will be dead before we have to tell her. I’m assuming you’ve Googled him.”

Geez, my own mother. “He forced me to web-search him today. I’m assuming you have?”

“Of course. I am a woman of the twenty-first century.” I can imagine her flipping her platinum blond bob to the other side.

I laugh. “Then you probably know more about him than I do.’

“You tell me what you want me to know about your rock star.”

Suzanne Long
@JohnnyKniteIsMine

Greatest day of my life. Met
RealJohnnyKnite
at a restaurant and got his autograph. He’s awesome! But she was there. #HateNoPinkCaddy

Suzanne Long
@JohnnyKniteIsMine

Is this some sort of pity sex? Why her? She’s a brunette, and has no tits. #HateNoPinkCaddy

Suzanne Long
@JohnnyKniteIsMine

RealJohnnyKnite
I have fake, firm boobs. Pick me. #HateNoPinkCaddy

Suzanne Long
@JohnnyKniteIsMine

I hope
NoPinkCaddy
gets hit by a car #HateNoPinkCaddy

Suzanne Long
@JohnnyKniteIsMine

She’s so normal. If he doesn’t choose me at least pick a model or actress or someone with superpowers. #HateNoPinkCaddy

I don’t hear from Aaron for the rest of the evening, and I’m a bit relieved. Rest found me quite easily and not having to set an alarm was nice. I sleep in a bit and wake up on my own. My first day as a full-time employee of NoPinkCaddy. Stretching, I grab my phone and check my messages.

There’s a lot of positive feedback on the images of New Orleans I shared yesterday. The video of me dancing with the jazz band is doing very well on YouTube and has been picked up by other blogs. No complaints there. The comments are overwhelmingly positive. So far . . . so good . . .

Next I check my social media accounts. Well, the photos of Aaron and I eating lunch are all over Twitter, Instagram, gossip blogs, and websites. There’s nothing to say. It’s me and it’s him, and we’re eating. I don’t reply to the messages. When I’m ready to share with my followers that Johnny Knite is the boy I’ve been talking about, I will. Also, I choose to ignore his fans wishing death on me. As I’ve learned during the seven years I’ve had an online presence, people are crazy, and it’s best to ignore them.

My texts are the final thing I review.

Bella has shared details about the wedding and asks if we can go dress shopping this weekend. I reply back that Sunday works well for me.

I have a few texts from the ladies at the office. They wish me well and remind me not to be a stranger.

My sister texted me about the pic of Aaron and I at lunch. I get lots of emojis with hearts for eyes.

Finally, I get to Aaron’s texts. The first one came in at eleven-fifty at night. It reads,
Recording music and wishing you were here.

The next one is at two forty-five.
I can’t wait for you to meet everyone. Sleep well, sweetheart.

The final one was sent at six o’clock.
About to go to bed. Wish I was with you. Even when you’re not around I’m always thinking about you.

Yes. They’re a bit cheesy, but after the men I’ve dated, I’ll take a little cheese. At least his texts aren’t practical.

I begin my first day being self-employed by taking a shower and getting dressed. I read it’s important to do that every morning so a routine is established. It’s chilly in my apartment. I put on a sweatshirt and fuzzy pants.

Next, I make a pot of coffee and turn on my laptop. Searching my cabinets for breakfast food, all I find is Aaron’s sugary garbage. My choices are Fruit Loops, Lucky Charms, or Apple Jacks. There are cinnamon and strawberry–flavored Pop Tarts and a breakfast protein bar which pretends to be healthy. Fortunately, Seamus bought bread so at least I can make toast.

I grab my phone and send Aaron a text, hoping his phone is on “do not disturb.”

Me:
You eat like a child.

He responds immediately. That means he hasn’t slept in more than a day.

Aaron:
I send you loving texts and you send me this. You are no sweetheart.

Smiling, I type . . .

Me:
I never said I was. You nicknamed me that.

Aaron:
I’m changing your name to Swamp Devil.

Me:
Fine. Why aren’t you asleep?

Aaron:
I need to be tucked in. Come over.

Not going to happen. I’ve got a lot to do.

Me:
No. I’m about to start working.

Aaron:
I need you more.

I roll my eyes.

Me:
You haven’t slept in more than 24 hours. You’ve got to be exhausted. Shut your eyes.

Aaron:
I can’t. You make the music stop.

I stare at my phone. The music he talked about in his head? My couple of psychology classes lead me to believe that he probably has Attention Deficient Disorder. I bet his teachers were so glad at the end of the year to be rid of him.

Me:
I have to work, but you can come sleep here.

Aaron:
Be there in five.

I shake my head. This is a mistake. We’re becoming too dependent on each other too fast. But I can’t slow it down, and I frankly don’t want to—that’s what scares me the most.

Seven minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. When I open it, I see a man who is running on fumes. “Come in.” I invite him with a sweeping hand motion.

He walks inside, kisses me on the forehead and heads straight for my bedroom as he begins dropping clothes while he’s still in my living room.

Aaron is solemn. This is new. I’ve never seen spent Aaron. He crawls under the covers on the side of the bed I usually sleep on, completely naked.

Following after him, I ask, “Need anything?”

He nods. “I want you to hold me.”

I slide in behind him, throwing my leg over his. “Will you take off your clothes?” he asks.

I oblige and get back under the covers in just my panties. His head is on my pillow with his blond hair fanned around his face. He’s my angel. Not the fallen one depicted in great works of art or the angel shown next to God. He’s a broken, flawed angel. One who doesn’t know where exactly he fits. I crawl behind him, pressing my front to his back. My arm holds him tight while my thigh keeps his right leg from vibrating. “Find sleep, Angel,” I whisper.

He lets out a long sigh. With time, he relaxes into elusive rest.

Once I’m sure he’s in a deep sleep, I’m careful not to disturb him as I scoot out of bed, grab my clothes, and head back into the living room to work. The door between the rooms is closed yet I still worry about waking him. I turn down the volume on my computer before I start focusing on my site.

The next time I check the clock, it’s one-thirty. Once again, I find my kitchen lacking in adult food. I settle for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a can of Orange Crush.

My phone rings just as I set the plate next to my computer. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Hi! Is this MK Landry?” a professional female voice asks.

“It is.”

“This is Grace Emerson. I’m Johnny Knite’s assistant. He asked me to call and give you the company credit card number to secure dinner reservations.”

“Hi Grace. Aaron said that you’d be calling. He asked me to choose a place for dinner tonight. There’s a great restaurant in the Quarter I take out-of-town visitors to. I think y’all will love it.”

“Interesting,” she says, not sounding the least bit interested. “Is this a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll text you the information.”

Then the phone goes dead. I stare at it for a moment, trying to process what just happened. Was she rude? No. Blunt, maybe. ‘Efficient’ could be another description. My first impression of her is that she’s very different than Aaron.

Shaking my head, I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. It’s been probably a decade since I’ve had nursery food like this, but it does bring back memories of a brown-haired, pigtailed girl in a navy plaid school uniform sitting at a lunch table laughing with Bella.

I shoot her a text.

Me:
Oh bride-to-be, I miss you so. Working. Hope you’re having a great day. Looking forward to Sunday.

Bella:
Me too. What happened with A?

I laugh. I swear I’ve lived a lifetime during the last day.

Me:
It was his daughter. Michael said I was a bad employee, and I dropped the mic. Finally Googled A. And my rock star is sleeping in my bed while I try to work.

After hitting
send
, I receive the text from Grace. Once again, there are no niceties. The credit card number is listed along with a message asking me to delete this text after I use the number, as if I was going on an online shopping spree.

Kill them with kindness, my mother preaches.

Me:
Grace, I’m making reservations now. Aaron talks so highly of you. I can’t wait to meet you this evening.

Grace:
At the house. I assume he’s with you?

I stare at the screen. Yes. He’s with me now, but not
with
with me, like we’re hanging out. He’s just sleeping.

Me:
I’m working, and he asked to sleep here.

It sounds bizarre. We’re both in our thirties. Why should it matter who sleeps where?

Grace:
When he wakes, tell him that I’m here.

Me:
Will do. Have a great day.

After it’s clear Grace is done with me, I read Bella’s message, which came through a couple of minutes ago. Very appropriately, she asks
WTF?

I’ll call her later. Next, I dial the restaurant, name drop, and secure us a private room for dinner.