“Not from around here, then?” I’d remember if we’d gone to school with a person by that name.
“Nah. Grew up south of Pittsburgh.”
“First date?”
Keith’s expression is neutral, unreadable. He’s a master of that. “Third. Or fourth? Can’t remember.”
That’s his way of saying he’s not at all serious about her, or wants me to think he isn’t anyway. A part of me—the selfish part—is relieved because it means I’m not going to lose his undivided attention just yet. But at the same time I want him to be happy. It’s just not going to be with me. “I’m glad you’ve met someone.”
His phone chirps again, and he begins punching out a text as he mutters absently, “Not sure that’s going to go anywhere now.”
“You should just call her and explain the situation. Not over text,” I push, adding a soft smile.
“Huh?” A deep frown creases Keith’s forehead, a look of confusion fills his eyes. “Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll talk to Cora later.”
I guess he’s not texting Cora, then?
He climbs out of his seat and heads for the window to peek out the blinds. “So, okay. Cath, don’t get mad.”
Wariness slips down my spine as I watch him reach for the dead bolt. “Whenever you say that, I usually have a good reason to be pissed with you.”
He opens the door. Muffled voices sound beyond. “Careful on that,” Keith warns someone. “The last thing you need is to break your other leg.”
A man’s smooth chuckle sounds and I feel the blood drain from my face. I jump to my feet, so fast that the chair topples over, two rungs cracking as the back hits the linoleum.
But I couldn’t care less about my broken chair right now because Brett Madden is suddenly standing in my doorway.
Chapter 10
I’ve only ever met one famous person before, and “famous” is a big stretch. I can’t even remember her name. She played the precocious little girl in the Campbell’s soup commercials when I was just a kid. There were at least three different ads, and I used to see them on television ten times a day. It felt like that, anyway. This girl and her family vacationed in a Balsam-area summerhouse one July and our paths crossed. She was a snot, plain and simple, her nose so high in the air I’m surprised she didn’t trip over the curb. The moment her eyes touched you, it was obvious what she thought: that she was better than you.
That was my one and only foray into knowing a celebrity. And now Brett Madden is standing in the front door of my tiny ramshackle rental cottage, and I am in a pair of two-sizes-too-big gray track pants and a graphic cotton T-shirt with Grumpy Cat on the front, and my hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of my head, and I am going to kill Officer Keith Singer for surprising me like this.
Brett looks much the same as he did in the news conference earlier today, other than swapping out his black shirt for a light blue and gelling his hair slightly. His face is just as scruffy. That’s a hockey play-off thing, from what I’m learning. It does a solid job of hiding the chiseled jaw I know is beneath, but it doesn’t take away from his eyes, which are piercing, much more so than they seemed through the television screen.
Maybe it’s because now they’re trained on me.
As covertly as possible, I reach up to smooth and tuck the stray strands of hair that hang around my face behind my ear. When it was Keith, I didn’t really care what I looked like. Now, I’m toying with the idea of excusing myself and darting into the bathroom.
Brett sighs. “He didn’t tell you that I was coming.”
Before I can respond, Keith pokes his head in. “I was just about to.” He has his even-toned cop voice on now, the one he uses when he’s working or talking about police-related matters. I spear him with a look that says he’s a lying bastard, but it doesn’t ruffle him. Keith can deadpan, even when he knows he’s in the wrong. “I’ll be out here on the porch, keeping an eye on the vultures. If you need me, holler.” He pulls the door shut behind him.
And I’m alone with superstar and media heartthrob Brett Madden.
I want to ask so many questions. Mainly, what is he doing here? Why did he leave his bed—his doctors told him to rest for the next few weeks—only hours after being released from the hospital?
And yet I can’t seem to form a single word.
All I can do is stare at this imposing man standing in my living room, until he begins to shift on his crutches.
“I saw the news break, so I left Philly and headed here. I knew that mess out there was going to happen, and fast, once they had your name. I’m sorry, I should have just said ‘no comment’ and left it at that.” His naturally deep voice sounds different, slightly off, a touch unsteady.
Still, it somehow vibrates inside my chest. I can actually feel his voice.
“Why didn’t you?” I manage to get out in a croak. I remember him hesitating during the press conference, his mother giving him that disapproving look that all mothers somehow master without training, myself included. Was she warning him not to?
He sighs, shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. I guess I just thought that, if that was the only way I could reach you . . . I’m sorry.” Sincere eyes peer down at me. Even all banged up, he’s entrancingly handsome.
I feel a blush creep in under the weighty gaze. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They had my license plate number so it was only a matter of time.” Another long pause hangs between us, until I nod toward the front door. “How bad is it out there?”
“Depends. Are you ready to talk to a reporter?”
“No. Not particularly.”
“Then I’d suggest you stay put.” His eyes skim over my tiny house, stalling plenty, and making me wish that Keith could have at least given me five minutes’ heads-up to straighten the place.
What must he think of my cramped space and kitschy thrift store finds, with his multimillion-dollar houses and fast cars and, I’m sure, designer everything. I’m dirt-poor by comparison.
I take a deep breath and force myself to stand taller, to not compare myself to that, to not be ashamed. I’ve worked hard to get here, and all on my own, with a child in tow. That’s something to be proud of.
He nods toward the last vase of flowers on the side table, where Keith moved them for fear of an allergic reaction, though the lilies are long gone. “My mother said that she sent flowers.”
Last week while I was car shopping with my dad, Mom decided that the bouquet from the Madden family was “too ostentatious” for my table, so she and Brenna spent the afternoon arranging flowers in jars and glasses, and then strategically placing them along windowsills and side tables. There wasn’t a flat surface in this place that didn’t include flower petals. I’ve been changing the water daily, and plucking out the overripe blooms one by one, trying to preserve them as long as possible.