Hideaway Heart: Chapter 7

I WATCHED her march off in a huff and wondered if she’d revoke my house privileges for hitting a nerve.

I hadn’t meant to piss her off, but if she didn’t like the way her label was treating her, why did she have to stay there? Weren’t there other labels? Wasn’t there such a thing as being indie? Those people who worked for her could find other jobs, couldn’t they?

It was admirable that she felt responsible for people on her team—I liked loyalty. Probably, I should have just kept my mouth shut, like she said. The last thing I wanted was for her to report back to Sully that I’d been a dick to her. When she came back out, I’d apologize.

Inside the house, she rattled around in the kitchen—I could hear plates and glass and silverware clanking through the screens—and I figured she was making lunch. I was hoping she’d come outside to eat, but she didn’t.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty.

Pretending I had to get something from my car, I wandered past the front windows and saw her seated at the counter. Ambling back to the chairs, I sat down and scrolled through emails and texts. Read the news. Watched some replays from last night’s baseball game.

Still no Kelly.

Fuck. Was she really that upset? Should I go in there? Had I said anything that bad? All I’d really done was suggest she tell the people controlling her career what she told me. I wasn’t insinuating it would be easy, just that if she wanted those things, she needed to say them. It was fucking obvious, wasn’t it?

Artistic types could be so sensitive. I made a mental note never to date one.

Instead of going in search of Kelly, I pulled out my phone to call Veronica.

“Hey,” I said when she picked up. “How are things going?”

“Pretty good,” she chirped. “Painters are here. New dishwasher was installed. But I was expecting the electrician today, and he hasn’t shown yet.”

“Dammit,” I muttered. Finding reliable contractors had been a nightmare. “I’ll try to get ahold of him.”

“I also took a look at the applications you sent me and I’ll reply to your email with the ones I thought looked most promising. Do you want me to give a couple of them a call? Set up interviews?”

“Yes, please. And thank you.”

“So how’s it going with Pixie Hart? I saw your picture with her.”

“What picture?”

“It was online this morning. I’m not sure where it was taken exactly, but you’re standing in a parking lot holding coffees.”

I groaned. “Goddamn it. Can you send me the link when we get off the phone?”

“Sure. Adelaide got the biggest kick out of it. She’s just beside herself with excitement that she’s practically breathing the same air as her favorite singer. What’s she like?”

Glancing at the house, I lowered my voice. “She’s, ah, slightly difficult.”

“Really? She seems so sweet in interviews. So down to earth.”

“Maybe she’s only sweet to people she likes.”

Veronica laughed. “She doesn’t like you?”

“Not a bit.”

“What happened to your charm and magnetism?” she teased.

“I don’t know, somehow she’s immune to it.” I left out the part where I walked in on her naked, peed on a tree close to her bedroom window, and insulted her. “Mostly she’s just pissed to have security on her vacation. Not that I blame her—the cabin she’s renting is small.”

“How many bedrooms?”

“One. And one bathroom.”

“Wow. That is small, especially for two people who just met.” She giggled. “Did you cuddle up last night?”

“Hell no. After threatening to make me sleep outside, she finally offered me the couch—which is too short for me. My legs are all cramped up today.”

“You’ll live,” Veronica said cheerfully. “Try to see things from her perspective. She was probably trying to escape from being a celebrity and just be a regular person for a couple weeks.”

“But you don’t get to be a regular person if you want to be famous,” I insisted. “Why is that so hard to understand?”

“It’s not hard to understand, but it might be hard to live that way,” Veronica said gently. “Imagine being surrounded by tons of people all the time who want a piece of you, but who don’t really care. That has to be strange and lonely.”

“Stop taking her side,” I complained, even as my heart tugged a little in Kelly’s direction. “She’s mean to me.”

Veronica laughed. “Poor Xander. But lots of people are mean to her too. Adelaide and I were looking at her Instagram earlier, and some people are just flat-out rude in the comments.”

“She’s not supposed to be posting on social media anyway,” I said gruffly. “But she pays no attention to anything I say. And she tried to ditch me this morning.”

“She did?”

“Yes! Took off in her car when I was in the bathroom.”

Veronica laughed again. “How far did she get?”

“Not far at all—a Starbucks up the road. That’s where the photo you saw was taken. She got recognized inside the place, so someone probably followed us out and snapped it.”

“Well, I’d love to meet her,” said Veronica. “Why don’t you bring her over this weekend?”

“Because we’re not friends, Roni. She’s just a job.” I said the words, but somehow they rang a little false. I sort of liked her.

And dammit, I wanted her to like me.

“Well, if you change your mind, we’re planning to throw some stuff on the grill around four tomorrow, and you’re both more than welcome. Adelaide would lose her mind if she got to meet Pixie Hart. And at least here you know she’d be safe and maybe even stay off social media.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, eyeballing the front door again. “Thanks for the help at the bar. I owe you.”

After we hung up, I immediately opened Instagram and looked at Pixie Hart’s most recent post. It was a photo she must have taken shortly after arriving here yesterday. I groaned—the house was right behind her, the numbers above the door slightly blurry but definitely visible above her head. Her face was tilted toward the sun, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved into a smile. She looked natural and radiant and happy.

At first, I didn’t see anything rude in the comments at all.

U r so pretty!!!

OMG I love ur top!

ILYSM!!!

ILYSM? What the fuck did that mean? I scrolled further.

Then I saw what Veronica meant. There were terrible comments about not only her music but her body, her face, her clothes, her former relationship with Duke Pruitt. I clicked on a few more photos in her feed and saw more of the same—mostly love and praise, but also a fuck ton of rudeness. My jaw tightened and my body temperature began to rise.

Why did people think they had the right? How did these assholes get through a day without being punched in the face? What made a person think it was okay to be openly cruel like that?

And if you knew people were going to act like this, why would you continue to put yourself out there? Why open yourself up to bored, miserable jackasses who had nothing better to do than spew their hate? Was her skin thick enough to withstand it day after day?

I looked again at the photo—no makeup, no stage lights, no sequins or glitter, her freckles clearly visible—and felt sorry for her. Beneath the fame and glittery façade, she was a human being like anyone else. Was Veronica right? Was she lonely? My chest tightened.

Deciding it was my protective instincts kicking up a notch, I navigated away from her account and did a quick search for #pixiehart and #hartthrob. Sure enough, the barista from this morning had posted the selfie immediately, along with the location. I frowned as I scanned the comments.

OMG where is this exactly?

WHATTTTTT she’s here???

Not me getting in my car and driving 8hrs just to meet her.

A text arrived from Veronica—the link to the photo of Kelly and me in the coffee shop parking lot. It wasn’t on a fan’s social media account like I thought it might be, but a tabloid website called Splash that boasted the “Latest Celebrity News, Pictures, and Gossip.”

Great. Now I was gossip.

Actually, I wasn’t identified in the photo, but despite Kelly’s big sunglasses, she was totally recognizable. To make things worse, the shot had been taken from an angle that showed the back of the minivan . . . and her license plates. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Could she make finding her any easier?”

The caption read, Country music star Pixie Hart was spotted at a Starbucks in northern Michigan with a mystery man. What will Duke say???

I rolled my eyes. Duke could fuck right off.

I studied the picture for another minute. It had obviously been taken by a photographer with a long-range lens and then sold to Splash. It wasn’t just a fan who happened to see her at Starbucks. Given the previous leak with her security, it made me wonder who all knew she was up here. And how trustworthy they were.

Exhaling, I ran a hand through my hair and stood up, heading for the house.

She wasn’t in the living room, and I didn’t see her in the kitchen either. For a few scary heartbeats, I wondered if I’d been so distracted out there, I hadn’t noticed her sneak out in her running clothes. Had she given me the slip again?

Then I heard her strumming chords on her guitar from the direction of the bedroom. As silently as I could, I slipped down the hall and listened for a moment. She began to sing softly, and chills swept down my arms.

I recognized the song, so I knew it wasn’t one of hers—something about why’d you come in here looking like that—but she wasn’t playing it how I remembered it. Her version was slower and sadder, like she was squeezing all the joy out of it.

Feeling guilty, I swallowed hard, then raised my hand to knock. But the next second, the music stopped and I heard her say, “Fuck you, Xander Buckley.”

Shit—I’d been caught eavesdropping. I dropped my arm and squared my shoulders, prepared for her to open the door and take me to task.

But instead, she just kept on talking. “You’re no different than any other man in my life, trying to cage me up and tell me what I can and cannot do. Or what I should do to fix things. Well, you don’t know me at all. You don’t know anything.”

Offended, I pressed my lips together. I was guilty of some of that stuff, but I was also kinda mad that she thought I didn’t know anything. I knew some things.

My arm shot up again, and I almost knocked.

“And fuck you for being hot too.”

My hand stopped mid-air, my knuckles an inch from the door. She thought I was hot? I grinned. So when she yanked the door open a moment later, that’s what she saw—me standing there smiling with a fist raised.

She yelped and clutched her chest. “Xander! Stop lurking!”

“Sorry.” Playing it cool, I dropped my hand like I hadn’t heard anything. “I just came in to see when you wanted to take that run.”

“Now.” She was already dressed in shorts and a sports bra. “Are you ready to go?”

“I just need a minute to change.”

“Well, hurry up,” she said tersely, shouldering past me toward the living room without so much as brushing against my shirt.

I watched her drop to the floor between the couch and the fireplace and start some kind of stretching routine. An apology for what I’d said earlier was on the tip of my tongue, but I got distracted when she bent forward over her straight, outstretched legs. Damn, she was flexible. Her nose was between her shins. Her breasts were resting just above her knees.

She spoke without looking at me. “You said a minute. You’re down to thirty seconds.”

Springing into action, I strode over to my bag, grabbed some workout clothes, and went into the bathroom. After I’d swapped my jeans for sweats and boots for running shoes, I couldn’t resist peeking into the shower.

Immediately, I spied the vibrator.

It was dark pink, tall and thick, and it had what looked like a long-necked rabbit curving from the base of the shaft. What the fuck was that? And how was a regular dick supposed to compete?

I glanced down at my crotch. I felt pretty good about my size and stamina, and I definitely knew my way around a woman’s body, but that contraption was giving me a bit of a complex.

And how did she use it? Standing up? Lying down? Kneeling above it? My eyes closed and images swam in the darkness, my cock surging to life.

Fuck you for being hot too.

I knew exactly how she felt.

From the front of the house, the door slammed. My eyes flew open, and I yanked the shower curtain back into place and hurried outside, tossing my jeans and boots on top of my bag on the way.

She was standing on the porch, twisting her torso from right to left.

More twitching in my pants. Uncomfortable tightness.

“You shouldn’t be outside alone,” I told her in my bossiest voice, to remind myself what I was—and wasn’t—supposed to be doing here. “Paparazzi know you’re in town. There’s already a photo of us from the parking lot this morning online.”

She stopped moving.

“And that picture you posted to Instagram yesterday while you were standing out here? The house address was visible right above your head.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Sorry.”

“If you’re going to post to social media—which, for the record, I don’t think you should do—I need to see the picture first.”

“Fine,” she said quietly. Stepping off the porch, she started out at an easy jog toward the woods.

I had to adjust myself before following.

She stuck to the dirt path and maintained her pace, never once stopping to catch her breath or massage an aching muscle. She was agile and light on her feet, gracefully sidestepping any rocks or sticks or fallen tree limbs on the ground in front of her. She ran all the way to what looked like a small river or large creek, where she finally stopped and did a few stretches. Then she immediately turned around and headed back into the woods at the same steady clip without speaking to me—or even looking at me.

It was starting to drive me crazy.

I fucking wanted her attention.

So I ran a little faster, like a middle school boy who likes a girl but doesn’t know how to tell her. When she sensed me gaining on her, she ran faster. Smiling, I increased my pace again, so that we were running side by side.

She sent me an aggravated glance, pursed her lips, and shot forward with a burst of speed that seriously impressed me. Laughing a little, I let her take the lead and keep it once more, until I noticed her energy start to lag. Just barely winded, I lengthened my stride and caught up to her again.

“Stop it,” she panted.

“Stop what?”

“Racing me!”

“I’m not racing you.”

Jaw clenched and eyes forward, she gave one final effort, surging ahead of me as if she’d catapulted herself from a slingshot. I hit the gas as well, until we were running side by side.

It was totally unfair—she probably ran three steps for every one of mine—but I loved how determined she was, like if she just kept running and praying, she might actually beat me. Her arms pumped and her face turned red and her breath came in short, loud pants. When the clearing appeared ahead of us, I dropped back, letting her burst out of the woods first.

She lost her footing trying to slow down and tumbled onto the grassy patch behind the fire pit. Ending up on her back, she splayed her arms and legs like a starfish, her chest heaving.

“You okay?” I asked as I reached her.

She nodded. “I won.”

That made me smile. “You won.”

“Did you let me?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t breathe. I’m going to die now.”

I dropped to the ground beside her and draped my arms over my knees. “Not on my watch.”

She popped one eye open and aimed it at me. “Would you give me mouth to mouth to save me?”

Was she fucking flirting? “I’d do whatever it took,” I said evenly.

“Hmm.” She closed both eyes again.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, just resting in silence, our hearts slowing down, our breaths lengthening. The breeze was deliciously cool on my hot skin, and it ruffled the bottom of Kelly’s shorts. My eyes traveled over her body, from her small feet up her pale thighs to the curve of her hips to her bare stomach to the sweat-stained sports bra covering her breasts. Her nipples were hard. I pictured them—lemonade pink—and my parched mouth longed for a taste. I could practically feel the shape of them on my tongue, their pebbled tips brushing against my lips. When my gaze finally reached her flushed, sun-kissed face, she was looking at me.

Fuck. I glanced toward the woods. A long beat passed, during which I waited for her to accuse me (rightly) of staring at her inappropriately.

Instead, she asked a question. “So what’s your story, Xander Buckley?”

“My story?”

“Yeah.” She rolled to one side and propped her head on her hand. “Your story. Where’d you grow up, how many siblings do you have, were you always so bossy? Your story.”

I leaned back on my elbows. “I grew up not far from here, in a town called Cherry Tree Harbor. I have one older brother, two younger brothers, and one little sister. As far as being bossy, Austin—he’s the oldest of the five of us—was way worse. I didn’t like being told what to do, so I never told anyone else what to do. I was more rambunctious than bossy. A daredevil.”

She played with a few blades of grass in front of her. “Single? Married? Girlfriend?”

“Single.” I paused. “What about you?”

She peeked up at me. “You mean you haven’t done your research on my personal life?”

“I did, but the truth and the internet are not the same thing.”

She snorted. “They sure aren’t.”

“That said, I did see quite a bit about you and Duke Pruitt.”

“That’s been over since last Christmas. He just can’t wrap his brain around the fact that I won’t come back to him this time. But that’s my own fault—I went back plenty of times before.”

“Why?”

She twisted a few blades of grass around her fingers. “You’ll think it sounds stupid.”

“You don’t care what I think anyway.”

She almost smiled, but not quite. “Sometimes I just like the idea of having a person in my corner, you know? Of feeling like I’m not alone.”

“What would sound stupid about that?”

“What’s stupid is that I knew I couldn’t trust him, but I let him be my person anyway. It’s embarrassing.”

“How long were you together?”

“About three years. On and off.”

“That’s a long time.”

She sighed. “He’s on the same label I am, so the suits liked it. The press liked it. Our agents and publicists liked it. Fans liked to obsess about it, which is always good for business. And sometimes we got along. He could be fun, when he wasn’t being an asshole.”

“Fuck that. You deserve better,” I told her, and I meant it.

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Thanks.”

“So is Duke the reason for the no-trust zone you mentioned? Or was it the security leak?”

She rolled to her back again and flung an arm over her eyes. “He’s part of it. The leak was part of it. But the no-trust zone has been forming around me like a force field for a long time.”

I wanted her to elaborate, but it didn’t seem right to poke at old wounds. I decided to shift gears. “Can I ask who knew you were coming up here?”

“My assistant, my manager, my agent, my parents, Duke.”

“You told Duke?”

“My father told him.”

“Duke is tight with your father?”

“Apparently.” That arm was still draped over her eyes, so I couldn’t see her expression, but her tone told me how she felt about it. “But I don’t think he knew until today.”

“Okay. And all those other people—you trust them? They wouldn’t leak your location to media?”

Moving her arm up to her forehead, she looked over at me. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“A photograph of us from the parking lot this morning is already online. It doesn’t look like just a fan photo to me, so I wondered if maybe someone who knew where you’d be let it slip—for publicity or whatever.”

“Oh. I don’t think so. It was probably just a random person from Starbucks.” She continued to study me, then switched topics abruptly. “You have very large shoulders. And hands.”

“I’ve been told that helped make me a good swimmer.”

“Were you a swimmer in high school?”

“Yes.”

“Did you join the Navy right after graduation or go to college?”

“Right after graduation. I always knew I wanted to be a SEAL.”

“How come?”

“Because everyone said how hard it was. I wanted to prove I’d be good at it.”

“And were you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was.”

Her lips tipped up. “You’ve got a healthy ego, you know that?”

I gave her half a cocky grin. “Just telling it like it is.”

She looked amused. “Do you still live around here?”

“Right now, I’m living with my dad in the house where I grew up. But I’m planning to move out as soon as the bar opens.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“She died when I was ten.”

“Oh.” The playful expression faded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She sighed. “My mom drives me crazy, but I can’t imagine life without her.”

“What about your dad?”

“My dad.” She turned her face to the sky again, moving her arm down over her eyes. “He’s around. Occasionally he even sticks around.”

I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got Daddy issues, but who doesn’t?”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

She sighed, then rolled onto her side again. “You know what I really want to do?”

“What?”

“Go out for dinner. Like a normal person. Just go grab a beer, a burger and some fries, and relax. Is that possible?”

“It’s possible,” I hedged. “Will you take the precautions I ask you to?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do it.” I popped to my feet and reached down to offer her a hand.

She took it and let me pull her up. For a second, we just stood there, chest to chest, her hand still in mine.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I told her.

“About what exactly?”

“Being a dick about your situation. Saying I’d never let anyone tell me what to do. I don’t really know how I’d react in your place.”

She looked surprised. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

I dropped her hand. “And I’m sorry I gave you shit about that Instagram post. I just want you to be safe, and now I’m expecting a tour bus full of Hart Throbs to pull up any minute.”

Her expression turned sheepish. “I was so worried about what I looked like in the photo that I didn’t even notice the house numbers above my head. You know what? I’ll just stay off social media while I’m here. It’s only two weeks. It will probably be better for my mental health anyway.”

“I agree. People are assholes.”

Her eyes met mine. She had to squint slightly in the sun. “Did you look at comments on my post?”

“Some of them,” I allowed. “Do the negative ones bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it worth it? I mean, why post at all? Why give millions of strangers a chance to pass judgment—publicly—on your life every day?”

“I feel like I have to, to stay relevant. And connect directly with fans. And at least I control that narrative. It’s worse when those gossip sites just get hold of paparazzi photos and make shit up to get clicks. Last year, I had to have physical therapy for an injury to my foot, and the story accompanying the photos of me leaving the medical building was that I was getting my boobs done.”

My eyes dropped to her chest. “Don’t touch them, they’re perfect.” Then I squeezed them shut. “God, I’m sorry. I should not have said that. I’m a dick. You should fire me.”

She started to laugh. “I already tried that.”

“So posting to social media,” I said, trying to swerve back onto the road of acceptable conversation. “It’s about control?”

“Partly. Yes.”

I understood a little better where she was coming from. I liked control too. “And is it worth it? All the shit you have to endure to feel like you have that control?”

“Sometimes,” she said with a shrug. “Not all the time. But maybe that’s all I can ask for, you know? Anyway, I’m going in to take a shower.”

As I watched her walk away, I wish I could say that I was pondering the high price of fame, the invasiveness of paparazzi, or even the effects of social media on mental health.

Nope.

I was thinking about her perfect tits. I was looking at her magnificent round ass. I was wondering if she was going to use that rabbit thing in the shower. Did she use it often? Had she been with anyone since Duke? If not, she’d gone as long as I had without sex. Maybe she didn’t miss it. There had to be something reliable about a vibrator. It was like jerking off, right? You knew it would get the job done.

But a toy didn’t have hands to touch you, or lips to kiss you, or words that would make you blush. It couldn’t make you feel wanted. It felt no desire. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t like being with someone who wanted to put his hands in your long red hair or lick every inch of your radiant skin or hear you moan his name while he fucked you with his tongue.

Not that I was thinking about doing that personally.

I’m just telling it like it is.