Summer with a Star (Second Chances Book 1) (12 page)

“You okay?” she asked, her voice still low and weak as the restaurant started to hum with conversation and comments again.

“Yeah.” Spence blew out a breath before downing a sip of wine. “I hate guys like that.”

“Like Chip?”

“Entitled assholes with no respect for women. He probably has old money, belongs to a country club, and goes sailing on the weekends too.”

Tasha blinked. “You got all that from one tiny confrontation?”

“Was I right?” His face relaxed into genuine surprise.

Tasha let her tension out in a nervous laugh. “Sort of. They don’t belong to a country club or go sailing as far as I know. Although their dad owns a yacht. The Jamisons have more money than I do, but Mr. Jamison, Brad and Chip’s dad, earned it. He’s actually nice.”

“Nice or not, if I ever see either of his sons again, I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

Spence finished his wine and looked for the waitress. He had her attention immediately. Half the people in the room were still sneaking furtive glances at them. As Spence asked for the check and then walked her up to the front to pay, Tasha battled the twisting unease in her stomach. Chip may have been a jerk of the highest order, but it was possible he had a point. She dumped Brad, not the other way around. If she hadn’t said something, Brad would have kept right on going the way things had been, red-heads and all. She should be proud of putting her foot down when she did. Except that years of not putting her foot down, of being a blind idiot, might just have earned Chip’s and everyone else’s scorn. It’d sure earned her own scorn.

“Stop it,” Spence ordered her as he held the door to let her out of the restaurant and into the street.

“Stop what?” And now Spence was catching her looking and feeling like the biggest fool in New England.

“Stop worrying about things. The asshole is gone, and I left a ridiculously large tip.”

She liked the idea of that last bit and made herself smile. It only reached her lips, though.

“Come on.” Spence took her hand and tugged her across the street. Night had fallen, and even though it was the weekend, Summerbury was already clearing out and getting quiet. “We’ve got a few things to pick up at the five and dime before we head home.”

He punctuated his comment with a wink. Tasha laughed, a thrill of expectation swirling through her. Then again, that could have been indigestion. Chip had thrown her off, and it would take a lot more than a box of condoms to set her to rights.

Chapter Eight

The call Spence had been expecting and dreading came at the start of business hours on Wednesday.

“Who is she?” Yvonne snapped at the other end of the line. “Is she that teacher who you wouldn’t let me get rid of?”

“Good morning to you too, Yvonne,” Spence called across the counter to his phone—set on speaker—as he fixed homemade waffles. He had to do something to lift Tasha’s spirits. The condoms, when put to their recommended use, had helped a little, but only temporarily. The asshole at the restaurant had done more damage the other night than could be fixed by rubbing some dirt on it and walking away.

“Answer my question,” Yvonne went on. “You know it irritates me when you get evasive.”

“Tell me what you’re talking about first and I’ll stop being evasive.” He checked the temperature of the waffle-iron with a sour expression. He had three guesses as to what she meant, but figured he only needed one.

“There are pics all over the internet, and they’ve been picked up by a few tabloids. You and some short chick with a boy’s haircut looking a little too cozy in the ocean.”

Spence clenched his jaw. It had only ever been a matter of time.

“She doesn’t have a boy’s haircut, it’s just short. But it’s really cute. She’s really cute. And her name is Tasha.”

“I don’t care if her name is Princess Madeline the Magnificent.” Yvonne paused. “I take that back. If she was a princess, we could work with it. It would look fantastic. But this one is just some teacher. She’s not going to help your image at all, you know.”

He frowned and glared at this phone as he reached for plates in one of the cupboards. “I don’t care how it looks. I like Tasha. A lot. We’re having a good time.” Except for a few minor hiccups having to do with her ex-boyfriend’s family.

“Oh, Spence,” Yvonne groaned. “You know better than that. How long have we been in this business together?”

“A long time,” Spence replied, more excited about the fresh maple syrup he had ready and waiting for the waffles than any part of this conversation.

“You know how these things go. You need to keep your brand intact. We’ve worked very hard on how you’re packaged for the public and for insiders.”

“You make me sound like toilet paper,” he said.

“Well,” she argued. “In a way you are.”

He shook his head, even though she was just a voice at the other end of the phone. “Unlike toilet paper, I don’t take shit from anyone, even you, Yvonne.”

“Spence,” she scolded him, more like his mother than either of them would want to admit. “Why don’t you invite company over to your beach house for a week or so,” she changed the subject. “I was talking to Marissa Starr the other day and—”

“I’m not inviting Marissa Starr over,” he killed the idea before it could take hold.

“Why not? She’s available, she’s just landed a deal with Lionsgate, and she’s ten times hotter than your little chickie in the waves.”

“Her name is Tasha. I’ve only met Marissa once, and let’s just say it wasn’t the most auspicious encounter.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

The waffle-iron light went on and he moved to open it and pry the waffles out with a fork. “She’s the Hollywood equivalent of a gold-digger,” he told Yvonne. “She’s a star-digger. She tried to hit on me when she thought I had some influence in the casting of that Middle East thriller, and when she found out I’d passed on the part, she walked away without saying goodbye.”

“She’s just career-minded, is all.”

“Half of her body parts were fake.”

“How do you know? Did you touch them?”

“No,” he growled. The conversation was going to all the wrong places. He shifted the plate of finished waffles to the stove where it could keep warm and poured another round of batter into the iron.

“Look, Yvonne, this is a pointless argument,” he went on. “I’m here with Tasha. We’re enjoying ourselves. That’s what those pics were. End of story.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

There was no way he was going to answer that one.

“Spencer,” Yvonne went on. The use of his full name, even distorted by the speakerphone, filled him with dread. “Remember why you’re there. You said you wanted a break to get your head on straight again. Well, get it on straight. Don’t dilly-dally with the riff-raff.”

“Tasha isn’t riff-raff,” he warned her. “She’s helping me figure things out.”

“Is she? Because from where I’m standing, she’s distracting you from the things that really matter.”

“You’re standing in L.A.” He reached for the coffee carafe. It would take another cup to get through this conversation. “Can’t see much from there, can you.”

“Who said I was in L.A.?”

More dread, like a fist in the gut.

“Yvonne, where are you?”

“Never you mind. I’m more concerned with where your head is. Both of them.”

Spence’s frown darkened. “None of your business. Either of them.”

“Honey, you pay me for it to be my business. I take my business seriously. Have you read any of the scripts I sent you?”

God love her, Yvonne was going to be the death of him. Right after she secured his place in history. “I’ve read some,” he told her. “I’m not impressed.”

“Well, I should have the pilot script for Second Chances by the end of the day, so get ready for that. In the meantime, ditch the teacher.”

“I’m not going to—”

The front doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Tasha’s voice, small as a mouse, answered from the kitchen doorway.

Spence nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around in time to see Tasha’s back as she darted for the front door. The dread Yvonne had started exploded through him.

“Was that her?” Yvonne asked, loud as a clarion on speakerphone.

“Goodbye.” Spence edged to his phone and viciously tapped it to end the call.

God-freakin-dammit. Tasha had heard at least some of his conversation. None of it had been pretty. He checked to be sure the waffle-iron wasn’t in danger of igniting the house, then strode across the kitchen to the hall.

Tasha was shutting the front door, a small, flat box in her hands, when he rounded the corner to the hall. She wore shorts and a tight, pink t-shirt, her hair was damp and slightly curly from the sea air, and she looked as though someone had handed her a dead kitten.

“Yvonne talks shit.” He jumped right to the point. “She always has and she always will. That’s her job.”

“I guess.” Tasha sounded casual, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “A courier just delivered this,” she brushed on, edging past him into the dining room.

Their puzzle was still in pieces across the table. They’d worked on one corner the day before, but hadn’t gotten far.

“Before you get wrapped up in whatever that is, please believe me when I say I do not share Yvonne’s stupid opinions about how I should be living my life,” he rushed to get it out while he had the chance. “I’m with you, and I’m happy. End of story.”

At last, Tasha dragged her eyes up to meet his. She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Maybe, but it didn’t feel like enough. Renting a banner to fly behind one of the planes that buzzed along the shoreline on weekends wouldn’t have been enough to apologize for Yvonne either.

“So what is in the box?” he asked. If he couldn’t make it better, he could move on.

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s for me, though.” She turned the box over. “It doesn’t weigh very much.”

“Open it.” He leaned against the side of the table, curiosity bubbling through his frustration.

The box was wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Tasha at Sand Dollar Point. She ripped carefully through the paper to find a shiny black box with a silver filigree M inscribed on top and a card. Tasha set the box and paper aside and opened the card.

All at once, her gloom faded. She arched an eyebrow, a smirk tweaking the corner of her mouth. “It’s from Jenny.”

“Should I be afraid?” he asked, warming into a grin himself. Anything that made light dance in Tasha’s eyes like that was a good idea.

She met his eyes for a moment before picking up the box again and breaking the tape on one side with her nail. She lifted the corner of the box to peek inside.

Immediately, she slammed the lid shut. Bright pink splashed across her cheeks and she kept her hands clamped tight over the box.

“I think I’ll just take this upstairs,” she blurted in a rush that blended the words together.

With one last, wide-eyed look, she snatched up the brown paper wrapping, clutched the box to her chest, and dashed out of the dining room and up the stairs.

Spence stood where he was, staring at the empty staircase, shaking his head. A click in the kitchen told him the latest round of waffles was done. He strode across the hall to deal with them.

His phone was vibrating when he reached the counter. Yvonne, of course. Well, Yvonne could go to hell, as far as he was concerned. He turned his phone off, then focused on getting breakfast ready for Tasha, once she came down again. With any luck, whatever was in the box would put her in a better mood.

A black leather corset and gartered stockings. Jenny was out of her mind.

Tasha lifted the lingerie out of the box and held it in front of her, face burning. Not just black leather, black leather with studs and, yes, buckles.

What. The. Hell.

She turned it around, looking at the back, then held it against her torso. If she wasn’t mistaken, the top wouldn’t quite cover her nipples. She’d be popping out all over. It didn’t help that the ensemble came with crotchless leather panties.

She tossed the corset aside and picked up the card, rereading it with a shake of her head.

“
Hope you’re having fun on your vacation. Remember, you’re not Miss Pike there
.”

On any other day, Tasha would have laughed at Jenny’s cheeky advice. Any other day that hadn’t started with a woman she’d never met telling the man whose arms she’d woken up in after a busy night to ditch her because she was nobody.

Tasha sank to the bed, flopping to her back. “What am I doing?” she rubbed her hands over her face as if she could change what she looked like, who she was, her whole history. It didn’t help.

She reached for the corset and held it up above her. At least Jenny had gotten her size right. A simple, average eight. But leather? And black?

Marissa Starr would wear a black leather corset.

The thought smacked her upside the head. Wasn’t that who this Yvonne woman had said Spence should invite to the house? If he did start inviting famous guests over—famous female guests—twenty years or no twenty years, she would pack up and head back to Portland.

She sat up, laying the corset across her lap and reaching for the matching panties and stockings. No, cruel as Yvonne had been, Spence didn’t sound like he was up for it. That was a consolation, but not much. She fingered one of the buckles on the side of the corset. The debate over whether to ask a guy about his sexual history was never something she’d had to worry about, not with Brad. Although arguably, she should have. How did you even start the conversation?

Worse still, what if Spence really was used to the gorgeous, Hollywood types? Was Jenny sending her a clue with the corset? It didn’t seem to fit what she’d come to know about Spence, but then again, nothing seemed to fit. Big-time celebrities didn’t shack up for the summer with nobodies. Yvonne—whoever she thought she was—was right.

“Who am I kidding,” Tasha groaned and stood.  Who did she think she was?

She knew who she wasn’t, at least. She wasn’t Marissa Starr. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend.

She threw the corset on the bed, then tugged her t-shirt off over her head and chucked it across the room. Her bra came next. She clenched her jaw as she worked the fastenings of the corset, struggling to figure out how it even worked. Once she got it opened, she slipped it around her back, then battled to get it fastened up again. It may have been the right size, but she had to suck in her gut and scoop her hands down the top to get the ladies where they were supposed to be.

“God, I look ridiculous,” she hissed, already out of breath, once the thing was on. Although when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she had to admit she was impressed by how round her breasts looked with the life squeezed out of them, popping up from the leather and studs.

Bending at the waist was next to impossible, but she did manage to shimmy out of her shorts and flowery cotton undies and into the leather panties. They wouldn’t win any prizes for comfort, that was certain. The stockings weren’t half bad, although attaching them to the garters was a skill that must have taken time to master.

The net result of her efforts, once she looked in a mirror, was some strange kind of badass mother with a clueless expression. No, that wouldn’t do. She hardened her facial muscles, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. There. That was more like it. Even better, she imitated a vampy, duck-bill expression she’d seen Marissa Starr make in some magazine in the checkout aisle. Perfect.