Stormy Hearts Page 4

  She felt him stir.

  Or maybe for one night and one morning. Was that too much to ask of the universe?

  He turned his head and opened his eyes. “Mornin’, darling.”

  “Good morning.”

  His smile was wide and still a little sleepy. “It is a good morning, isn’t it?” He waggled his eyebrows. “We survived the storm.”

  “Tropical Storm Ian.”

  “Of course, we haven’t checked to see whether we’re still in Maryland or whether we got blown all the way to Kansas.”

  “I’m afraid to even think about the sandbags. I hope they held.”

  Looking at the deliciously sexy man in her bed, she hoped her heart was going to hold. The last thing she needed was to start wanting something that she couldn’t have, that couldn’t ever be. Ian was a one-night stand. A means to an end. The way to get her man mojo back.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow. “After lugging them all into place? I’m going to be seriously pissed if they didn’t work.”

  He reached over and pulled her closer. Her hips strained toward him, entirely of their own accord. She moaned as he ran his hands down her spine, slowly touching each vertebra as he went.

  “Now that’s what I wanted to hear.” His hands reached the base of her spine, settling on the soft curves of her bottom. “I’m going to translate that as, ‘Ian, please make love to me again.’”

  She moaned again as he pulled her hips against his morning wood. “Actually, the exact translation is, ‘Ian, please make love to me now.’”

  He rolled over onto her and nipped at her lips. “Mmm, I do love a bossy woman.”

  She was about to wrack her brain for a snappy comeback, but the next kiss rendered her brain inoperable. For the next hour, her body did all the thinking. She was coming down from what was perhaps the finest orgasm of her life when the power came back on. The air conditioning unit in the window stuttered to life. Normally, she considered the air conditioner to be one of mankind’s greatest achievements, but not today. The sound of it rattling away meant that their secret night together was over. Ian Youngblood would get dressed and walk out her door.

  The irony of that was not lost on her.

  They clung to each other for one more long moment, then rolled apart.

  “I can go make coffee while you’re in the shower,” she offered.

  She showed him where the bathroom and towels were, turned the dryer back on to finish his clothes, and got dressed herself. By the time he came downstairs in dry jeans and a shirt, she had brewed a pot of coffee and tossed together a sampler plate of yesterday’s pastries.

  “Hope you don’t mind it black.” She handed him a Two Beans signature brown-and-white striped mug. “I’ll have to go out and get fresh milk and cream later.”

  He took a sip and looked around at her shop. “You’re probably one of those ‘coffee is like fine wine and should be enjoyed without alteration’ people, anyway.” He grinned to let her know he was joking.

  She responded with a coolly lifted eyebrow. “Actually, altering coffee is one of my superpowers.” If only she hadn’t lost actual power, she could demonstrate all of those coffee altering talents for him, create an entire sampler menu that would keep him here for hours. The thought of him leaving shortly filled her with a sense of deep, deep disappointment.

  Clearly, I suck at one-night stands.

  Maybe if she hadn’t walked out on him in London, then they could have … She snapped herself out of it with a big sip of hot, black, unaltered coffee. It was a one-night stand in St. Caroline, and it would have been a one-night stand in London, too. Ian Youngblood—world famous rock star. Mai Tran—small town coffee impresario. Their lives were about as incompatible as two lives could be.

  She grabbed one of yesterday’s orange-cranberry scones and walked to the front door, looking for signs of water inside. She let out a sigh of relief upon seeing it dry. The sandbags held. Her heart? Maybe not so much. Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t the type of person to inflate a chance meeting with someone into true love and a lifetime commitment.

  Except a tiny little voice inside her was doing exactly that.

  Pull yourself together, woman!

  She unlocked the front door and threw it open to the warm, damp air outside. An arm settled across her shoulders, comfortable and familiar after only one night.

  “So, Mai with an I. How’s it look?”

  “Pretty good.” She nudged a sandbag with her foot. “Even your car survived.”

  “Well, that’s good. At least I won’t have to explain that to the car rental place.” He ran his fingers through her messy bedhead hair. “Did I mention that I might be here in town all summer?”

  Did she hear that correctly? She could swear he just said that he was going to be around for awhile.

  “Why?”

  “Simone and I have been talking for years about writing and recording an album together. Given that the tour is on hiatus, this seems like an opportune time for us to finally work on it.”

  She was about to close the door when Oliver Wolfe pulled up to the curb in one of the fire department’s red pickup trucks. He got out and looked the building up and down.

  “Any damage, Mai?”

  She shook her head as he walked toward the sandbags. “Is there flooding anywhere?”

  “Along some of the creeks outside town. Tide was high at Secret Beach. Some damaged boats at the marina. But that’s about all.” He picked up one of the sandbags blocking her door and heaved it aside. “The fire department will come around and collect your sandbags, if you want.”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  “It might be a few days, though.”

  Oliver was looking at Ian standing behind her. His eyes narrowed briefly in recognition. That he said nothing did not surprise her. Oliver was as buttoned down as they came. His wife would be in tomorrow to get the scoop on why Ian Youngblood was in Two Beans. Mai planned to simply deny it.

  No, no, not that Ian Youngblood. Just a guy who looked a lot like him.

  Ian stepped around her and hopped over the sandbags. “I’ll help you get these out of the way,” he said to Oliver.

  While they worked to clear the entrance to the shop, Mai poured a to-go cup of coffee for Oliver. When Oliver was gone, she poured refills for Ian and herself.

  “Can I ask you something?” He pulled a chair out from one of the tables and sat down.

  “Sure.” She joined him.

  “That guy you were with in London—he live here in town?”

  “No. He lives in Annapolis. He’s an attorney there.”

  “And you two never patched things up?”

  Hope swelled like a balloon in her chest. He’s staying in town for awhile. He’s verifying that your ex is no longer in the picture. She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I knew he wasn’t right for me. I knew that before we went to London.”

  “So why did you want to marry him?”

  “I wanted to get married and settle down. I wanted to start a family and I was afraid I wouldn’t meet someone better. Getting someone to move to a small town has proved to be a hard sell.”

  “Well, the guy was an idiot if he didn’t want to move to this cute little town and procreate like mad rabbits with you.” At the moment, Ian was hard-pressed to think of anything else he’d rather do. The memory of their morning in bed was so fresh he could still feel the press of her skin against his.

  “Lots of guys are idiots, in my experience.”

  There was a long silence after that, which he filled by quietly admiring her lovely face and messy hair. Random notes of a new song were pinging here and there in his brain.

  “You should probably go check on Simone’s house.”

  It looked as though it pained her to say that. It pained him to think of leaving. But Simone’s house had just been through the same storm. He should go check on it.

  “Right. Some housesitter I a
m.”

  “You got trapped by the storm. Extenuating circumstances.”

  He leaned across the table, held her chin between his fingers, held her gaze with his. “The weather could have been perfect, and I still would have stayed. Mai with an I.”

  Chapter 7

  Ian walked Simone’s property, looking for damage. All in all, things looked good. The house was fine. The patio and yard were strewn with downed tree branches, but nothing major. He picked up the branches and tossed them onto a pile.

  He’d told Mai that he would stop by her shop later. He wished later were right now, but she needed time to restock her fridge and open up for a few hours. There was blatant skepticism in her eyes when he left. She thought he was simply saying what he was supposed to say after a glorious night in bed.

  I’ll call.

  I’ll come over later.

  I want to spend all summer with you.

  He got it. Musicians did not have the best reputation when it came to women. He himself did not have the best reputation—but that was partly because he didn’t often run into the kind of women he wanted to meet.

  Also you don’t exactly live anywhere.

  Living on the road made relationships difficult. Sure, he could find women willing to join him on the road, but he wanted a woman whose life was larger than just him. He didn’t want a groupie for a girlfriend.

  He checked on the cover to Simone’s pool and then the outdoor kitchen. He pictured hanging out here with Mai, barbecuing on the patio and skinny-dipping in the pool. Not in that order, necessarily. When Simone came home from her honeymoon, he would find a place to rent for the summer so he and Mai could date, get to know each other better, have a normal relationship.

  It’s going to be an awesome summer.

  He was inside, resetting clocks and thermostats after the power outage, when his phone rang. His first thought went to Mai. She had gotten over her skepticism! But no. According to caller I.D., it was his manager. His heart dropped to the floor and he answered the call with a curt, “Dave.”

  “Ian! How was the lovely Simone’s wedding?”

  “Lovely. As was to be expected.”

  He collapsed onto the sofa in the spacious family room. His childhood home had a family room where the giant Christmas tree was erected every December, where birthdays were celebrated, where movies were watched with popcorn and pizza. An intense homesickness flooded his soul. Even the most luxurious hotels in the world weren’t home. Nor was the condo he rented in L.A. Hell, he didn’t even own the bed he slept in. He had rented the condo furnished.

  “So, I have some news,” Dave went on.

  Dave was the last person Ian wanted to talk to right now. “Great. What is it?”

  “Alex has been released from rehab. The tour is resuming.”

  “What?” There was no way they had released Alex already, not considering how often he had relapsed. “They released him? Or you got him released?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a world of difference, and you know it.”

  “Hey. Alex wanted to leave.”

  Ian sighed and went to run a hand through his hair before remembering that his hair was currently too short for that. “Well, that’s good news for Alex.”

  “It’s good news for everyone. The tour is resuming. I’ve booked you on a flight out of Dulles tonight.”

  He closed his eyes. No. Just no. Going back on tour was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. In fact, he never wanted to go back on tour ever again. It wasn’t fun anymore. Hadn’t been fun for awhile. To be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time any of this was enjoyable.

  It was never supposed to get this far. He and Alex had started a garage band in high school with some other guys—a literal garage band, in Alex’s dad’s garage. They’d played for friends and family backyard cookouts. Once, they had played a high school homecoming dance. On a lark, they auditioned for one of those televised talent shows. And won.

  That was the last time their lives were normal.

  “Did you hear me, Ian? You need to be at Dulles International Airport by nine tonight. You’re on a nonstop to L.A. First class, naturally.”

  Naturally. “Yeah, I heard you. I’ll be there.” He didn’t want to go, but there were contracts that could not be breached without significant financial penalty.

  He hung up on Dave and then sat on Simone’s couch, angry. He’d be lying if he said that Dave pulling strings to get Alex out of rehab early surprised him. On the contrary, it was a very Dave sort of thing to do.

  Alex needed major time away to get his life together, or he wasn’t going to make it to thirty. That wasn’t going to happen as long as Pulse was still together.

  Ian wished he owned a house so he could punch in a few walls. Instead, he picked up his phone and tapped on “Mai with an I” in the contact list.

  Mai was pulling an espresso for a customer when her phone buzzed in the pocket of her brown-and-white striped Two Beans apron. She couldn’t answer it right that instant. With the refrigerator replenished, she had opened the shop to customers two hours ago. She finished the espresso and slid it across the counter to an older woman, a summer resident. Then she glanced around the shop. Everything was under control at the moment, so she turned to Ginnie, one of the high school students who worked for her.

  “Hold down the fort for a minute or two. I’ll be right back.”

  Mai disappeared into the back kitchen to check the message. It was from Ian. Huh. Maybe she had been wrong after all. He’d said he would call later, but wasn’t that what they all said? He and Mai had scratched a two-year itch last night. She had to accept that that was all it had been.

  All it ever could be.

  She listened to the message.

  Hey there, Mai with an I. I have to leave town tonight. Alex has been released, so the band is headed back out on the road. I am so sorry to leave without seeing you again. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  She tapped “delete.”

  Well. Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.

  Chapter 8

  The day had been a disaster. No way to sugarcoat that.

  Ian was lying on a bed in yet another generically luxurious hotel, staring at the ceiling. There were perfectly good artworks on the wall he could stare at. Also, a well-stocked minibar and giant screen television. But the blankness of the ceiling suited his mood.

  The band had played an outdoor music festival that afternoon. It had been hot—and not in a good way. Hot in the way that hell was supposed to be hot. Hard to play a guitar with a river of sweat dripping off his fingers. The audience had dropped like flies, too. From the stage, he’d seen medics pushing their way through the crowd and carrying people out.

  I wouldn’t pay money to see my own band in that kind of weather.

  That wasn’t even the worst of it. Halfway through their most recent hit, Alex had switched to a drum fill from a different song. It took thirty seconds of the entire band taking turns glaring at him before he realized what he had done. The crowd applauded what they assumed was some sort of clever musical “in” joke.

  One time could be laughed off. If Alex were to make a habit of spacing out in the middle of sets, though, it would become unfunny very quickly.

  On the nightstand, his phone buzzed with a text, sending his heart soaring at the prospect of some small communication from Mai. He had texted her every day for the past three weeks. And she’d replied. Most days, anyway. She was busy—he got that. He wasn’t entirely sure she really wanted to hear from him, but her replies were always pleasant, polite. She was too sensible a woman to chase after the likes of him. On paper, he was a bad bet for a serious relationship. He got that, too.

  On the other hand, she hadn’t ghosted him or blocked his number, so there was still a glimmer of a chance—right?

  He rolled onto his side and dragged the phone from the nightstand onto the mattress. The message was from Dave, who clearly knew
that calling Ian was not a good idea at the moment.

  Interview request from New Music Now. You should take this one.

  He shoved the phone away. Sitting for an interview was on the ever growing list of things he never wanted to do again. Along with playing desert music festivals, appearing on stage with Alex without a note from Alex’s doctor, and drinking the crap coffee that even five-star hotels served.

  And anyway, he had nothing new to say to anyone, nothing that he hadn’t said a million times already. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old millionaire who plays in a band. Why do people want my opinion on climate change? Or where is the music industry going? What is the secret to writing hit songs?

  Hell if I know.

  He didn’t even know where he was going to be six months from now. What hotel? What city? What country? Or would he be twiddling his thumbs in his rented condo while Alex struggled to dry out again?

  The only thing he really knew was where he wanted to be in six months. Scratch that—where he wanted to be right now. He wanted to be in a particular small town on the Chesapeake Bay. In a particular bed above a charming coffee shop. In the arms of a particular woman.

  Mai with an I.

  He picked up the phone. It was ten o’clock on the east coast. Her shop was closed by now. He called and listened as the call rolled over to voice mail. He ended the call without leaving a message. He’d made his interest clear to her, but he wasn’t going to be a nag.

  Two minutes later, his phone rang.

  “Hi there,” the voice on the other end said. Her voice, that was as lovely to his ears as any song could be.

  “Hey. What are you up to?” He pictured her puttering around her apartment, mug of coffee in hand.

  “I’m on the world’s most boring date.”

  He sat bolt upright, nearly choking on air. She was dating? Oh no no no. Suddenly, everything was crystal clear.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m hiding in the ladies’ room, so I could return your call. How did the show go?”

  “It could have been worse. But not by much. Don’t look it up online.”