The Idea of You (3 page)

Which wasn't to say he didn't think about it. Often. How could he not? Of all the jobs Alex had assigned him and their other siblings, this seemed the most important, the most personal.

Finish my book.

Alex had left them all letters, some of which had been delivered, while others sat in a locked file cabinet in Alex's attorney's office waiting until the day he'd instructed her to give them to the appropriate person. As far as Evan knew, Mom, Dad, Derek, Sara, Kyle, and Tori had all received theirs, too. Only Liam and Hayden hadn't gotten theirs.

Aubrey Tallinger had given Evan his letter about a month after Alex had died. He'd read it so many times, he'd committed the words to memory.

Dear Evan,

I hope it's okay that I assigned the IT stuff for the new hotel to you. I didn't want to overload you, and even though I'm hoping you'll move home, I'd understand if you didn't. Of everyone, you're the only one who gets a pass from me. Okay, maybe Sara, too, but I actually think Sara wants to be at home, whereas I'm not sure what you want. I can pretty much figure the rest of them out, but you've always kept me guessing. What I wish I knew is whether you did that on purpose or if you don't really know what you want either.

I do have another job for you, one that's the nearest and dearest to my heart. I started a novel last year. I'd hoped to finish it before I left, but I got too busy with preparing everything. Also, I'm not sure how it ends. I figure there's a good half or even two-thirds there, but I'm giving it to you to finish. I trust you to make it better than I could have. The only thing I ask is that you do whatever necessary to get it published—submit it to an agent or a publisher or even publish it yourself. I've done some research on that and left my notes with the manuscript on the flash drive Aubrey gave you.

I know you have a creative side, and I hope this will inspire you to exercise it. Don't be afraid to step outside your comfort zone. I know it's hard, but I think the reward will be so worth it.

I hope you'll help everyone through this difficult time, especially Tori. She's going to need your love and support more than ever before. She's so used to being the caretaker, but it's going to be your turn to take care of her.

I love you.

Alex

Evan hated that last part about Tori because he'd totally failed her. He'd gone back to Longview and done what he did best—bury his head in the sand. He'd thought Alex was wrong. Tori was stronger than any of them, and she'd seemed fine. She'd come back to Ribbon Ridge from her job in San Francisco in order to design the renovation project Alex had left for them in his will.

Evan had no idea she'd been a total mess. None of them had realized it until her husband had shown up last fall, surprising the hell out of them since they hadn't known she was even married. Too late, Evan had decided he should come back home and be here for Tori and the rest of his family.

Now, here he was, staring at Alex's unfinished book and contemplating how he could possibly do it justice. He'd tinkered with it here and there, but he couldn't seem to find a groove to actually sit down and write the rest of it. It was silly, especially given the main character of the story—a young man with Asperger's whose nonverbal autistic brother had died and who was trying to fulfill his deceased brother's dreams. Alex hadn't been autistic, but the similarities between the story and Evan's real life were too eerie to ignore. Hadn't Alex realized it would be weird at best and unsettling at worst?

Probably. That's why he'd included the part about stepping outside his comfort zone. Well, Evan had done that. In ways Alex hadn't even imagined. If he had, he would've said so in his letter. What Evan had really wanted was Alex's job as creative director at Archer. Yeah, Evan had a creative side, and he was tired of burying it underneath his IT expertise. Because he was good with computers and databases and all that garbage, he'd been cast in that role by everyone, including his family.

But he wanted to write. To design. To create. And not with website code. Like Alex had said, he wanted to exercise his creative side. So that was precisely what he was doing.

What would Alex say if he knew that Evan was Archer's new creative director? Forget Alex, what would the entire family say? He smiled to himself, again impressed with his ability to keep this massive secret. He'd applied for the job using a business name—a creative consulting firm he'd started for this very purpose. As a result, they only knew the name of the person they'd spoken to via phone interview—his Skype connection had been conveniently poor, necessitating an audio-only conversation—the fictitious Eric Steele. He'd used a voice distorter, and since all of the employment paperwork was with the business, there was no way they could trace him, unless they went to the state and obtained the name of the person who owned the firm. But hopefully they wouldn't do that. They had no reason to.

No, he'd thought this through, and so far, so good. He'd spent the past month working on a new marketing plan for the various beer festivals they'd be participating in this summer. Plus, he was updating the marketing collateral for their ten brewpubs. Overall, he was having a blast—and it was all a secret.

Keeping secrets reminded him of Alaina Pierce in the apartment over the garage. He wondered how long she would stay. Not because he was concerned about keeping
her
secret, but because he sort of hoped he'd see her again.

A
LAINA DIDN
'
T REMEMBER
the last time she'd slept so soundly. The bed in the Archers' apartment was freaking fabulous, and the knowledge that she was in the middle of nowhere—and that no one knew where—filled her with a giddy pleasure she hadn't felt in a long time.

It probably helped that she'd completely turned her phone off. Crystal's updates were too distracting, and unfortunately she kept sending them, even though Alaina had asked her not to. That was one of the problems with working with someone who'd known you forever—they sometimes thought they knew what you wanted better than you did. Occasionally that was true, but not this time.

She jumped out of bed and padded into the kitchen. Last night, she'd found a blender and plenty of supplies for a smoothie, her breakfast of choice. After the smoothie, she'd use the gym Sean had told her was on the ground floor of the main house. It was too cold to run outside—plus she'd probably get lost in a nearby vineyard or something—so she'd hit the treadmill.

Once she was dressed in her workout clothes, she headed out of the apartment and over to the house. It was massive, much larger than her house in Beverly Hills. She went in through the back door and was greeted by a line of hooks on the wall of the mudroom with each Archer kid's name. She imagined they'd hung their coats and backpacks here when they were younger.

Meanwhile, she'd had whatever book bag the school counselor had given her, and she'd certainly never had a hook to hang it on in the tiny box she'd grown up in. She'd barely had a bed—just a mattress and box spring on an oft-repaired frame.

Her eyes fell on Evan's name. He'd been a little odd. Or maybe that had just been her interpretation after a long, nasty day capped off with a near-fire. She was just glad he'd been there to help. She wasn't sure she would've thought to take the battery out of the detector and probably would've just suffered the damned alarm until it stopped.

She contemplated which direction to take to the gym downstairs. There were two doors on the right side of the mudroom. One was open to a laundry room, and the other was closed. Maybe it led to the stairs. She opened it and froze upon realizing it was someone's bedroom. But no one was inside.

Exhaling, she scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a picture sitting on the nightstand. She moved toward it and looked at it more closely. It was the Archer kids, she realized. She recognized Evan, who was quite a bit taller than everyone else in the picture. They looked like they were eleven or twelve. In the center was a grinning boy—he had an identical twin from the looks of everyone. She hadn't realized the sextuplets included a set of twins. Which one of them had died? Sean had given her a brief overview yesterday, but her brain had been overwhelmed with her own turmoil, and she hadn't paid close enough attention. Now she felt bad about that.

She turned and left, closing the door behind her. There, on the other side of the mudroom—next to the stupid door—was a set of stairs leading down.
Observant much?

She jogged down the stairs and was met with two closed doors on the right. The first revealed a brewing facility. Clearly where Rob Archer crafted the beer Evan had offered her last night. She closed the door and moved on to the next one.

As soon as she opened it, she froze like she had upstairs. Okay, maybe froze wasn't the best word, because heat rushed over her.

This was the gym, all right. And on the other side of it doing bicep curls, his arms and abs straining in gorgeous muscular glory, was Evan Archer.

Holy smokes, he was beautiful. Cut better than most of the guys in Hollywood. And tall, which she loved, since she was five-ten—he was probably six-four. She'd found him attractive last night, with his thick, dark brown hair and sexy gray eyes. Sexy? Had the fact that he'd barely made eye contact given him a mysterious air? Why did she have to like guys with a mysterious air, for heaven's sake? They were almost always jerks. Scratch that. They were
always
jerks.

He set the hand weights down. “Good morning.”

“Morning. You're, uh, you're hot.”

“Yeah, I know. I should've turned on the fan.” He grabbed a towel from the bench behind him and mopped his brow.

Was he being funny? She would've assumed so, but his flat tone said he wasn't. “I meant hot as in ridiculously good-looking.”

His gaze settled on her, and the gray of his eyes was so clear, so stunning, she was momentarily tongue-tied. Good-looking didn't remotely cut it. He was an Adonis. “I get it now.” Then the eye contact was over.

She exhaled, and it came out shaky; she'd apparently been holding her breath. “My agent would drool if he saw you.”

He shot her a puzzled glance. “Is he gay?”

She laughed, certain now that he wasn't being sarcastic this time, either. “Yes, actually, but he's also happily married. No, he'd drool because he'd want to sign you to a modeling contract or find you a commercial for . . . damn, for anything.” She cocked her head to the side. “You don't have much of a filter, do you?”

“Nope. Don't really need one, either, since I don't particularly care about impressing people.”

Wow.
Alaina couldn't fathom that attitude. At the same time, she envied it. Sure, she had enough money that she didn't need to care, but that would also put an end to her career. A career he'd just last night suggested she abandon.

He picked up the weights and started another set. Alaina wanted to pull up a chair and just watch. Damn, she'd been without a guy for too long. By choice—she'd dated a string of guys in LA, all of whom were more interested in Alaina Pierce, the movie star, than Lainie Bickford, the real woman she was underneath. Crystal would say that was Alaina's fault for not letting any of them get close enough to meet Lainie Bickford. Crystal might be on to something, but Alaina wouldn't ever tell her that.

She was going on two years since her last boyfriend, and until now, she hadn't missed having one at all. But watching Evan, she suddenly imagined them in all sorts of naughty positions, their mouths doing equally naughty things.

Maybe it
was
too hot in here.

He set the weights down. “Did you come to work out? You're dressed for it.” His gaze swept over her. “You look pretty hot yourself.”

Oh man, she loved his lack of filter! Not only was it refreshing, it was downright sexy. Or maybe she was so far gone with lust that anything he said would be sexy. Either way, she didn't much care.

“Yes, I came to use the treadmill.”

He inclined his head toward the right wall where there were two treadmills, two bikes, and an elliptical. “They're over there. The one on the left is pretty new, so I recommend that. I can show you how to use the TV, too, if you want.”

“You guys have a lot of equipment.”

He shrugged, wiping his face with the towel again. “There are a lot of Archers.”

“Right—seven kids?”

“Six now.”

Damn, the one brother had committed suicide. “Yes, six. Sorry.”

He shrugged again and honestly didn't look the least bit offended. “It's okay. It happened a while ago.”

Did you ever get over losing a sibling? Of course not. She'd acted that part before—the grieving sister, mother, daughter, friend—and she'd always played it as nothing short of life-altering. “I'm still sorry. It has to be tough.”

“The one-year anniversary was a couple of weeks ago. We had a little memorial—he's buried in the pioneer cemetery outside of town.”

“There's a pioneer cemetery? Awesome.” She winced. Now who was lacking a filter? “Sorry, I grew up in the South, and I loved going to old cemeteries. I love history.”

“Where in the South did you live?”

“North Carolina mostly.” She didn't bother mentioning the rinky-dink town, as there was no chance in hell he would've heard of the backwater shithole.

“Do you go back there often?” he asked, draping the towel around his neck.

“Not unless I have to.”

His brow furrowed briefly. “You don't have family there?”

He really knew nothing about her. That was so fantastic. “My grandfather.” He'd never leave. His plot in the Blueville cemetery had been reserved and paid for long ago—when Grandmama had died.

“Is he your only family?”

“No, my mother lives in Dallas.” In a monstrosity of a house that Alaina had paid for to keep her out of her life. “We aren't particularly close.”

“You and your mom or you and your grandfather?”

“All of us.” Grandpapa had written Alaina off as an unrepentant sinner the minute she'd left for Hollywood. She could only imagine what he was saying now, with the news stories of her abortion that had never happened. And he'd never much cared for Alaina's mother, his daughter-in-law. She'd corrupted his son, led him into the drugs that had stolen his life. Alaina could still hear him railing at Mama, which happened nearly every Sunday when they'd gone to his house for dinner.

When Alaina was eight, she'd finally asked her mother why they still went to Grandpapa's house since he was always so mean. Mama had answered that it was a free meal, and for a decent free meal, you put up with whatever you had to.

That had been the first time Alaina had truly understood that they were dirt-poor. She thought everyone ate SpaghettiOs and macaroni and cheese every night and shopped at the Goodwill for special occasions.

“My family is . . . complicated,” she said. “What about yours? From what Sean told me, it sounds like you're all pretty close-knit?”

He picked up a sports bottle and flipped the straw open for a quick sip. “I guess. We're kind of spread out—or at least we were before Alex died. He bought an old monastery and left it to all of us to renovate into a restaurant and hotel. He gave each of us jobs so that we'd all come back to Ribbon Ridge and be together.”

“That's nice, if you wanted to come home. If you didn't, then I suppose it might feel manipulative.”

“I think Liam feels that way. He's Alex's identical twin. He owns a bunch of real estate in Denver and has no interest in coming home.”

Alaina recalled the picture in the bedroom and suddenly wondered if it had been Alex's room. There had been a pristine, almost unlived-in quality to it—not a speck of dust anywhere. “Did everyone else come home?”

“Pretty much. Except Hayden—he's not one of the sextuplets. He's making wine in France. I think he's supposed to come home this summer, but I'm not sure he will. He's pretty happy there. Has a girlfriend, too.”

“That sounds amazing. Where did you come home from? You said everyone was spread out—were you near or far?”

“Not too far.” He took another sip of water.

A fluffy gray cat prowled into the room and went directly to Evan, nuzzling his leg. He leaned down and stroked the animal's head. “Hey, Jean-Luc.”

Jean-Luc? “As in Picard?”

Evan flashed her a look of surprise. “Yeah. That's weird that you'd know that.”

She laughed. “I loved that show growing up. I used to pretend I was Dr. Crusher.”

He finished petting Jean-Luc. “I'm going to go shower now. Do you want help with the TV?”

She wasn't sure if he'd heard what she said or not. Maybe he was just really desperate for a shower. “No, I brought my iPod. I'm good.”

“Cool.” He walked past her, and she pivoted, her eyes glued to his jaw-droppingly sculpted back.

“Hey, Evan?”

He turned at the door. “Yeah?”

“I don't suppose you'd want to keep me company for dinner tonight? I was going to make some pasta—I make a mean Bolognese.” It was one of the few things she cooked—and cooked well, if she wasn't being modest. Plus, she had everything she needed in the apartment, thanks to Sean stocking it with her shopping list.

“Sure. What time?”

“Seven?”

“Sounds good.” He left, closing the door behind his magnificent ass.

With a sigh, Alaina turned toward the treadmill. She wasn't in the mood to work out anymore. At least not on a treadmill. A horizontal workout with Evan Archer sounded like much more fun. Hell, it didn't even have to be horizontal. She was horny and undersexed, not picky.

Get a grip, Alaina!

She'd purposely chosen not to engage in any sort of relationship—one-night stands or otherwise. They were far too complicated, and the truth was she didn't trust anybody. One of her boyfriends had “accidentally” texted pictures of her, which she had no idea he'd even taken, to all of his friends. And one of them had sold them to a tabloid. So yeah, Crystal was right: Alaina didn't let her guard down very easily, if at all.

Evan Archer seemed down-to-earth and completely transparent, which was a far cry from the guys she typically met in LA. However, she'd known him all of twelve hours and was probably just being stupid and hopeful. Nobody was ever that genuine.

Everyone had secrets or demons or something they wanted to hide. Especially Alaina.

E
VAN CLIMBED THE
stairs to the garage apartment, the bottle of pinot in his left hand. He'd been looking forward to dinner all day. He liked Alaina. And he didn't get invited to dinner very often.

He knocked on the door and waited just a moment before it opened. The scent of Bolognese filled his nostrils. “You're not setting off the smoke detector.”

She grinned, showing him that movie-star smile for the first time. He blinked and shifted his gaze away from her. She was almost too brilliant to look at, like the sun. “No, not burning anything. But I will if I don't get back to it. Come in.”

She rushed back into the kitchen and stirred something on the stovetop.

He moved to the other side of the bar and watched her cook. Music filtered through the sound system. He didn't recognize the artist. “What song is this?”