Typecast (17 page)

The house was spectacular, truly and utterly spectacular. In fact, spectacular didn’t quite describe the home of Curtis Raleigh. Designed as a hexagon, each of the four bedrooms looked out into an amazing outdoor space with a hexagon-shaped pool and even a hexagon hot tub. Except for the modern electronics, every painting, every bit of furniture, every accent in every room was exactly right for the period, absolutely perfect and authentic, a decorator’s dream.

Also, it was solid proof that an actor’s life could be a nightmare. Even with everything perfect on the surface, underneath the world could crumble. All around the home were little artifacts from Curtis Raleigh’s career intermixed with pictures of Ivy and her sister and the rest of the family, a sad reminder of what the grandfather had missed by leaving the world too early. No wonder her mother wanted a stable home.

With Ivy and Giselle still gone with the baby and the mother and the sister tending to dinner, he had been relegated to sitting in the swank living room with the men talking about sports, electronics, and video games, none of which he knew much about.

“Here you are.” Dennis Vermont held out a glass to him. “Is it true you were discovered on a street corner?”

“Something like that.” He lifted the drink, allowing the liquid to catch the light. Long ago did Curtis Raleigh drink from these glasses? Did one of those drinks lead to the downward spiral? Ivy already defied her mother once by not going with the stable man. Could she do it a second time by choosing him, the antithesis of what her mother wanted? Not needing to even give a hint he ever lived up to his reputation, he held his hand up. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a rain check and be right back.”

“The bathroom is that way.” Mr. Vermont pointed.

“Thank you.” Before he worked on Ivy, he needed to get Mrs. Vermont on his team. Stability could be illustrated in one simple act, and he took the opposite route and headed for the kitchen.

“Oh!” Hunched over some clearly overcooked carrots, Fern straightened up as if she were part of a marching band.

“I can’t seem to get any liquid from this pan to make the gravy.” Mrs. Vermont studied her roasting pan.

“Mother, Logan is in the kitchen.” Fern pointed at him.

Mrs. Vermont turned and motioned with her pot holder. “The bathroom is that way.”

Well, he supposed eventually he would find that information useful. “I appreciate the map, but that’s not what you need.”

“What is it you need?” The smile the woman tried to force on her face turned more into a line.

“I’m fine. You need me.” He strolled through the kitchen, first pointing at Fern. “Stop touching the carrots. You’ve hurt them enough.”

Fern backed up.

“I don’t need anything.” Mrs. Vermont crossed her arms.

“Yes, you do.” He joined her at the stove and inspected the shriveled piece of dried meat. After spying a few available necessities and scanning the area, he made a plan. “Please get me a decent bottle of red wine, some beef broth, flour, and butter.”

Her mother stared at him.

He rolled up his sleeves and chose a whisk from the canister of tools on the counter. “Look, I’m not going to make it worse.”

While Mrs. Vermont walked around the kitchen and collected the requested items, he moved the massacred meat to a cutting board and covered it with foil.

“Mother,” Fern whined from behind him.

He turned to her. “You are not cooking and you are not taking care of your child, but I can guarantee you will be quiet.”

“It wouldn’t have been dry if we didn’t spend so much time out on the lawn when you arrived.” Ivy’s mother placed the ingredients next to him.

“And you think congratulations on a forced engagement would have taken less time?” He put the roasting pan on the stovetop and began to make a proper sauce.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her watching him while he continued making his roux.

“Where did you learn to cook?” She stepped closer.

“Well, I’m not classically trained. I first learned from my mother, but then I had to learn on my own.” He gave her a short sound bite to pull her in. The sauce bubbled and began to thicken.

“What does that mean?” Again, she inched over.

“My mother passed away when I was sixteen, right after I got scouted by my agent. She was ill.” No matter when he spoke of it, his chest still constricted. “You know, I almost quit the movie. At the time I thought it was a bad omen. All my agent and the director seemed concerned with was that I could play the part, not the fact I had lost my only parent. Do you have a spoon?”

“Those dirty bastards.” She shook her head and opened a drawer for him.

“But thanks to the movie and the people around me, I got to stay with my brother. They really helped when I needed it. I think they’re used to dealing with children in bizarre situations.” He grabbed a spoon and took a taste of his impromptu wine sauce. The right bit of earthiness from the meat and acid from the wine danced over his palate. In need of the ultimate approval, he dipped a second spoon in the sauce and held it out to her mother. “Always taste your food. That is very important.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.” She patted his arm and opened her mouth, a genuine smile gracing her face. “That’s delicious.”

“I’m sorry about your father. He was an incredible actor. I am more than honored and humbled to be staying in your home.” He set the burner to simmer. “My mother always said there was nothing you can’t do with wine and broth. Why don’t you slice the meat really thin while I tend to the root vegetables?”

“Logan.” She went about her task. “May I ask you a question?”

Fern backed up when he approached and took the poor side dish. “You may ask me anything you wish. There is trust among cooks.” He found some cream in the refrigerator, then took the blender and moved next to Mrs. Vermont.

“Are you the reason my daughter didn’t get engaged tonight?” As if she didn’t want to ask, she lowered her voice.

He proceeded to make a carrot puree. The blender’s buzz took over the room, and he waited until shutting it off to speak. “While I’d like to think I am, I am not. I made my intentions very clear to Ivy before I even knew someone else existed.”

She tapped him to show him the fully sliced roast. “What are your intentions?”

Before answering, he took the meat and slipped it into the savory sauce. “I want to be with your daughter. I’ve never known anyone like her. She’s exceptional. You did a magnificent job.”

Much like her daughter, Mrs. Vermont’s cheeks reddened and she put her hand to her chest. “What do you do now?”

“I invest, and I work with my brother in his bar, but my specialty is taking care of others.” He winked and motioned toward some dishes. “Why don’t we plate everything up in here, then no one will know our secret?”

She nodded. “Fern, go get everyone gathered around the table while Logan and I finish up.”

With a huff, Ivy’s sister barged out of the room.

He put all the food into an assembly line and began to plate the dishes with a splash of carrot puree over the roast slices and then topped it with the sauce, wiping drips off the rim before handing the completed creations to Mrs. Vermont. “I am a much better cook than I am an actor.”

She stood up on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Right as they finished filling the plates, the kitchen door swung open. “Mother, I can’t find Logan.” Ivy skidded to a stop the second she saw him and glanced between him and her mother.

“I would never be too far away from you.” The way his blood sped through his veins at the sight of her told him again how much he wanted her.

“Oh, I’m glad you came back here.” Mrs. Vermont held her hand out.

Ivy went to her mother and took her hand. “What’s going on?”

“You were right. I want you to be happy. I’m sorry we blindsided you with all this hullabaloo, but it got you here and Logan here and that’s what matters.” She leaned in and hugged Ivy.

“Thank you?” Ivy patted her mother. “What’s going on?”

“Logan helped me with dinner. It was almost a complete disaster.” She held Ivy at arm’s length. “You look beautiful.”

With wide eyes, Ivy took in the scene.

He had noticed her more conventional dress before, but with everything, forgot to mention it. “She always looks gorgeous, though I must say I prefer the vintage look.”

Through her lashes, she peeked over at him, her cheeks glowing.

“Sometimes you just have that spark.” Her mother beamed. “I’m very happy for you. I don’t want you to worry about us at all, and now that I know the two of you are together I’ll tell Daddy not to worry about you and Logan sleeping in the same room.”

The color in Ivy’s cheeks vanished. In fact, her complexion change startled him and he stepped forward.

“I’m not tired at all.” She backed up and turned away.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s not like I wasn’t young once.” Her mother returned to her plates.

Apparently, the sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to his bedmate. He kept his eyes on Ivy. Somehow he needed to prove he was worthy of sharing her sheets.

With the covers pulled up to her chin and in the most unsexy, unrevealing sweatpants and sweatshirt she could conjure from her suitcase of lingerie, Ivy stared up at the ceiling waiting for Logan. Well, not waiting, more like dreading his arrival.

A true gentleman, he allowed her to use the bathroom first, and now she had ample opportunity to listen to his nightly ritual, complete with humming, tooth brushing, and running water. The man made enough noise for everyone here.

She squeezed her eyes shut trying to figure out exactly the point where she ended up waiting for Logan to join her in bed with no intention of having sex with him. In fact, she shouldn’t be waiting. They should have run in here and thrown their clothes off and done the deed.

No. Again, she needed her own dose of reality. The man was created to be alluring. How many times did she have to be reminded how he would break her heart? Hell, if it weren’t for him, she would be engaged.

No, she wouldn’t.

After dinner, in keeping with their family tradition, they all made their way out on the patio for dessert, drinks, and music. In a strange moment, her mother and Logan redecorated the cake, or more accurately, stripped it free of its engagement embellishments, all after having served a meal that left her wanting to lick her plate. Since when did the bad boy of Hollywood, the one solely responsible for destroying the sequel to her most beloved movie, learn to cook?

The door clicked open, and she caught sight of him in a pair of lightweight navy pajama bottoms and a matching tight T-shirt. Double damn her for leaving an accent light on for him to navigate his way to the bed. She practically laid out a trail of bread crumbs.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” He peeled off his shirt.

Though she tried not to look, there was no choice. He presented her with a perfect chest to match the rest of him. Smooth, wide, a perfect landscape to dig right in. She ground her teeth together. The last person her teenage self would have thought she would truly be in bed with on a warm Palm Springs evening at her grandfather’s home was Logan Alexander. Or was this the moment she had dreamed of?

The last few weeks upped the strange ante of the evening to surreal, but having Logan on her home turf amplified her foolish behavior.

He pulled the ponytail out of his hair and slipped into bed. “Shall I turn off the light?”

“Sure.” Heat overtook her. They didn’t call her clothes sweats for nothing.

The bed bounced as he turned off the light and got comfortable. “Are you all right? Can I get you anything?” He patted her arm.

Even through the thick fabric she made out his searing touch and she tensed. Of course he wanted to get her something, and they were in the perfect place for that special something. Honestly, she wanted to blame the entire situation on Logan, accuse him for manipulating the situation to such a point that she had no choice but to bring him along, but she made it all too easy for him to get here. With her mother glowing and declaring them together and her sister seething, there wasn’t any way she could go sleep on the couch. In an abrupt move, she turned over with her back to him.

They lay in silence for several minutes, and she balled her hand in a fist. Only men could sleep through anything. There was no way she would sleep. Between the outfit and Logan, the room had to be over 100 degrees.

“So, I am going to assume that the answer to my question is no. No, you would not like me to get you anything, and no, you are not all right.” Logan turned over and put his hand on her shoulder. “If the issue is us in the same bed, trust me if I’m not one hundred and ten percent certain you want me, I’d never touch you.”

The issue wasn’t not wanting him—it was wanting him too badly. With too many questions building like the heat through her body, she flipped over. “What do you want?”

Without a word, he took her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” Though she didn’t resist, she put one hand on his chest in a sad mock show of defiance, but she gained the opportunity to take in his smooth, tight skin.