Page 3 of Almost Perfect
I swallowed, pushed out an exhale, and braced myself. The next few minutes could get weird, but I’d handle it. And then I could go inside—and hopefully not get axe-murdered—and finally, finally cry myself to sleep.
The trunk slammed before I shut my door.
“Here ya go, Miss Mayhem.”
Crap. Definitely recognized me—my stage name was pretty conspicuous. I’d traveled and booked under my real name, but no one knew me as anything but Miss Mayhem.Thatname was too notorious. It’d served me well the last decade as I clawed my way into pop icon status, but I’d always been just on the edge of disfavor. Too bold. Too revealing. And lately, too wrapped up in the horrible mess with Candy and repeated failed records.
Fortunately, this guy didn’t seem all that fazed.
“Thanks, Jarrod. Can I have you sign a quick non-disclosure for me? I know it’s odd, but I have to—”
“Say no more, say no more. I’ve done it plenty of times.”
Thank Goodness. I swiped into the app on my phone, asked for his full name, and presented him with the signature block. This wasn’t the way I normally did things. Who cared if a cab driver knew where I was staying? But I couldn’t afford a crowd here, and I couldn’t afford anyone knowing anything. The bad news could follow me into a cave, and I didn’t need to do anything but simply exist to fuel the fire these days.
“Thank you. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I will have to use that if anything leaks. I—”
“Don’t worry. I can keep my trap shut. Want me to stay ’til you get inside?” He glanced back toward the house.
Whoever had been here to greet me had disappeared. The front door to the little cottage stood wide open and light spilled out, so someone was still in there.
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”Or I’ll get murdered.Tomato, tomahto.
“If you’re sure…”
Ah, sweet Jarrod. Trying to keep me from showing up as a celebrity victim on a true crime podcast.
“I’m sure. Thanks again for the drive, and the, well, you know.” No idea why it felt weird to reference the NDA he’d just signed, but it did.
He nodded, and without another word, loaded back into his car and left.
I grabbed the handles to both giant rolling suitcases and pulled them with me, thankful the dirt driveway was frozen solid. This would be just lovely when the ground thawed in a few months. Who knew if I’d still be here.
I heaved the two bags up the short staircase right to the door, with my purse and canvas bag of groceries over one shoulder, then knocked.No answer. But there was definitely someone in there, and I’d checked the reservation—I was only ten minutes late. So… I went in.
“Hello?”
Inside, the light was soft, and warmth from the glowing fire emanated down the hall. That scent of real wood burning made it feel immediately cozy, though I hadn’t seen more than the entryway. It felt welcoming. Well, aside from that whole missing host thing.
“Hello?” I projected my voice a little more.
A crash of some kind sounded farther in, followed by a low muttered curse.
I left the door open but abandoned my suitcases. If I had to make a break for it, I didn’t want to have any barriers. Granted, where I’d break to would be a problem considering we were miles from anything. I straightened my spine and pulled my shoulders back, then shuffled inside, the rubberized soles of my leather boots not making a sound on the stone floor of the entryway.
Just as I reached the end of the hallway, a towering figure arrived, backlit by the lights behind him.
“Shoot. I’m sorry.” He stepped to the side and waved a hand for me to continue into the living room. He then followed me into the brightly lit space. A fire roared from the stone fireplace in the center of the room. It wasn’t huge, but everything in it looked plush, clean, and comfortable, decorated in creams and natural colors with little pops of deep teal.
Thank Goodness! No way would a serial killer have teal throw pillows.
“I’m Wyatt. I think my brother mentioned I’d be meeting you today?”
He moved to the counter of the small kitchen, where a stack of papers and a set of keys waited. He still hadn’t actually looked at me, which was fine by me. If he never did, he wouldn’t recognize me, and that made life that much easier.
The voice, though. He had a very good voice. I had a thing for voices, which made some sense, considering I now earned my living with mine. Well, and my body, but that thought had grown more and more depressing lately.
But his voice? Rich and low, a little rumbly. Like if I put my head on his chest, the sound would fill up his whole body and spill over into mine, too.Except that’s a really weird thought to have about a potential murderer’s voice.
