He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m old-school. Just plain vanilla or plain strawberry. No chunks. No crunch. That’s my jam.”
I blink, truly dismayed this time. “Wow. That’s it? You don’t ever even try new flavors?”
“I know what I like.”
“But there are so many amazing flavors out there these days! I had a bourbon apple crumble scoop while I was on vacation in Oregon that changed my life. Truly. I think about that ice cream at least once a week.” I sigh. “I wonder what it’s doing now. Is it still as delicious as I remember? Is Scoop-a-holic going to open a location in Hidden Kill Bay so I can fulfill my destiny to eat bourbon apple crumble every single day?”
“See, you know what you like, too.” He squeezes my hand. “Your tastes are just a little more exotic than mine.”
“I would try other flavors, too,” I amend as we cross a small footbridge leading over the creek to the general store’s parking lot. “I would just come back to my true love after I was finished.”
“I know you would,” he says. “You’re very loyal.”
I frown. “I am. I was just thinking about that earlier.”
“Good. If you’re reading my mind, I like to be able to return the favor.” Before I can respond, he turns to me, pushing me against the worn wood near the back of the general store, framing my face with his arms as he bends to kiss me.
And not just any kiss—a hard, deep, devour-my-lips kiss that has my heart galloping in my chest and my entire body tingling by the time he pulls away.
“What was that for?” I ask, my breath coming faster.
“To prove I can still surprise you, too,” he murmurs.
“You’ve been surprising me,” I whisper. “Over and over again.” I’m about to say something else, something I shouldn’t, about him surprising me in the best ways when a car horn pierces the quiet air.
Zack flinches, and I jump, knocking my elbow on the wood behind me. I curse beneath my breath, rubbing my smarting funny bone.
“You okay?” Zack asks.
Before I can reply, a slick black convertible pulls into the empty parking spot in front of us, and a blond man wearing reflective glasses hops out. He literally bounces from the vehicle and across the pavement, light on his feet for a man with a sizeable belly stretching the front of his blue polo shirt.
“Zack, my man! What are the chances you’d be the first face I’d see on my way into town?” He punches Zack, who is looking uncharacteristically pissed, lightly on the arm before turning to me. “And you must be Colette.” He snags my hand, giving it a squeeze as he shoots an appraising glance at me over the top of his glasses.
“Yes, I am.” My skin crawls as his gaze sweeps up and down my body with an intimacy that makes me glad I’m wearing a bra for the first time in days. I have no idea how Zack knows this creep, but hopefully, we can ditch him as quickly as possible. “And you are?”
“Chip,” he says, baring his teeth in a predatory smile. “Manager, Zack’s biggest fan, and here to crash the party, sweetheart. I hope you two stocked up on coffee. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Chapter Twenty
Zack
I can’t believe Chip pulled this shit.
I can’t believe he showed up without any warning, tailed us into the grocery store—ignoring my attempts to send him on to the retreat without us—and bullied Colette into the back of his car with his luggage, insisting I take the front seat for the drive home.
I want to break down and flat out tell him to get lost, but I keep hearing Gram’s voice in my head, insisting I be a good host, even to the most unwelcome guest.
Besides, we have to have this argument sometime. I’d say we might as well have it now and get it over with, except that I only have two more nights with Colette.
And now Chip is determined to ruin one of them.
Unless I can get rid of him and convince her to stay.
I glance over my shoulder. Colette smiles from the back seat of the convertible, holding her hair out of her face as Chip whips around another mountain curve. I smile back, sending silent apologies for the tenth time and hoping she’ll see how sorry I am. She winks and gives a subtle thumbs-up, indicating we’re all good.
But we’re not good, and the sooner Chip gets that message, the better.
I’m not the kind of person who makes decisions lightly. When I make a judgment call, it’s because I’ve thought things through, and it’s the only one that feels right to me. I don’t appreciate being second-guessed, especially by someone I’m paying ten percent of my earnings to make my job easier.
Chip swings into the parking spot next to my Tesla and shuts off the ignition with a long, low whistle. “Wow. This place is spookier in person, isn’t it?”
Colette laughs tightly, making an effort to be friendly, but I can tell she wishes as much as I do that Chip would vanish in a puff of smoke. “It is. But you get used to it. And the ghosts are harmless.”
Chip hops out the driver’s side and pulls his seat forward, making room for Colette to step out onto the gravel. He holds out a hand that she doesn’t want to touch—I can tell by the stiffness in her smile when she releases his fingers the instant she’s steady on her feet.
She doesn’t like Chip. And I don’t blame her.
Honestly, I don’t care much for him, either, at least not personally. I hired him because he has a reputation for getting his clients what they want and because none of the other people who were willing to take me on had a proven track record. It seemed smarter to go with a shark who knew his way around the industry than one of the perfectly nice newbies I’d met with before him.
Now, I’m wondering if that was the right call. None of the other managers would have dared to surprise me at my work retreat without an invitation. And they certainly wouldn’t have had the balls to check out my girl’s ass while she walks ahead of them on the path up to the house.
I want to punch Chip in the face, an urge that’s so out of character that I hang back by the door while Colette leads him inside to give him a tour of the main floor.
I have to get a hold of myself.
I’m not a caveman, for fuck’s sake. I’m a rational human being who’s dealt with more than my fair share of assholes.
The music industry is full of dicks like Chip, men who think that their money or status, or the money and status of the people they work for, entitles them to act like sacks of shit. Some female artists are pains in the ass, too, but I’ve rarely seen a woman abuse her status as shamelessly as the men who fuck fans half their age, trash hotel rooms, arrive late to gigs, and snort their advances up their nose, only to bitch to their agents and managers for not landing them bigger, better tour venues.
I knew who Chip was when I hired him. He has a reputation for being a bit of a sleaze. But knowing that and seeing his greedy gaze raking up and down Colette right in front of me are two entirely different things.
Reminding myself that I’m the better person, I head into the kitchen to find Chip standing too close to Colette while she fetches him a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, and all my good intentions go flying out the window.