Lana (17 page)

 
“Danika,” Jerry said with that world-class smile.
 
“This is my buddy, Tristan.
 
He’s going to be crashing on the couch for a few days.
 
He’s…uh…between residences.”

 
I mentally groaned.
 
Bev was going to kill him.
 
One glance at Tristan and I knew he wasn’t just a buddy.
 
Jerry had a spotty history with helping out what he always thought was the latest rising star.
 
He had big dreams of managing the next big rock band, and he took those dreams to extremes.
 
He and Bev were both technically attorneys, but she was the only lawyer in the house that you could call employed.
 
Jerry was too busy collecting unsigned bands to practice law.
 

 
I gave Jerry a pointed look.
 
“Bev is going to string you up.
 
She said that if you brought home one more out-of-work musician, that she was going to kick you out, and then I would get upgraded to a bigger room.”

 
He grimaced.
 
“Now, now, don’t go jumping to conclusions.
 
Tristan has a job.
 
Look, he’s not even carrying a guitar.”

 
I eyed Tristan up.
 
“What’s the job?”

 
Jerry answered for him, which let me know that he was full of it.
 
“He’s a club promoter.”

 
I rolled my eyes.
 
“Is that the best you can do?
 
That’s Vegas code for
unemployed
, Jerry.
 
My pothead ex-boyfriend even calls himself a club promoter, and I don’t think he ever even leaves his house.
 
You need to think up something better before Bev gets home.”
       

   
Tristan laughed, not looking even slightly offended by our exchange.
 
“I
am
a club promoter, and I do also happen to be in a band,” he said in a low, sexy drawl.
 

 
Oh lord
, I thought,
Four Kicks
by Kings of Leon playing at full volume in my head as I heard his voice at close range.
 
And I tried to pretend that I hadn’t even heard that sexy as hell laugh.
 
I knew that we were going to be a dangerous combination.
 
Bad things were going to happen if we spent too much time around each other.

 
“Don’t let Bev hear you say that,” I warned him.
 
I was really just trying to help Jerry out.
 
I didn’t want him to get into trouble with Bev again, and he never seemed to have a clue just what would set her off, even though it was always very obvious to me.

 
I sighed, knowing that this wouldn’t be easy to fix.
 
I tensed as I heard the loud garage door opening across the house.
 
Bev’s house was a huge, rambling, ranch style house, but the garage door was so loud that it always announced her presence.

 
I gave Jerry a stern look, sometimes feeling like his mother, even though he was forty-five, and I was barely twenty-one.
 
I pointed at him.
 
“I know what we need to do, but you’re going to owe me.
 
I hate lying to Bev.”
 
It was true.
 
I was nowhere near nonchalant about the deception I was about to undergo, and I wanted him to know it.
 
Beverley was my hero.
 
No one had ever helped me as much, or been as supportive of me, as she had.
 
Plus, I just liked her.
 
She was my closest friend, and I’d developed a serious case of hero worship for the successful, forty-eight year old woman.

 
“Tristan is a friend of
mine
,” I told them.
 
“Do not mention the words club promoter, or band.
 
He is a plain old out of work student, and crashing for
one week
on the couch.
 
We met at UNLV last semester.
 
Got it?”

 
Jerry nodded, giving me a grateful smile.
 
“You’re the best, Danika.
 
I owe you.”

 
He sure did.
 
I looked at Tristan, who was giving me that playful smile of his, as though we hadn’t just barely met.
 

 
“You’re a sassy little thing.
 
I like that,” he murmured, just as Bev and her boys rounded the corner that led from the garage and into the main living area.
 

     
Ivan and Mat caught sight of me and the dogs swarming at my heels and rushed me with huge whoops.
 
Ivan was an unabashedly diabolical eight-year-old, and Mat was a precocious six-year-old, and the two of them combined were more than a handful, but I loved them to
pieces
.

 
Mat went straight for a tackle to my midsection, while Ivan caught the biggest dog, Mango, in a bear hug.
 
Mango was a tan-colored bloodhound.
 
She was nine years old and left a trail of slobber in her wake.
 
She was a terrible guard dog.
 
We were all convinced that if the place got robbed she’d just see it as an opportunity to lick more faces.

 
Mat squeezed my waist so hard that he drew a little grunt out of me.
 
The second biggest dog, Dot, took exception to the rough handling.
 
He growled menacingly at the six-year old.
 
He was a big black Belgian Shepherd, and none of us had any doubts that he was a good guard dog.
 
A little too good, in fact.
 
He’d taken to being my own personal protector, even against the other inhabitants of the house, and that included the boys.
 

 
I shushed Dot, hugging Mat back.
 
He was a skinny blond kid with gorgeous blue eyes.

 
“You said you’d make us cookies when we got back!” Mat told me excitedly.
 

 
I nodded.
 
“Okay.
 
You gonna help me make them, or you want to go play while I cook?”
 

 
“Play!” he shouted.
 
I didn’t know if it was Mat, or being six, but the boy had a serious volume control issue.
 
It just made me laugh.
 

 
“Okay.
 
I bet you’ll be able to smell them when they’re done.”

 
“Yes!” he shouted, even louder, then took off for his room.
 

 
Ivan straightened, looking around at all of the adults and pursing his lips.
 
He had light brown hair, was tall for his age, and had soft brown eyes like his dad.
 
He was a funny kid.
 
He had moments of being a shameless brat, but just as many moments of absolute charm.
 
“I want to play, too, Danika, but I’ll help you if you really, really need me to.”

 
I smiled at him.
 
“I got it covered, buddy.
 
You go on and play.”

 
He took off, never saying a word to his dad or to Tristan.
 
Typical eight-year-old, only paying attention to the one making cookies.

 
Beverley and I shared a look.
 
She gave her boys a laughing eye roll before heading the same way they’d gone, towards her bedroom.
 
She’d barely spared Tristan a glance.
 
It wasn’t a good sign.
 

 
“Jerry, a word,” she called out, still moving towards her room.
 
It didn’t bode well.

 
He swore under his breath, but followed her.

 
I headed towards the kitchen.
 
I felt Tristan following me.
 

 
The house was set up with an open floor plan.
 
It was huge, but the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room all shared one massive space, so it was a straight shot into the kitchen once I got around the giant L-shaped sofa that dominated the living room.

 
The house was a strange combination of shabby chic, leaning way further in the direction of shabby.
 
Beverley was very successful as a worker’s compensation attorney, and she came from a rich family, so money wasn’t the issue when it came to the house.
 
It was colossal, and in one of the nicest gated communities in Vegas, but the house was lined with outdoor carpeting and the furniture was in desperate need of an update.
 
The only saving grace in the house was the spectacular artwork that she collected.
 
Words couldn’t even express how much I appreciated her fine eye for upcoming artists, but they were the
only
saving grace when it came to the house’s aesthetics.
 

 
I understood why she didn’t update a lot of it.
 
New carpet would be ruined in just a few weeks by her unruly dogs and crazy kids, and the dark green leather sofa had the entire back gnawed off.
 
I couldn’t imagine a new sofa wouldn’t receive the same treatment.

 
I had to unlock the the latch that had been installed on the side of the refrigerator before I opened it.
 
Mango liked to eat sticks of butter when it wasn’t latched tight…

 
I pulled out a plastic tube that was filled with chocolate chip cookie dough.
 
I heard a clear, disappointed groan behind me.
 

 
I turned to look at Tristan, arching a brow at him.
 
“What?
 
You don’t like chocolate chip?”

 
He shook his head at me, still showing off one dangerous dimple in a half smile.
 
I really wished he’d put those dimples away.
 
They were counter-productive to my peace of mind.
 

 
“You’re joking, right?” he asked pointedly.

 
I had no idea what he was talking about.
 
“Um, about what?”

 
“Cookie dough out of a plastic tube?
 
Pre-made?”

 
I shrugged.
 
“It’s easy and fast, and they taste fine.”

 
He shook his head again.
 
“Show me to your baking supplies.
 
I can’t stand by and watch this.”

 
I scowled at him.
 
“You’re bossy for an out-of-work houseguest,” I told him.
 

 
“I have a job.
 
Several actually.
 
But yeah, I’m bossy.
 
Show me to your flour.”

 
I kept scowling, but I was walking from the kitchen and into the walk-in pantry while I did it.
 
I waved a hand at the area that kind of held the baking supplies.
 
The pantry was hardly well-organized, so he would probably have to dig around to get everything he needed for cookies.
 

 
I left him to it, going back into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven and grease a cookie sheet.
 
I put out a large mixing bowl, measuring cups, and any other incidentals I thought he might need for baking.
 
It was the least I could do if he was actually going to do the cooking.
 

 
I shrugged out of my sweatshirt, suddenly warm.
 
It was a hundred and ten degrees outside, but you wouldn’t know it by the way I normally froze inside of the A/C’d to death house.
 
It wasn’t normal for me to get so warm inside for no reason at all…
 

 
I was wearing a thin white tank and sitting on the counter when Tristan strolled back into the kitchen, his arms full of baking supplies.
 

 
He set them on the counter near the mixing bowl, lining them up neatly.
 
His biceps bulged with the smallest movement.
 
It was fascinating.
 

 
“Salt?” he asked me, his brow raised.

 
I blinked, trying to hear what he’d said.
 
I pointed behind me after a few awkward moments.

 
He moved towards me without a word, and I saw my folly then.
 
The cupboard I’d pointed to was directly behind me.
 
I should have just grabbed it for him…

 
He didn’t seem to mind, moving uncomfortably close to me to reach behind me.
 
His upper chest got so close to my face that I could smell him.
 
He smelled divine, so divine that I closed my eyes for a second to take it in.
 

 
He had to reach up, so his hip grazed my inner thigh as he shamelessly moved between my legs to get closer.
 

 
I gasped.

 
“Sorry,” he said, backing up, the salt in his hand.
 
I saw his eyes flick briefly down my body before he turned away, setting the salt beside the other ingredients.
 

 
“So you’re the nanny, huh?
 
You are
not
what I pictured when Jerry said he had a live-in nanny.”