The next morning Cady woke up alone in her bed.
Blinking against the bright sunshine streaming through the wood slats of the blinds like the world’s worst wakeup call, she looked over at the other side of the bed, where Emily had fallen asleep last night. She’d washed her face while Cady leaned against the tiled wall and tried hard not to resent her sister’s presence. Emily was such an important part of her life, and time with her was too limited. Once Emily started college it would be even more limited. They were close, but Cady didn’t harbor any illusions that she could compete with New York City and the fashion career waiting for Emily there.
She leaned over and patted the fluffy down comforter, just in case Emily was facedown and dead to the world. No Emily. But she smelled coffee, so odds were good Em was in the kitchen, ready to talk fashion. She scooted to the edge of the bed and jammed her feet into her slippers. Hopefully Conn was a late sleeper. Odds were equally good he’d be bored into a stupor by the time Em finished. So far she’d seen him in the same off-duty uniform: no-nonsense running shoes, jeans, river driver shirt with the sleeves pushed to the elbows, and his denim jacket. His only concession to the cold was to flip up the collar.
Keeping his hands in his pockets was about something else. She felt sure of it.
Her fleece robe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She pulled it on over her pajamas and belted it tightly at her waist. Her hair, she discovered, was somewhere between Medusa and electrocuted. Oh well.
She opened the bedroom door and shuffled into the hall, heading for the kitchen. “Whoever made coffee is my new favorite—”
The remaining part of that sentence was cut off when she saw Conn and Em together in the kitchen. Conn was standing on the opposite side of the island, a steaming cup of coffee on the granite surface, his attention firmly fixed on the phone in his hand. Em was leaning against the stove, wearing a pair of footed pajamas covered with bright red kisses. She held a cup of coffee between her hands and was studiously ignoring Conn.
“Good morning,” Cady said.
“Morning,” Conn said. He looked at her, gaze skimming from hair to monkey-slippered feet, then back at his phone.
“Hi,” Emily said. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” Cady said, acting as if nothing were amiss. “Full strength?”
“I made it just the way you like it,” Em said. “Half bold, half hazelnut, all decaf.”
“How’s the weather?”
“Warmer,” Conn said. He looked right at her, his gaze never once flicking toward her sister. “A front came through last night. Highs in the forties today.”
“Great. I’m going to sit outside and drink this,” she said as she opened the fridge. Inside was a carton of her chocolate almond milk. She poured in a healthy dollop. “Care to join me, Em? I saw deer yesterday.”
“Sure,” her sister said.
“You mind if I make pancakes?” Conn asked.
“I would love it if you made pancakes,” Cady said.
“None for me,” Emily threw over her shoulder. “Thanks.”
Whether the outdoors was warmer than the house’s interior was debatable. Cady kept her mouth shut and unlocked the door leading to the deck. Sunshine pooled on the oversized wicker furniture, the dark red cushion covers trapping the heat. She tucked her feet underneath her robe, leaned her head against the chair’s high back, and mentally rehearsed her approach to this.
The door opened and Emily came out, clutching the fleece throw from the sofa and a cup of coffee.
“Em,” Cady started.
“What?” Emily replied, all innocence. Making Cady say it.
“You’re being rude to Conn. Knock it off.”
“Why? He’s just a bodyguard.”
“Exactly. He’s my employee. I treat him with the respect and consideration due a professional doing his job.”
Em settled into a petulant pout and examined her nails. Uncertain, impatient, and lacking the heavy layer of makeup she’d worn last night, Emily suddenly looked exactly her age. The footies weren’t helping, reminding Cady of all the times she’d bathed Em and put her to bed when their mother was working late. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently.
“I’m tired of waiting around for my brand to take off,” Emily said finally. “It’s been, like, forever.”
Cady stifled a smile. “Be patient, sweetie. Good things are coming. They’re all coming. They’ll come a lot faster if you relax and enjoy what you have now.”
“Ha,” Emily said. “I remember what you were like when you were my age. You and Mom fought all the time. You couldn’t wait to get out of the house and start performing. You barely finished high school! Why do I even have to go to college?”
Cady felt a stab of sympathy for their mother. “Because everyone needs a backup plan.”
“You don’t have a backup plan. You don’t think I’ll be successful enough to not end up as a lawyer, like Dad.”
“I do not!” Her voice was a little sharper than she intended. “Think about what that will mean if my career nose dives. I bet you can name me a dozen one-hit wonders, or one-album wonders, right off the top of your head. You’re only as good as your latest release. Someone hacking my website won’t help. I need to work over the next few weeks. Write some songs. Work on the ones I’ve written.”
“You’ll be fine,” Emily said. “You’ve got a label. A plan. You’re going to be a superstar when that album drops.”
“It’s not just about being a superstar,” Cady said.
“That’s easy for you to say when you’ve got that option. Try being a nobody.”
“Em. I was a nobody. When I was your age, I was busking in SoMa for maybe ten bucks a night. And that was a good night! Just be patient, and do the work. The rest will come.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I don’t,” Cady said. “But I do know that something will come from doing the work. It may not be what you think it will be, but there’s always a payoff.”
“I don’t want some vague new age crap about the work being the reward. I want the runway shows. I want New York Fashion Week. Milan. Paris. I want a million followers and people wearing my designs all over the world. Girls my age have that. I want it too!”
She’d forgotten what it was like to be sixteen, now remembering her epic fights with her mother and, less frequently, her father. “Do the work, Em. Do the work and don’t get distracted by your emotions. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Deer,” she whispered, pointing into the woods.
Through the trees Cady caught a glimpse of a doe trailed by leggy twin fawns, their spots only a memory. They watched the spindle-legged animals pick their way through the underbrush, then bound up the hill. Emily suddenly switched seats, snuggling next to Cady to lay her head on her shoulder. Cady smiled at her and flipped the end of the blanket over her legs.
Coffee finished, Cady said, “Okay, show me what you’re working on.”
Moving not all that differently from the deer, Em dashed for the bedroom and slammed the door. Cady strolled into the kitchen, set her cup in the dishwasher, ran water into her steamer for her morning treatment, then poured Emily another cup of coffee.
“No more coffee for you?” Conn said. He stood at the stove, four small pancakes bubbling in the cast iron pan.
“Smells delicious. I treat myself to one cup a day,” she said. She walked around the island, as if taking advantage of the need to speak privately to get close to Conn again. Well, she liked being close to Conn, and she wasn’t sixteen. Not by a long shot. “I’m sorry about her behavior. I talked to her. It won’t happen again.”
Conn looked toward the closed bedroom door, a little surprise showing on his face, then expertly flipped the four pancakes to show four golden brown sides. “That? That’s nothing compared to what I get every day on the job.”
“I know how she feels,” she admitted. “We’re sisters, down to the bone. She wants, you know? She wants out of Lancaster, she wants fame, respect, recognition. Love. She feels trapped, like if she doesn’t take matters into her own hands, right now, nothing good will ever happen to her.”
Conn peeked under the pancakes, then collected them in a stack and slid them onto a plate. “What did you do?”
“I took matters into my own hands. Moved out, started singing wherever I could. Taught myself how to stand out wherever I sang, built a fan base.”
He poured four more circles of batter onto the pan, then glanced toward the shower in Cady’s master bedroom suite. The water was still running. His gaze searched hers. He bent his head and brushed his mouth over hers.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
She felt his lips quirk into a brief smile against hers. She smiled in response, then gently bit his lower lip, felt a growl rumble behind the planes of muscle in his chest. That was the thing about Conn. She had to be close enough to feel his emotions. Distance meant she got glimmers, flickers, a light in the distance. Up close, his emotions seeped from his skin to hers, big waves of energy transmitted by glancing touches, shared breath.
The shower shut off. “Later?” she murmured.
“Probably not a good idea,” he said.
“Let’s do it anyway.” This time his tongue touched hers, slick, electric heat lighting her up.
“Almost ready!” Em called.
Conn straightened, muttered a curse, and flipped the four pancakes. Cady snatched up the towel, and had her face in the steam before Emily opened the door. She was no actress, but at least the heat would explain the flush on her face. “Wow,” she said.
“Really?” Em spun in a circle, then strutted toward the island in a convincing runway walk before she snagged a heel, stumbled, and collapsed against the island in a fit of giggles.
“Yes, really.” Cady draped the towel around her neck, boxer style. “Turn again.”
The ensemble was a brown suede short skirt laced together along one hip, paired with a moto jacket in the same fabric.
“Nice choice with the suede. It’s timeless but really on trend,” Cady said. She rubbed the suede between her thumb and forefinger. Emily had taken her time with the stitching; the fit and finish was impeccable. “I love it. What else have you got?”
They ate while Emily modeled. It didn’t escape her notice that under the attention her sister finished off six of the pancakes, snagging bites between striking poses.
“Do you need me for anything?” Conn asked. The conversation had turned to red-carpet wear. He was edging away from the kitchen, step-by-step, something she’d noticed only when the distance had accumulated.
“No,” Cady said.
“I’m going to work out.”
Emily had twenty pieces in progress and dozens of sketches: dresses, skirts, gowns, blouses, and tops. The conversation ranged over everything from the latest gala looks to social media, and included a lunch of sandwiches and fruit Cady made while Emily modeled. Cady did her best to stay engaged, but Emily could read her moods.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, tossing her sketchbook on the coffee table.
“I’m just thinking.”
“You want me to make you some Cady juice?”
“Actually, sweetie, this was really inspiring. I wouldn’t mind doing some work of my own.”
“Oh.” Emily closed her sketchbook. “Okay. I’ll head home and work on the things we’ve talked about.”
“Or take a break. Hang out with your friends and don’t think about fashion for a while.”
“I could do that. Olivia and Grace were getting a group together to go to the movies tonight. I might go with them.”
“That sounds like a great plan,” Cady said. Emily seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. Cady struggled to come up with something. “When do you want to start decorating for Christmas?”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. Will he be around?”
That was a very good question. Chris insisted on twenty-four-hour protection, but surely Conn had family to see, and things of his own to do. “He’ll have the day off, of course.”
“Okay. Good. I want it to be just the three of us, like old times. We need to pick out a tree, too.”
“Over the weekend. Gotta stick to Mom’s schedule,” Cady said.
She waited while Emily packed up her overnight bag and her suitcase of designs, and waved from the garage as she backed the little sedan down the driveway. Then she closed the door and made her way to the exercise room.
To her surprise, Conn had his sneaker-clad feet tucked into the loops of the suspension straps. His weight was balanced on his left palm, his body rotated perpendicular to the floor with his right arm extended to the ceiling. Every muscle from his throat to his hipbones stood out as he held himself there to some mental count. “What’s up?”
As she watched, a bead of sweat trickled along the first ridge of his abdominal muscles, then dripped to the floor underneath him. “I’m going into my studio,” Cady said. “There’s food in the fridge, sandwich fixings, eggs, some leftover Fat Shack.”
“Thanks.” He looked up at her, his blue-gray eyes translucent and unreadable in the winter sunlight streaming through the south-facing windows.
She watched for a moment longer as he transitioned to pushup position. Despite the potential for shifting off-balance and the tenuous resistance of the handgrips, not the floor, the suspension straps didn’t move as he counted off pushups. She’d tried that, and knew exactly how much core strength and balance was necessary to make it look that easy.
He was the one working out, but she was the one with flushed cheeks. Heat trickled through her body to pool between her thighs. As she walked into her studios, reminders of Conn, his scent, his breathing, the soft grunts he made as he pushed his body to the limits of human endurance filled her mind.
“Stop being a cliché,” she muttered, and turned on the soundboard. She settled in with her guitar and her notebook, paging through to find lines that caught her attention, images that spurred a response, searching for a subject to anchor a song, or even an album. Emily’s enthusiasm and drive had inspired her, reminding her of the girl she used to be, living only for making music, trying to tell a story with words and harmony, but the problem was that somewhere along the way, she’d become a mouthpiece for someone else’s lyrics, a tune composed in committee. Who was Cady Ward? What did she see? Believe? Hope for? Dream of? What did she want to share with the world? It was all colored by Maud’s experiences, Christmas lights seen through a snow-smeared windshield. Who would she be after another album dropped, another year of performing songs she didn’t write sung to tunes she tweaked, at best?
Two months. She had two months at home to ground herself, to try to integrate the experiences she’d had since Harry discovered her with the young woman she’d been then. She could do it.
Resolutely she picked up her guitar, opened her notebook, and adjusted Nana’s bracelet on her wrist. Positioned her tea just so. Strummed a few chords, hummed a few notes. But she couldn’t shake the sense of unease sloshing inside.