“Last chance to sit back and relax while I whip you up something tasty,” Martina said as I paid for the groceries.
I jammed my wallet in my back pocket and the cigarette in my mouth. With another glance at the magazine, I said around the butt, “Fine, yeah. I’ll meet you at the house.”
Truth was, unless it was grilling, I didn’t like to cook. The few times Martina had come for dinner, the food had been all right, and the sex, too. She never overstayed her welcome, and that was exactly what I needed.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned into my long, winding driveway. The house was private, just how I liked it. It looked as if it belonged in the woods, an extension of the forest rather than an obstruction. My closest neighbor was about a quarter mile away. No grumbly trucks would be pulling up in the middle of the night like the one I’d driven around a nearby neighborhood. No young and dumb twenty-three-year-old would hop my fence with the girl of his dreams. No cops would come knocking on my front door without their tires on the gravel warning me first.
I turned on the porch light as Martina parked behind my truck. She walked up the steps cradling two paper grocery bags. “I know how hard you work,” she said. “Doesn’t hurt to let someone come over and take care of you once in a while.”
I took the bags from her and carried them inside. “You know once in a while is all that works for me, Martina.”
“Oh, believe me, darling—that’s as much as I can handle, too.”
I sat at the kitchen table, smoking while she started prepping the food. “What’s that mean, all you can handle?”
“Just that you’re one of those guys. How do you say . . . ‘emotionally unavailable.’” She rifled through a bag and pulled out seasoning for the steak. “I went through that with my ex-husband and I’d rather be alone than do it again. No offense.”
“Why do you come over then?” I asked, genuinely curious. Not that Martina had been beating down my door, but I sort of figured all women were secretly hoping for something more permanent, and that was something I couldn’t give.
“Because you’re impossibly handsome, and you’re a decent man, even if you try to hide it. Doesn’t hurt that you have the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.” She looked over her shoulder and winked. “Plus, you’re a good lay.”
I took a drag. “Just good?”
“You could be the best sex I ever had,” she said, “but it wouldn’t matter. Your heart’s not in it, and that makes a difference for a woman. How about you?” she asked, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. “When do you think you’ll settle down?”
I looked around my state-of-the-art kitchen. I’d picked the best of the best, installed each appliance with my bare hands, sanded down every cabinet door, chosen high-end finishes to complete the look. I put out my cigarette. “What makes you think I will?”
“A castle like this, just for a lonesome king?” she asked, gesturing around the room. “I don’t think so. You must be planning for a queen.”
Planning for a queen. I didn’t want to think too hard about what that meant. There was only one queen, and to have built all this for her, without knowing if or when I’d see her again? I couldn’t face that. And anyway, it was hardly a castle. I still had tons of work to do on the back of the house, not to mention the attic and the yard, and—
“I bought you a present. Keep you entertained since you don’t have a TV and all.” Martina looked into a grocery bag, then tossed Us Weekly in front of me.
“What is this?” I asked, playing dumb.
“You stared at it for a full minute at the store. I figured you were just too embarrassed to buy it. Doesn’t go with your steak-and-potatoes image.”
I ran my thumb over Lake’s face. I’d done a good job of ignoring her sudden fame, but sometimes it found me anyway. I opened the magazine. Page twenty-eight asked, “Who will she choose?”
Lake had an entire panel along the length of the page. The top image showed her on the street walking some dogs in a t-shirt from a Los Angeles rescue shelter. Below were three different photos of her with three different men. The title read, “Fresh on the scene, reality star Lake Kaplan has her pick of the pack.”
My heart beat painfully in my chest as I forced myself to look at each photo. A guy with tattoos and a leather jacket kissed Lake’s temple. Another stood with his arm around her waist on the red carpet. The last, the image from the cover, was Corbin, “A wealthy hedge fund manager who’s moved across the country in hopes of getting Lake to settle down.”