Maybe This Time: A One Time Only prequel novella Read online

  I’ve got to erase that fragment of time.

  I’m not here to meet a man.

  I’m here for the job, and my work is done for the night.

  I’ve gathered my intel. Later this week, I can make my case for what I can bring to the table when I have my meeting with Stone.

  But still, my muscles are tight. My breath staggers as I reach the stage door that leads to the street. I grit my teeth, trying to will away those three seconds.

  Once outside, I walk down the block, away from the concert hall, and turn the corner. I inhale a deep and necessary gulp of air. The tension unwinds some. Another big, calming breath, and I let the warm evening air of Los Angeles wash over me.

  Put it behind you, man. It means nothing.

  This is the last thing I ought to be thinking about before a job interview.

  So I dismiss it.

  Just erase it from my memory banks.

  I head to the parking garage, get into my car, start it up, and then blast some music.

  The Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun” will kick me out of this case of lust I’ve found myself in.

  Just in case, though, I hit the gym on my way home, lifting weights to a hard rock playlist, and working out my case of instalust till it’s gone.

  2

  Jackson

  At the end of the week, the memory is so far gone, it’s not even in the back of my mind. It’s barely parked in my subconscious. When I pull up to the trendy office building in Venice, I cut the engine, step out of my car, and check my reflection one more time.

  I’m ready.

  Pressed slacks, a button-down shirt, cuffs rolled up showing some of my forearms.

  That’s deliberate.

  I’m not above playing up my muscles, playing up my strength.

  It’s part of my résumé, and I’ve got a fantastic CV.

  I want Stone and his team to be able to see the whole six-foot, four-inch package, the breadth of me, the fact that I’m a lot bigger than the average guy, but sturdier too, and solid—all muscle.

  I head into the office building where Stone’s manager has a corner suite. Inside the lobby, the space is arty and creative. The walls are bright colors, one painted yellow, another orange, and posters of movies, concerts, and TV shows break up the citrus shades.

  Clearly, this is a very LA type of building, where all the businesses wheel and deal in talent.

  That’s what this town is best known for.

  At the front desk, a woman in a paisley dress looks up from her screen and flashes me a smile. “Can I help you?”

  I give her a grin. “I have a meeting with Edgely Kane Talent Management. I’m Jackson Pearce.”

  With a polished peach fingernail, she scans the screen in front of her, then nods and says, “Yes. Go right ahead. They’re on the fourth floor.”

  She sweeps her arm out. I nod and pass the elevators that she pointed to, going straight for the stairwell. I bound up the steps two by two until I reach the fourth floor.

  Because why take the elevator when there are stairs?

  As I swing open the door, it nearly smacks into the man himself as he emerges from the restroom.

  Stone jerks his head in my direction, stepping away from the door, but he barely seems taken aback.

  “Shit, sorry,” I say.

  “No worries,” he says, then, like it’s in slow motion, that million-dollar, megawatt, shooting-star smile flies my way again.

  Holy hell.

  Does this guy know how to make you feel like you’re the only person around?

  Well, dipshit, you are.

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck as Stone gives me a tip of the chin. “But just so you know, I’m pretty damn sure that door is out to get me,” he says dryly as he walks down the long hallway.

  “Doors can be like that,” I say, responding in kind.

  “Right? Some days they are out of control. Just so damn rude.”

  “Maybe you pissed off the door once,” I offer, since he seems like the kind of guy who appreciates a dry sense of humor.

  He smacks his forehead. “Shit, you’re right. I did. It was the time I used the elevator instead of the stairs. I think that door is jealous.”

  “Now, that’s totally understandable,” I quip.

  He arches a brow, his lips quirking up again. “Jealousy is always understandable.”

  There’s a hint of something more in his tone, but now is not the time to explore whatever that is. Never is the time.

  Still, he’s easy to talk to. “Seems we agree.”

  We both keep walking. He tips his forehead toward the office at the end of the hall. “I can promise you that door is not an asshole.”

  “Good to know. Important, too, that you keep tabs on it,” I say, as I take in the details of the man, because that’s part of the job. Stone is wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt with an illustration of a pineapple playing a guitar, and motorcycle boots. He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes traveling up and down my frame once more, a look in them that says he’s trying to place me maybe.

  Does he remember the other night in the green room?

  He taps his finger against his chin. “I’m guessing you’re either Chris Hemsworth’s biggest threat in Hollywood, the next rising star in superhero films, or the guy we’re about to interview?”

  A laugh bursts from within me. “Those are pretty good guesses.”

  He holds out his hands, and a waiting look gleams in his eyes. “What’s it going to be? Am I right?” He points at me. “You are going to have your name on the silver screen.”

  I dip my face, a little embarrassed. I shake my head. “I assure you, Chris Hemsworth has nothing to fear from me. And I can say with certainty that all the superhero roles will be safely cast with other actors.”

  “I guess it’s what’s behind door number three.” He holds up his hand, his index and middle finger twined together.

  “Yes. I’m the guy you’re interviewing.”

  We reach a door with Edgely Kane Talent Management emblazoned on it. He grabs the handle, yanks it theatrically, and sweeps his arm out like he’s a valet in England opening the door wide. “Do come in, then, through this most friendly door.”

  He’s quite a performer.

  Once inside, he claps me on the back. It’s a friendly gesture, something you do with a buddy. I don’t read anything into it. I don’t think about how that hand feels on my shirt.

  I swear I don’t.

  Stone says hi to the guy at the desk, a hipster dude with glasses and sleek black hair, then adds, “I believe I found my one p.m. appointment.”

  The man smiles at me. “You must be Jackson Pearce, then?”

  “I am.”

  Stone’s green eyes gleam with a wicked sort of glee. He arches a brow and quirks up his lips. “Dude, shut the hell up.”

  I shoot him a curious look. “And why do you want me to shut the hell up?” I ask, tossing his words right back because I can go toe-to-toe with him, and I want him to know that.

  Since I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants from me. From a bodyguard. I’m getting that message loud and clear.

  “That’s your name?” he asks, surprised. “I mean, I knew it was Jackson. But Pearce is your last name?”

  “Yes. It is.” I tilt my head, trying to get a read on his reaction. “Does it sound made-up?”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “It sounds like a motherfucking awesome name. Like you’ve got a TV show at nine p.m. Tune in to Jackson Pearce, aka The Fixer.”

  I laugh lightly. “It’s good that you already think of me as a fixer. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Let’s keep it that way indeed.”

  Stone keeps his hand on my back as we head to a room full of couches and chairs at the end of the office. Two women are in there, laughing, looking up something on a tablet. But before we step inside, he squeezes my shoulder once more. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a bodyguard.”
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  Things I’d never take the wrong way.

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s a compliment.”

  “Yeah, I figured. You mentioned it in a good way.”

  “I definitely meant it in a good way,” he says, almost a little flirty. Or is he just being appreciative?

  I can’t quite get a read on him. If we’d met someplace else, I’d think he was flirting with me.

  But as soon as one of the women rises, he wraps her in a hug, runs a hand down her arm, squeezes her wrist, and says, “Candi Kane, look who I found in the hallway. My next bodyguard.”

  Candi tsks him. “We have an interview, Stone.”

  “Yes, let’s talk to him first,” the other woman says. She must be Veronica.

  He taps his chest. Then he points at me again. “I’ve got a feeling. Trust your gut.”

  And I have a feeling too. And that’s why I was wrong about that eye gaze. And I was wrong about the clap on the back.

  Thank God. Thank the Lord.

  It’s all just a part of who he is. He’s friendly. He’s outgoing. He’s magnetic.

  And I’m damn grateful for that because the last thing I want is to feel like my skin is sizzling and my bones are on fire for a man I’m hoping is about to hire me.

  I don’t need that man to flirt with me. That’d be the worst kind of trouble.

  And trouble is the last thing I need in my life.

  I’ve had enough of it, and I don’t need any more.

  3

  Stone

  For the record, I don’t dabble with employees, or potential employees.

  So, yeah, Jackson Pearce is in contention for an award along the lines of, oh, say, hottest guy ever.

  But I’m not interested in hiring him just because he’s the spitting image of Thor.

  I mean, come on.

  If I wanted to hang out with the spitting image of Thor, I’d call up Chris and we’d hang out. The dude likes my music. And you know what? I like his films, so it works out really well that we’re buds who see each other from time to time when he’s in the US.

  So the fact that Jackson Pearce is meme-worthy, that he could inspire a thousand new fainting, swooning, and fanning-myself GIFs, is irrelevant to the job opening.

  After intros with Candi and Veronica, I sit down on the couch across from him in a chair and toss out the first question. “Where would you most want to go on a vacation?”

  Dude doesn’t even blink. “Tokyo seems pretty cool. I’ve always been enamored with the temples and the teahouses. Would love to check that out.”

  “That’s a great place. You definitely need to go there. Wait, what am I saying? We’re actually going to be there in a couple of weeks because I have a tour stop there.”

  “Excellent.” He raises a brow playfully. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

  I give him an appreciative nod. “Confidence. I like that in a bodyguard. In anyone,” I add.

  Veronica clears her throat, peering over her electric-blue glasses. “Yes, we like confidence too, but again, maybe we should actually interview Jackson before we offer him the job.”

  I roll my eyes like that’s a ridiculous thought, though of course she’s right. “Fine, if you insist.”

  “I do,” she says.

  I dig into my roster of getting-to-know-you questions and fire off another one at the job candidate. “If you could live anyplace for a year, where would it be?”

  Candi busts out laughing, clasping her stomach. “Stone, you are such a character.”

  I snap my gaze to my publicist. “And why is that?”

  Candi gestures at Jackson. “You do realize we’re interviewing Jackson for the open position of your evening bodyguard? Not for The Newlywed Game?”

  “Yes, I am well aware,” I say, straightening my spine, acting all faux haughty. “And that’s exactly why my questions are important.”

  “You need to know where your potential bodyguard wants to vacation?” Candi retorts.

  “No,” I say, rolling my eyes at her in an over-the-top manner. “I’m asking these questions because the evening bodyguard is literally the most important one on the rotation. He’ll be my regular companion. We’ll be hanging out together. He’ll be walking with me when I have shows, walking with me after shows, heading to press appearances. He’s not interviewing for the job of the overnight guard when I am sound asleep.”

  Candi laughs, then looks at Jackson. “Stone loves his sleep.”

  “Sleep is a very good thing,” he says to Candi, intensely serious. “They say you should get eight hours.”

  He turns his hazel eyes in my direction, and I get a nice, long look at them—they are the definition of soulful. Mmm, I could get lost in them. I could write a song about those eyes. His gaze holds mine, that look of intensity in them as he adds, “I hope you’re getting your eight hours a night, Stone.”

  It comes out deadpan, and I love it. Just like I loved his door banter in the hallway. I love that he’s already unafraid to just talk to me like this. That he’s not being all deferential and shit.

  That he’s giving me a hard time in his own way.

  That’s what I want from someone I have to spend so much time with. I want someone I can shoot the breeze with, someone I like chatting with.

  Because I like to talk.

  But I also need to know he can do the job.

  Fortunately, that’s Veronica’s role—to figure that out.

  For now, I want to laser in on whether I can handle being around him for so damn long every day.

  “I am definitely getting my eight hours a night, Jackson,” I say, answering him. “Often more.”

  “Lucky you,” he says.

  “Lucky me indeed.” Then I turn to Candi. “And the reasons I’m asking him these questions is we might just have to shoot the shit for a long period of time together. I know you’ll get to all the hard questions.”

  Jackson shoots a bring it on grin to all of us. “I don’t mind the questions. Any questions at all. Hard or easy.”

  Hard.

  “Fine,” Candi says, laughing. “Proceed with the Would You Rather game.”

  “Please,” I say with a scoff. “Would You Rather is what we’ll be playing when he’s been on my detail for a few weeks.”

  “Good to know. I like all sorts of board and parlor games,” he adds.

  I gesture to the big man, then to Candi and Veronica. “See? He even uses the term ‘parlor games.’ This is going to be epic,” I say, then I narrow my eyes. “But I have a very important question, Jackson.”

  “Hit me up.”

  “If you had an extra hour each day, how would you spend it?”

  His answer is instant and earnest. “Learning a new language. I want to speak more languages. I know basic Japanese, and I’m learning Spanish. I use it in Los Angeles occasionally, but I’d like to try using it on a regular basis.”

  “Excellent answer.”

  “How would you spend an extra hour each day?” Jackson tosses back at me, and I like that. I like that he has no problem turning the questions in my direction.

  “I’d read,” I answer. “Or read more. I love old mysteries—Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler and Elmore Leonard.”

  “I bet you like them because they’re a total escape from your world.”

  Dude, it’s like he can see inside my soul. “Yes, exactly. What do you read?”

  “Nonfiction. Magazines. News articles.”

  “You like to learn,” I say.

  “I do.”

  I rub my palms together. “All right. Now for the hard ones.” I draw a deep breath, like I’m prepping for the final Jeopardy! round. “Pizza or Chinese food?”

  “Both,” he answers.

  “Library or museum?”

  “Absolutely both,” he says, his hazel eyes glinting with playfulness at his own answers.

  “And finally,” I say, making the sound of a drumroll, “music or sports?”

&nb
sp; “Not fair. You can never pick between two of the greatest things ever.”

  I hold my hands out wide, pleased as hell with how he handles me. I turn the reins over to Candi and Veronica, relaxing into the couch as I let them interview the guy.

  “Tell us what you think you would bring to the job,” Veronica says.

  He clears his throat and begins. “I have some definite ideas, especially since I went to Stone’s concert earlier this week. I checked things out. I went to the VIP room,” he says. And holy shit, my skin sizzles.

  That’s him.

  I sit up straight, my bones sparking.

  I’d sworn he looked familiar. I’d sworn I’d seen him before. He is the stone-cold fox who showed up in the green room the other night. For, like, thirty seconds.

  Thirty seconds when I’d sworn I had seen the sexiest man ever.

  When I’d looked him over, hoping he was there to pick me up, to come on to me, to ask me out for a drink.

  That guy.

  That’s who he is.

  But who cares?

  I roll out my shoulders, shaking off the thoughts.

  I mean, he’s probably straight. I’m sure he’s straight. Of course he’s straight.

  Besides, why do I care? I’m not going to ask a potential employee out on a date.

  His orientation is no business of mine, now or ever.

  But he is so damn sexy.

  I wag a finger. “That was you.”

  He dips his face then raises his gaze again so fast I can’t even see if he blushed. “Yes. I was there. I wanted to do some assessment.”

  “Color me impressed,” I say, leaning forward on the couch, my hands on my knees. “Tell me. Tell me everything. What did you think?”

  “Yes, we’d love to hear,” Veronica chimes in.

  “I’ve identified some holes in your security. Some areas where I think things could be improved. I think you need more coverage immediately after your concerts end. There are some moments of vulnerability,” he says, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Holy shit. This guy did his research. He did all of his research. Jackson goes on, listing areas where we could improve, and displays how he could bring something special to the job.