Anyhoo, this was the point at which Irina strode onto the stage.
An actress in need of some Hollywood-style attention meets a rock star in need of a partner.
Enter Courtney, Irina’s best friendanda publicity professional, who suggested a marriage of convenience.
They’d both agreed, and ta-da they were doing this thing.
“What if I bake you something?” she suggested. Her kitchen skills actually held up. While most actresses took waitstaff positions, she worked in the kitchen. She could bake for him while he wrote her some lyrics. Ba-da-bing. Ba-da-boom.
“Now we are talking.” Knox rubbed his hands together, his eyes positively sparkling.
She liked the sparkle thing, and it didn’t hurt that Knox was a looker. With his a-little-too-long rocker hair and his California boy tan skin, he’d be perfect for the wedding photos.Oh yeah.Not to mention the blue eyes that made women throw their bras at him on the regular. She’d even considered it on more than one occasion during a weak moment or two.
“Any requests from the kitchen?” she asked, circling back to the baking for a song option.
He scrawled something on the paper and followed it with a tapa-tap-tap against the guitar. “How long does the song need to be?”
“At last two verses and a refrain.” Not that she’d given it a ton of thought…only a little thought.
He pushed his hands in his hair, slicking it back. “You’re killing me here.”
She pressed her hands against her hips. “My job as your future wife is to harass you.”
He gave her a not-buying-it look. Which, whatever, he could think what he wanted. It’s what she convinced him to do that mattered. Luckily, she was a professional at convincing.
“Any specialties in the kitchen?” he asked.
Uh. Yes. “I’m good with scones.”
He lifted the side of his lip into a semi-cute baby snarl. “What are we? At high tea with the Queen? Do I look like a guy who eats scones?”
In all the time she’d known him, she’d actually never seen him eat a scone. Clearly, scones were a no go. But he did like—
“Pie?” she asked. She’d seen him on more than one occasion with an entire pie and a fork.
“Pie.” He nodded.
“What kind?” He hadn’t shown a particular preference, as far as she could tell.
“I enjoy all pie. Strawberry. Blueberry. Chocolate. Chocolate French silk. Banana cream. Key lime.” He made aslurpsound. “Put it in a flaky crust and I’ll devour it.”
She’d sent her libido to sleep ages ago so she could focus on her career, but, uh, the way his gaze landed on her when he said the word “devour”? Her nerve endings all woke right the hell up, immediately putting her on the sexual defensive. So much so that she nearly said something about flaky crust mirroring his choice in women. But since she was the lady du jour, and he wasn’t actually a player, it didn’t really track.
“Just be sure the crust isn’t soggy.” He made a yuck face, because he obviously hadn’t felt that uncomfortably sexual shift in the room. “That’ll ruin everything. Even more than runny filling.”
“Well, Pie Boy,” she said, brushing aside an uncomfortable ache low in her belly. “I will happily make you pie for a song.”
“Just a pie?” He tickled Harley’s tummy, set his guitar aside. Stood. Moved to the piano. “Uh-uh. Lots of pie.”
“Define lots?” As a unit of measure they could interpret it many, many ways.
He tapped a little ditty on the ivories, nodded, then did it again. “At least six. Different flavors.”
Oh, is that how he was going to play this? “Three verses, one refrain, and a drum solo.”
That got his attention.
“Serious? You’re going to make me write a drum solo?”
