Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians) Read online

  Copyright 2018 by Hazel Redgate

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced

  in any form, in whole or in part, without written

  permission from the author.

  Other books from Hazel Redgate:

  Love at Christmas

  Not Just For Christmas

  White Christmas

  Last Christmas

  Home For Christmas

  Love at Christmas: Four Holiday Romances

  Bad Boy Musicians

  Reckless

  Smooth

  Find more at hazelredgate.com

  Smooth

  Chapter One

  By the time my phone rings, my mental to-do list is almost complete.

  The pasta on the stove is cooked to a perfect al dente, and there’s a bottle of hearty red Chianti uncorked, breathing and ready to be poured. (Check.) The bridesmaid’s dress, picked up fresh from a last-minute alteration on my way home from work, is currently hanging over my closet door in a garment bag. (Check.) Rocky is at my mother’s apartment across the city, no doubt already fat with treats and slobbering affectionately on every item of furniture she owns, revelling in the attention of being her substitute grandchild for the week. (Check, check, check.)

  It’s a good feeling, being on top of things.

  I’m plating up the pasta when I hear the vibration against the marble countertop, buzzing away like an angry little wasp as I carefully ladle out the Bolognese sauce into the pan of tagliatelle, savouring the smell. I turn a little too quickly at the noise, and a thin line of red sauce splashes its way onto my dress.

  Fuck.

  With one hand, I grasp for my phone before it goes to my voicemail, and with the other I reach for a strip of paper towel to wipe off the spill. Oil and tomatoes, I think. Well, there’s no way that’s going to be difficult to get out.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ I say.

  It can go to the dry cleaner in the morning. Carter can take it in for me on the way back from the airport. Sure, he’ll complain, but…

  ‘Hey.’

  … but I’ll make it up to him tonight.

  His voice is clipped, restless. ‘Everything OK?’ I ask. ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Tired.’

  ‘Rough day at work?’

  ‘Something like that. Look, El…’

  The stain looks a lot worse now I’ve wiped it than it did before. ‘Could you give me a second?’ I say as I head over to the tap and run the water cold. ‘I just spilt something.’

  ‘This is important, El.’

  I smile, even though I know he can’t see me. ‘So’s this. You don’t know how much I paid for this dress.’

  It’s a joke, at least partially – my attempt to get some lilt into his voice again, to cheer him up after a bad day – but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. ‘Did you get the packing list I emailed you this morning, by the way?’ I ask. ‘I know you’re not flying down until Thursday, but I figured getting a little bit of a head start couldn’t hurt, right?’

  I know it’s maybe not the best time to be nagging him, but that’s Carter through and through. He’s not really a head start kind of guy. He’s also not a checklist kind of guy either, which means it’s sometimes a little bit of a surprise when he manages to make it where he’s supposed to be on time.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I haven’t checked my email all day.’ There’s a clicking noise in the background, like a metronome: a car blinker.

  ‘Are you still driving? How far away are you?’ I’m a little surprised. His office is only fifteen minutes from my apartment, even in traffic.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The cold water seems to have done the trick a little, but there’s still a rich orange stain on the fabric that I’m not happy with. What else works? Vinegar? Baking soda? One of those, surely?

  ‘I’m not coming, Ella.’

  I feel my nose crinkling up. ‘Oh, Carter,’ I say. ‘You could have warned me before I made this much food. It’s not going to keep for a week in my refrigerator.’

  There’s a pause, and then a slow, weary sigh, drawn out for what feels like minutes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I mean I’m not coming to the wedding.’

  And suddenly, just like that, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about a stain on a dress.

  I blink once, twice, straighten my neck and press the phone against my ear to make sure I can hear him clearly. ‘What? Why? Is this a work thing? Because if they’re trying to make you work at such short notice–’

  ‘It’s not a work thing.’

  ‘Then what is it? What do you mean, you’re not coming?’

  ‘I just…’ He pauses, and for an awful moment there’s nothing but dead air on the line as he cuts a breath short; he’s not the only one not breathing. ‘This just isn’t working, OK? I mean… come on, Ella. I can’t be the only one who sees it.’

  I look down at my hands, catch the glint of the overhead light in the diamond of my engagement ring and immediately wish I hadn’t. I force my eyes up, staring at something – anything – else. ‘Carter, honey,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘Of course we’re working. Where’s all this coming from?’ I don’t like the sudden rasp in my voice, the slight choke as I try and keep back tears. ‘Everything’s working perfectly. It’s all going like we planned, right? Remember?’

  ‘Like you planned, Ella.’ There’s just a little too much force behind the words, a little too much spit and bile.

  He keeps using my name; why the hell does he keep using my name? He never used to before. With Carter I was always baby, or honey, or God-only-knows what else; never El or Ella or Eleanor, not when he could help it. He said it made me sound old and fuddy-duddy, like using the phrase fuddy-duddy showed that he was really down with the way the kids were speaking these days. Then he’d got into a sulk and I’d kissed him, called him my old man, led him upstairs and… and, well, I’d shown him just how young and vibrant I really was.

  That feels like a world away now.

  Because this just isn’t working, apparently.

  ‘What did I miss?’ I ask, weakly. ‘Everything was fine. I booked your flight already. You’re staying in the hotel with me.’

  ‘That’s not happening, Ella. Not anymore. I’m sorry. I just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just can’t do this anymore.’

  ‘You can’t do what?’

  I hate the question, because I know what it means. I know what I’m really saying: tell me how to change, and I’ll change for you. Whatever it takes. I’ve warned my girlfriends off from that kind of thing a thousand times, but here I am falling into the same old trap, frolicking gleefully over the edge of that same old cliff. I understand it now. When you’ve got something worth keeping, you’ll do anything to make sure it doesn’t get away.

  He sighs. ‘Everything, Ella. I can’t keep living my life according to a list. I’m twenty-eight, not fifty. It’s just… it’s too much. You’re too much.’

  A feel a white-hot flush cross my face. ‘Then why the hell did you propose to me?’ I ask. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Don’t do this. Don’t be like this.’

  ‘Like what? Upset? ‘Cause I think that’s pretty much the only way I’m supposed to be feeling, considered.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ella. I hope you enjoy the wedding.’

  ‘No. We’re not done, Carter. We need to talk about this, in person. I’m coming over.’ Screw the timings; screw the plan, just this once. I can sleep on the plane tomorrow. If I can’t convince him overnight, well then I can just catch a plane
the next day, or the day after that. As long as I’m there for the wedding, Lauren will understand. She’ll get it. She knows how important Carter is to me.

  It’ll be fine, I think. I can fix this. I can always fix it. I just need some time. That’s all. Just a little bit of time.

  He hasn’t replied. That’s not a great sign.

  ‘Please, Carter,’ I say. I hate the whine that’s entered my voice, hate myself for being so weak. ‘I need this. I need you.’

  ‘I won’t be home.’

  ‘Then where will you be?’

  Carter pauses. ‘I… I just don’t want to see you right now, OK?’

  He waits for a second, maybe giving me the opportunity to get the last word in one last time, but I can’t bring myself to take it. Mercifully, I hear the line go dead, and that’s that.

  Five years of our life together, gone in an instant like it was never there at all.

  Chapter Two

  I’m not sure quite how long I spend sitting cross-legged with my head in my hands, but it’s a while; by the time I’m done, the wine bottle is half-empty and the pasta is long cold, congealed into an oily red lump in the saucepan.

  I hate that he hung up on me, but perhaps it’s for the best. At least that way, he missed all of the tears. He missed the hateful hacking sobs that I tried and failed to smother. He missed the sound of the ring pinging off the hardwood floor when I threw it off my hand, suddenly desperate to get all of his false promises as far away from me as possible, and then the shameful rummaging under the kitchen island as I struggled to get it back, hating how naked my finger looked without it.

  It’s not, I think, a particularly flattering look. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Or maybe I would, who knows? Maybe I’d love him to see how much he hurt me, to make him reconsider the stupid things he said. Then again, if he was here with me right now I wouldn’t have been crying at all – not like this, anyway. If he was here, I would have been fighting for him, for us. Arguing my case. Making a stand. It’s only now, here on my own, that I seem to have lost all my desire to push back.

  Carter knew that, of course. It had been so long since he’d picked any sort of a fight with me. I thought it was because he thought I was right, but now… well, now I’m starting to think it was really just him picking his battles, choosing the path of least resistance.

  And I hadn’t seen it coming. Not even for a moment.

  My phone buzzes, and as soon as I see that it’s from Carter I feel my heart leap into my throat. Well, good, I think. He’s obviously come to his senses. If he’s expecting me to forgive him, though, he’s going to have a lot of work to do. That’s what I want to tell him, but…

  But it’s not true. But I’d do anything to take a mulligan on this last hour, to pretend it never happened.

  Don’t call, the text reads. I need space from you right now. Have fun in New Orleans.

  Like that’s on the cards right now, I think. The idea that I might be able to enjoy myself this week is suddenly ridiculous. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to hold myself together for long enough to slap on a happy face for the wedding photos, let alone have fun. Fun feels like just about the furthest idea from my mind right now.

  Maybe I can keep it hidden from people. Maybe he’ll change his mind while I’m away, and I won’t have to make a big deal out of it by telling everything. I can’t make a big deal out of it, not at a wedding: that’s the worst possible time, especially when I’m supposed to be the maid of honour, carefully guiding my best friend into matrimony without a hitch. I don’t want to do anything to spoil Lauren’s big day. The only problem is, she’s just about the only person I want to talk to about this.

  I can’t bring put that weight on her. She has enough to worry about.

  Then again, if she finds out later that I didn’t tell her, she’ll pitch a fit.

  Tell her, or don’t?

  A little white lie, or the risk of making everything worse in the long run?

  I have to tell her. It’s as simple as that; wedding or not, she’d kill me if I didn’t. Besides, she deserves to know that there’ll be one fewer person at the reception. Just play it cool, I think to myself. Light and breezy. No big thing. No big deal.

  The phone is still in my hand, but somehow calling her doesn’t feel like a particularly fun conversation to have right now. I’m not sure I could keep the tears back for long enough to talk about it. Perhaps something short and sweet is better.

  Carter called off the engagement, I tap out onto the screen. Seeing the words in dark black type suddenly makes it seem that much more real, and I hate the fact. He won’t be coming to the wedding. I’m sorry. X

  By the time I’ve called a cab company to arrange a new ride to the airport in the morning, I have a string of concerned texts and two missed calls from Lauren waiting for me; a third comes through just as soon as I hang up.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I start.

  ‘Oh my God, El! Are you OK?’ She’s yelling – no easy hello for Lauren, not in a situation like this. I was always the calm one. She was always the one given over to histrionics. Then again, can it really be considered an overreaction if it’s how I feel on the inside too?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie, finally pulling myself off the floor. The two plates of pasta are still waiting on the countertop, long cold by now. I pick disinterestedly at a noodle, but somehow my appetite seems to have completely run away from me.

  ‘Hush, you,’ she says. ‘Your fiancé just broke up with you. You’re not allowed to lie to the bride on the week of her wedding.’ Lauren’s accent flares up whenever she’s back south of the Mississippi, and right now she sounds like someone has replaced her vocal chords with banjo strings.

  ‘That’s not a real rule,’ I say. ‘It’s not even practical.’

  ‘I don’t care! I know you, El. You’re not fine, and don’t you dare tell me you are, you hear?’

  ‘Seriously, I’m…’

  I swear the noise that comes down the phone is a straight-up growl, more like something from a wildcat than a bride-to-be; either way, I don’t push it.

  ‘What do you need me to do?’ she asks. ‘Should I fly back to Chicago? Are you going to defend me in court when I kill him?’

  I know she’s just trying to make me feel better, to remind me that – just like always – she has my back no matter what, but the wound is still a little too fresh for jokes. ‘It only just happened,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, honey.’ Her voice has softened to a sympathetic drawl. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. Did he just leave?’

  ‘No. He never showed up. He just called and said he wasn’t coming, and that he didn’t want to get married to me anymore.’ When I put it like that, it sounds so simple. Ending a five-year relationship feels like it should take more effort than that, somehow.

  There’s a long pause on the end of the phone, like she’s trying to digest what she just heard. ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Wait. Are you telling me he broke off your engagement over the phone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I hear her take in a deep breath, preparing herself for another burst of yelling, but instead she lets it out as a long, slowed, forced-patient exhalation. ‘Well, you know what?’ she says at last. ‘Fuck him. Fuck him, El. You’re better off without him.’

  ‘Lauren…’

  ‘I mean it. Fuck. Him. The last thing you need is for him to change his dumbass mind five years from now, once you’re all settled down into some shitty marriage where you’re not happy. Or in twenty years with a sports car and a co-ed.’

  ‘Lauren…’

  ‘What? I’ve done the commiserations. I’m in full support mode now. My job is to make you feel better. I’m riding front and centre on the El Train. Toot-toot, bitches.’

  I laugh, despite myself. Somehow, being able to picture her wild grin gives me comfort, just like it always does. She’s always had a gift for making the world seem a little bit brighter, and I love her for it.
r />   ‘It’s a good thing, El,’ she says. ‘It might not seem like it right now, but trust me: you’ll see it soon enough.’ She pauses; I can almost feel her grinning. ‘And besides, now you’re coming stag to my wedding. You can get as drunk as you like and dance with as many of Drew’s hot single friends as you want, and hook up with any of them that catch your eye, and you don’t need to feel even a moment of guilt. Just like old times, right?’

  My forehead furrows in disapproval at the thought. ‘Since when have I been the drunken hook up type?’

  ‘Since never. But perhaps this is the time for a change, you know? Let out your wild side. Find the new, post-Carter Ella.’

  I can almost feel myself deflate. ‘Post-Carter Ella,’ I repeat, testing out the words and finding them rancid on my tongue.

  ‘Yes!’ And the post-Carter Ella is going to get drunk, and dance at jazz clubs, and kiss strangers, and live her best damn life. You hear me?’

  If I’m being honest, the idea sounds like my idea of hell; there was even a brief, terrible moment when I first heard Lauren’s voice on the line where I considered telling her that I couldn’t make it, that someone else would have to fill my slot in the bridesmaid rotation – and what kind of a shitty friend would do something like that?

  ‘I don’t know about kissing strangers and getting too drunk,’ I say with a small sigh, ‘but I guess the rest of it doesn’t sound too terrible.’

  ‘You’re damn right it doesn’t sound terrible. When have I ever had a bad idea?’

  Drew? I want to say, but that wouldn’t be right – not now, with less than a week to go until she walks down the aisle. As far as she’s concerned, everything is going just as she planned. The dress is paid for, the flowers are booked, and there’s no way in hell they’re getting the deposit back on the house in the French Quarter they’ve hired for the reception. Short of finding out that Drew’s a serial killer in the next four days, the wedding is a go.

  ‘Never,’ I say.