The Rock Star's Christmas Reunion: contemporary holiday romance (A Charisma series novel, The Connollys Book 1) by Heather Hiestand Page B

The house felt empty, the only sounds a hum from the refrigerator and a hiss from an iPod player that had been left on. She noted a new sign of habitation. A metal Santa Claus, stick-thin and grinning cheerily, had appeared in the center of the pristine counter to the left of the stove. Slowly, the house transformed, becoming more than a designer house set.
    After she placed her notes on the kitchen table, she peered in the refrigerator. Bax would probably love it if she made him dinner.
    About twenty minutes later, she had a mushroom quesadilla on the stove when the doorbell rang. Bax was nowhere to be found, despite his popularity that evening. The house phone had rung a couple of times as well.
    She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and went to answer the door. In this town, she could assume she’d know anyone at any door, but the reason she recognized the woman there was not because they were a neighbor, a fellow shopper at the Kroger, or someone her brothers had been to school with.
    Remy Rose, the woman at the door, owed her recognition to global stardom. Yakima didn’t know how old she was, around twenty-five probably, but the jet black hair cascading to her collarbones, the famous green eyes, and pointed face, would be recognizable to just about anyone under forty. She’d been famous for nearly a decade already.
    “Hi,” Yakima said. She felt underdressed, competitive, in a strange sort of way. While she had better hair, and it was undeniably her hair and not a piece, she certainly didn’t have the perfect porcelain skin or those amazing eyes.
    Remy Rose pointed a lacquered blue fingernail downward. Yakima followed the finger to a small Louis Vuitton suitcase. “You can take this in now.”
    Yakima glanced into the driveway to see a limousine parked in front of the other bay. A uniformed chauffeur was removing cases from the trunk.
    “He’ll bring the cases to the door. You’ll have to take them from there,” Remy explained. “Unless Bax has more employees? I don’t know if he’s been here long enough to hire enough help.”
    Yakima’s eyes widened. “I’m not Bax’s employee.”
    Remy tilted her head, her hair cascading from one shoulder to the other. “Then what are you doing in his house?”
    “I was making dinner for him.”
    “So you are his employee.”
    “No, a,” she paused, feeling vulnerable. Maybe Haldana shouldn’t have told her how to get in. Maybe she shouldn’t be here. “A friend. An old friend.”
    “Hmmpf,” Remy said, and sidled past her into the house. She knocked against an evergreen wreath, newly placed on the door. Yakima straightened it, releasing fragrant tree scent, as the chauffeur came up the walkway, duck-walking under a load of designer suitcases.
    “Are you expected?” Yakima asked, turning around. Now, roles reversed, she was in the doorway, and the pop star was in the hall.
    Remy stood, hands on her tiny hips, which were covered in a black leather pencil skirt. “I’m his girlfriend. It’s not like I have to schedule.”
    Yakima’s stomach growled, but it was dismay, not hunger. She wanted to be sick. Bax had been romancing her when he had a girlfriend back in Los Angeles or wherever someone like Remy Rose lived.
    She smelled something burning. Her beautiful food! She ignored everything and went to rescue her quesadilla. Snatching up the spatula, she flipped the tortilla-framed concoction over and pressed down, hoping she wouldn’t ruin the insides by heating the other side. Next to her left hand, the metal Santa smiled on. She felt the urge to explain to it. “My burned tortilla might be fine with a little scraping.”
    She must be losing her mind. “Bluejay,” she said, renaming the Santa as the helpful trickster of the local Native peoples, “Don’t you let me get careless now.”
    In the hallway, she heard Remy speaking to the driver, and the thumps of cases hitting the floor. She ignored it all, removing her food and scraping off the burned