DOMESTIC BLISS (Hollywood Hearts #3)

1 Jagger “There you are.” Her sugar-sweet voice with promises of more fun rings out through the early dawn of the oceanfront. I swim to the edge of the pool and glance over to find her long tanned legs peeking out the bottom of my Armani dress shirt from last night, the top four buttons undone, revealing a peek at the perfect set of D-cups beneath the fabric. Her hair is draped perfectly over her shoulders and I suppose I’m not supposed to know she brushed it seconds ago. A light touch of bronzer and mascara accentuate her features and I’m sure if I got up close, her breath would be minty fresh. Same act, different girl. Not that I can blame her—girls have been trying to reform me since my first game of spin the bottle. “I have an early meeting.” My forearms flex as I lift myself from the pool, a move she doesn’t miss based on the way she’s biting her lip now. Grabbing a towel, I rub the plush fabric along my scalp. The sun is just starting to rise behind her, so I can make out her displeased face. “But it’s only six in the morning.” The slight whine in her voice makes me wish I had chosen her place last night instead of mine. It’s always easier that way. But my day is s**t if I miss my morning workout. “Go ahead and get dressed. I can drop you on my way.” I lean into her, my hand on her waist and press a light kiss on her cheek. “Sure.” I stop in the kitchen, where I pour two cups of coffee while she continues upstairs. When I reach my bedroom it’s apparent she’s not done trying to hook the big fish. She’s naked, my shirt in a ball on the mess of sheets. “I’ll need your help with the zipper. Unless that’s too much to ask?” I suppose the idea of this being a one-time thing sounded okay in theory last night, but in the light of day she’s changed her mind. She steps into the dress, stuffing her arms into the sleeves. “Happy to help.” I eliminate the distance between us and hand her the coffee. “You didn’t need to put mine in a to-go cup. I get the point.” I zip up the dress and sip my coffee. She turns around to face me. “I think I have some cereal downstairs, but smell the milk first.” I disappear into the en suite, turning on the shower. “Oh, I get breakfast? How sweet of you,” she calls out from the bedroom. “I didn’t think you’d want to stay up here while I get ready.” I walk back toward the bedroom and lean on the doorframe. “You know what, Jagger? I’ll just call an Uber.” “Are you sure?” I strip off my towel, pulling down my swim trunks. “I’ll only be about a half hour.” Her eyes flare then heat, finding my c**k. What can I say? Even after swimming, it’s impressive. “One day you’re going to die alone, you know.” It usually takes more than this for the anger to kick in, but she’s zoomed right into the bitter stage. “Hope not.” I shrug. “A million women will be standing over your coffin, spitting on you.” The sparkling blue eyes that drew my attention to her last night narrow and her small hands fist at her sides. Full-on anger now. “Not much I can do about that.” Her fists raise in the air, her teeth clench and she actually stomps one foot on the floor. “f**k you, Jagger Kale.” She stomps her way over to the door. “And you’re not all that in bed.” Her hair flips over her shoulder and she disappears from view. Mission accomplished. I refrain from repeating her words from last night back to her—about me being a god and how my c**k is magical. Easier to let her believe I wasn’t the best s*x she’s had in her life. Shaking my head, I key in the code on my alarm system. “Good morning, Jagger,” the system says, allowing the doors to be opened. Her growl echoes from downstairs. Placing my hands up in the air, I count off. One, two…the front door slams with more gusto than the blow job she gave me last night. I press on the keypad once more. “Alarm set,” the alarm system says. Can’t be too careful. Sometimes the crazies want back in and everyone knows that Jagger Kale doesn’t let anyone in. My Spyder hugs the shoulder of the road, the sunshine warming my face and the music blaring out of my speakers. Can’t beat summer in California. Why the hell anyone would ever want to live anywhere other than here, I’ll never understand. The music dies down for a second, a ding sounding through the speakers, alerting me of a text. I glance at the clock. Six forty-five. Must be my dad. Pulling up to a stop light, I turn down the music and pluck my phone from the middle console, surprised to find that it’s from Marisol, my pseudo-nanny when I was growing up. She was the housekeeper for my parents and since they were always busy attending some Hollywood function or another she also stepped in as my main caretaker. She’s one of only two women I’ve ever let into my heart. Marisol: I need to claim that favor you always say you owe me. Me: Again, I’m not going to date your next-door neighbor. Marisol: She’s engaged. You missed the boat. As usual. Me: What do you need? I love this woman, but I pray I’m not headed toward another ‘you need to find someone who cares for you because I worry about you’ speech for the millionth time. The woman hides small notes about life without love all over my house when she comes to clean it. Marisol: Come over. My heartbeat picks up. Me: On my way. Putting my Spyder in gear, I zoom forward once the light turns green, cutting in and out of traffic, leaving a stream of honking cars behind me. Forty-five minutes later—f*****g L.A. traffic—I park on the curb outside of Marisol’s tiny blue house. Trees and bushes thrive along her cobblestone walkway and I wave to her nosey neighbor in her pink terrycloth robe next door picking up her paper from the front porch. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” I say. “Uh-huh.” She eyes me hard with a disapproving look. She’s one of the rare women I’ve never been able to win over. I knock on Marisol’s door, and my mouth becomes dry when her daughter Isa answers. What the hell is she doing here? “Oh, Jagger, thank goodness.” She squeezes out of the sliver of the opening, shutting the door behind her. “Isa, what is it?” My chest tightens. I’m afraid to hear what she has to say. She glances back at the house and then heads over to the swinging chair. “I’m taking Mom to the hospital.” “What?” I sit down on the ledge of the porch, staring at Isa, whose light brown skin has now paled. “She didn’t want you to know, not until we know more, but I made her reach out to you. She went to the doctor last week and they’re concerned about her kidneys. She was up all night in pain.” My stomach sinks. Marisol has had some health issues over the past few months and though I worried about her, she always assured me that it was no big deal. This…this sounds like a big f*****g deal. “Go! Why are you waiting for me?” I stand and step to the door, but Isa grabs my wrist. “You know Mom.” She exhales a breath. “Her business. She has a new client today and—” “I’ll hire someone to cover for her.” I unhook my arm from her hold and pull my cell phone from my pocket. “Mom is never going to let some stranger go into a client’s house, Jag.” I nod, knowing she’s right. After I was grown Marisol started her own cleaning company and she’s done well for herself. Her stubborn pride would never let me help her out financially and so I send her referrals from my list of celebrity clients who can afford to pay top rate. I’d rather she just let me take care of her, but I understand her need to do her best and the satisfaction she derives from a job well done. We’re the same in that way. I rub my hand along the slight scruff on my jaw for a second. “Then you go clean this new client’s house and I’ll take her to the hospital. She loves me more anyway.” Isa huffs, but her lips spread into a smile and she rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it was worth a try.” I clench my neck with my palm, relieving the constant strain there. Isa nods. “Sorry, in this case, genes win out.” I roll my eyes. “Well, I get her for Christmas.” “So, you can eat all the tamales? I don’t think so.” She stands, poking me into the stomach. I pull her into my arms, my sissy from another missy. “She’ll be okay though?” Our playful sibling-like relationship grows more serious. Her cheek rubs up and down on my jacket. “I hope so.” I squeeze her once and then we head into the house. Isa should have prepared me. Marisol is crouched over a bowl in the family room wearing a nightgown shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Mom!” Isa runs over, sitting next to her, her hand running along her back. Marisol shoos her away. “We’re going.” Isa stands up and disappears into the kitchen. “Marisol.” I sit on the chair next to her. “Do we need to call the ambulance?” “No,” she mumbles almost inaudibly. Sitting up, she wipes her mouth with the washcloth. “Did Isa talk to you?” I blow out a breath, but plaster a smile to my face. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.” She places her hand on my knee. If it was any other person I’d tell them it’s a three-thousand-dollar suit and to get their vomit hand off. “You do it yourself? I need this client,” she says in a weak voice. “Marisol, screw the company.” I pull out my billfold. “Let me give you some money.” She sends that disappointed glare my way—the same one I got when I asked her to move in with me, but not as bad as the one I got when I offered to buy her a car when hers went on the fritz. “One day you’ll realize you can’t buy your way out of everything.” Her weak hand pats my knee. Isa runs in, grabs the bowl. “You know, if you want to be the favorite, you’ll have to start doing stuff like cleaning out the vomit bowl.” She lifts her eyes, a small smile on her face, trying to ease the tension in the room with her razzing. “You do a way better job than me.” With a roll of her eyes, she’s gone. “Fine. I’ll do it,” I say, looking back at the woman who in a lot of ways was more like a mother to me than my own. “One time.” We both know I’ll do it more if I have to. “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll be better tomorrow.” Marisol smiles, appeased by how her daughter and pseudo-son get along. She leans forward and slides a piece of paper on the table over to me. “Here’s the address. Just a light cleaning, so you should be good. No floorboards or anything like that.” “Floorboards?” Isa walks in, laughing. “Let’s go, Mom. Let Mr. Clean get to his client. I wish I could be there to watch Jagger Kale scrubbing a toilet. This ought to be interesting.” I rise to my feet, helping Marisol to hers. “I’ve never failed at anything.” My eyes meet Isa’s in challenge. “There’s a first. Do you even know how to use a vacuum cleaner?” Isa picks up Marisol’s purse and then her own. “Take my truck with the supplies,” Marisol says. Yeah, right. I’ll make sure whatever I need fits in the back of my Spyder. “You go with Isa and let me know what’s happening.” I open the side of Isa’s small SUV and Marisol slides in. “Take care of her.” Isa starts the vehicle, puts the truck in reverse. “Don’t forget, I’m her actual child.” To anyone else Isa’s words would seem harsh, but she nods at me. We’re both worried. “Thank you, Jagger,” Marisol says, patting my hand. “I knew I could count on you to handle this.” Guilt floods my veins, since I was still going to call a maid service. I have no choice but to follow through with what I promised Marisol. At least I learned how to clean from the best. I’ll breeze in and breeze out before lunch. How hard can it be? I shoot my assistant, Victoria, a message. Me: Running late, be there by lunch. Victoria: I got up at the asscrack of dawn to have you call in? Bullshit. Me: I’m your boss. Victoria: Not for long if you keep entertaining women until lunchtime. Me: She left before breakfast. Victoria: You do have them trained, don’t you? Me: Jealousy doesn’t suit you. Victoria: LOL… I’m rolling out of my chair. Pick me up sushi on the way in. Me: You should be ordering me lunch. Victoria: I’m not the one who’s late. I don’t waste time in responding to my indignant assistant. I open the tailgate of Marisol’s truck. “What the f**k? Don’t her clients supply anything?” I grab the bucket of cleaning supplies and shut the hatch. Marisol’s voice rings in my ear. I need this client. Fuck me. I place the bucket on the driveway, reopen the hatch and grab the mop and the rest of the s**t. A sense of overwhelming dread presses down on my shoulders, but I c***k my neck a few times and remind myself I’m Jagger Kale—nothing defeats me.