You Had Me At Christmas: A Holiday Anthology(6)

Glancing over her shoulder she saw him still watching her, and did a va-voom hip swing, more in bravado than with any real confidence.

For a long time, she hadn’t stressed about the women wanting to flirt and flatter and touch as they asked for autographs and selfies.

Turn him on girls, and I’ll take it from there.

It had even been funny seeing classmates who hadn’t looked twice at Jared in high school, breathless with excitement running into him in the market on their brief visits home. She and Jared had laughed about it. “Hey sex symbol, it’s your turn to change our baby’s poopy diaper.”

On tour, it had stopped being funny. Every new country they traveled to seemed to be full of beautiful, slim, sexy women desperate to get into her husband’s pants. Women who didn’t care that he was married, or if Kayla was in the same room when they propositioned him. She’d watched him becoming enamored of the attention, though not of any particular female. It was in London that Kayla first overheard herself described as the starter wife.

She took her time in the bathroom, partly to avoid the fan girls, partly because she had to wrestle off the stomach and thigh slimming pants she wore to smooth her silhouette in this too-tight dress. Briefly, she considered tucking them in her purse. But as long as she was in public—in this dress—she felt more confident having a garment remember to hold her tummy in.

Besides, she and Jared were really smokin’ together for the first time in months. The shapewear would stop her giving it up too easy. She grinned at her reflection as she washed her hands. You are such a slut.

After reapplying red lipstick, Kayla went to check her messages before remembering that Jared had her cell.

And her wedding ring. Her hand felt bare without it.

When she exited, the bachelorettes were lining up with their cells to take selfies with him. She checked her watch. Eight-thirty. The babysitter was booked until midnight. No later, she’d told Kayla, she had rehearsals next morning with her band of Christmas carolers.

She waved to catch Jared’s eye. C’mon, babe, this is our night, remember?

Over female heads, he returned an apologetic, “What can I do?” shrug.

You could have found a secluded booth. You could have chosen a venue that wasn’t the hippest place in L.A. You could say, I’m on a date, please respect my frickin’ privacy.

Kayla exhaled her irritation. The trouble with being a celebrity was that any unwillingness to engage could be blown up on social media. And with Rage’s reputation tarnished, Jared had to court goodwill. Usually, she could make allowances for that. But tonight was different. He’d raised her hopes when she’d been keeping them manageable, keeping them meek.

Adjusting the neckline of her dress, she detoured to the bar and pulled up a stool while she waited for Jared to be done. From past experience, it could take a while.

The bartender was busy serving other people and gave her an I-see-you nod. Hungry, Kayla took a handful of salted cashews from the bowl on the counter. The only thing she’d had to eat in hours was a couple of mouthfuls of pureed carrots left over from the kids’ dinner.

“Is this seat taken?”

The guy was in his late thirties, smoothly polite, wearing a suit and tie that suggested a career in law or dentistry. Not handsome but assured.

“Go ahead. There seems to be a back-up with service.”

They chatted about the weather and the Christmas traffic.

The bartender arrived to take her order. “One mulled wine,” she said. “And a Guinness.” She’d seen Jared’s struggle with warm ale. This would have to be his last, he was driving her home. That was why he’d caught a cab from a jam session with his bandmates.

“You’re here with someone?” her bar companion asked casually.

“Bob and I are on a first date.” She gestured to Jared, the center of a throng of enthusiastic women.

“He’s a lucky guy.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“Bob?” On the other side of the counter, the bartender held a Guinness schooner glass up to the light. “You know who he really is, right? Why those women made a beeline for him?”

Kayla affected surprise. “Well, Bob…” her brain scrambled for a surname “…Builder is very cute and they are very drunk.” Oh lord, she was hopeless at undercover.

The bartender frowned as he angled the schooner under the spout and eased the beer tap open. “Is that really the name he gave you?” He was a thin, intense guy with expressive eyebrows.

“There might have been a silent ‘the’ in there somewhere,” Kayla conceded, embracing the ridiculous.

The guy beside her laughed. So he had kids, then. No wedding ring either, so probably divorced. That saddened her. She wanted—needed—to believe in happy endings. Wasn’t that why she was here? To reclaim hers.

“He’s Jared Walker, the guy in that reality show last year,” the bartender said helpfully. “He was picked up as the bass player for Rage.” He placed the schooner on the counter and lifted the lid on what looked like a fancy crockpot. Steam rose fragrant with oranges and spices and sweetness.

“I don’t watch much TV.” Weren’t bartenders supposed to be discreet like priests and hairdressers? She’d never get used to strangers discussing her life as though it was a soap opera.