Enjoy this Excerpt from Rumor Has It...
 

There are twenty mornings each year when not getting dressed before going downstairs is an option for me. Give or take a day. Every other one, I’m showered, dressed, and have set the coffee pot percolating for our guests by five a.m. After filling the dining room carafes with coffee and hot water for tea for any rare early birds, I whip up a batch of my signature scratch-baked banana nut muffins.

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Today is one of those blissful mornings when I’m not up to my elbows in batter while everyone else is still snoozing away, and it makes my lousy night forgettable.

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Having slept as long as I want, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch. Then I bend and toss the book that fell on the floor back onto my rumpled sheets.

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I’m no longer a bed maker. A perk of my job is on-demand housekeeping. The cleaning staff gets the holidays off as well—along with the overnight concierge. This means no hospital corners until after the New Year. Which is also just fine by me. No one really understands vacationers waltzing in and out of the place where you live. I can’t be messy or leave anything lying around. If I’m seen at home, the guests expect I’m on duty and want me to drop everything and cater to their needs.

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I pad down the staircase and into the kitchen in my pajamas. Again, this likely means zip to anyone else, but when you can’t wear whatever you want in your own home, let alone consider walking to the coffee pot braless, it’s significant.

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I’m so relaxed I catch a whiff of my forthcoming dark roast, not processing that I can already smell it. Rounding the corner, I realize my mistake too late.

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“Holy crap!” I jump back, covering my ample chest with a splayed palm.

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A man ducking into the fridge startles, smacking the top of his head on a shelf. “Goddamn it!” he yells.

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He reaches back to rub the sore spot as he straightens. That’s when I realize he’s shirtless. My eyes wander from his left pec to his bicep and forearm. They slide down his neck and he covers his… is that a four-pack? A six-pack? All my brain registers is the V at his hips and I’m gawking at the fine hair that starts a very happy trail.

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“Lemme guess, you’re Cassidy.” He extends the hand he used to massage his head for me to shake.

The rough gravel of his voice has my attention snapping to his face.

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Those expressive brown eyes have given women come-hither looks since he was a teenager. I’m also certain his stylist highlighted and coiffed his always rumpled sandy brown hair with intent. One glance at this man and all you can think about is the bedroom.

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“You’re… You’re, you’re Isaiah Roomer,” I say in wonderment.

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One of my uncles has a wall full of music award statues and another played professional football. However, you can knock me over with a feather that the Isaiah Roomer, country superstar, is standing barefoot in my kitchen in nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans.

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The reclusive singer is the last person I considered Gatlin would’ve called about. Isaiah’s wife died in July. He’s made no comment other than an initial request for privacy. When Isaiah refused to appear in public for months, the media grew bored with speculating. By the end of the summer, entertainment news moved on.

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Seriously, the only better gift any red-blooded woman would want underneath the Christmas tree is Isaiah Roomer wearing nothing but a big red... Bow.

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I was totally going to say bow!

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And oh, by the way, here I am shaking the hand of a guy who, before he was married, was the most sought after bachelor in Nashville. Did I mention I’m using my other hand to clutch my boobs so Isaiah Roomer can’t see my nipples poking out from the center of the Os in my white crop top that says “ho-ho-ho”?

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Fantastic.

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“It’s nice to meet you,” Isaiah placates.

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Our hands are moving up and down in a wild, exaggerated manner. I whip mine back toward my body, crossing my arms over my shirt, and tucking my fingertips under my pits. Good Lord, what if I remove my hands and cover my red face by accident? Will Isaiah think I like the smell of my pits?

I inhale, positive the man has had ridiculous encounters with tons of rabid fans. There were celebrity and sports celebrity sightings at Kingsbrier when we were kids. My uncles taught us they were normal people. I’ve met way more famous people than Isaiah Roomer. Just not as hot, not as shirtless, and not me sans underwear.

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That’s right, ya’ll. I’m going commando under these cotton pj pants.

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“I’m sorry. I’m not normally this much of a spaz meeting anyone,” I concede. “I’m blaming Gatlin for not telling me Isaiah Roomer would scrounge for leftovers in my fridge.”

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“It’s just Isaiah. And I was searching for the cream. I put on a pot of coffee.” He points to the gurgling appliance. “I’d found the sugar packets, but wasn’t sure if this was a place that used individual creamers. I wasn’t snooping… or stealing leftovers.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

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“This is a place that puts the cream in a porcelain creamer.”

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“Fancy. If I’d known I would have dressed for the occasion,” he adds as an aside.

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“You’re fine.” He certainly is, my subconscious adds before I stumble out, “I use good china. My grandmother would haunt me otherwise.”

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“But sugar packets are okay?”

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I shrug. “It’s a compromise.”

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Gran will forgive me about the sugar. I tried a bowl with a spoon. It got sticky and messy and I threw out a lot of clumped organic sugar. Although, she wouldn’t approve of me gawking at how fine our houseguest’s ass is as he crosses her kitchen.

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©2025 Jody Kaye, All Rights Reserved

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