“You can beat yourself up about it all over again,” Beckett said, “or you can leave it in the past, where it belongs.”
“Once William knows—”
“Why does William need to know? It doesn’t matter anymore. I know you feel some sort of responsibility to come clean about this with William, but no good can come of that. Trust Papa Beckett on this one.”
I smiled briefly. “So…what? I keep Jeremy a secret?”
“You keep one tiny aspect of your relationship with him a secret, and you move on with your life. You enjoy your rich boyfriend and his mansions and vineyards and private jets—I still cannot believe he has five. That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re just jealous because you haven’t been on one.”
“Yet.” Beckett raised a finger. “I have faith you’ll wrangle an invitation for me. Maybe a little jaunt to…oh, I don’t know…Paris?”
“Oh, sure.” Beckett was right. I needed to let the whole Jeremy affair go. It was over and it didn’t matter, and I should stop worrying about it.
Beckett was waxing poetic about spring in Paris when I heard my phone. I dug in my purse, pulled it out, and frowned at the number. “No idea who this is,” I murmured but answered anyway. “Hello, this is Catherine Kelly.”
“Catherine Kelly,” a man repeated in a sexy Southern twang. “You’re exactly the woman I was trying to reach.”
Beckett was looking at me expectantly, and I gave him a bewildered look. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“Not yet, but we can rectify that quick enough. This is Hutch Morrison,” he drawled. “I believe my assistant called a few days ago.”
“Oh my God. Yes. I am so sorry I haven’t called back.” I pointed to the phone and mouthed Hutch Morrison.
Beckett gave me a look filled with horror. “You didn’t call back?” he hissed. Then he practically sat on my lap to press his ear to the phone.
“Don’t worry about that now. I like a woman who plays hard to get, and I also like a woman with the kind of talent you have. I’ve seen your work.”
“Oh, great.” It was lame, but I never knew how to respond to compliments.
“Those cock kabobs for Fresh Market were inspired.”
“I—” How did one respond to that sort of compliment? I looked to Beckett for help, but he was doubled over laughing.
“And your work in Chicago Now impressed me as well. I think you’re perfect, Miss Catherine Kelly.”
“Um, perfect for what?”
“That’s what I’d like to meet with you about. I’m working on a little e-book project. It’s what I’d call cutting edge. I need someone who can pull off cutting edge. I think you’re the girl I want to get in bed with on this. Say you’ll meet with me.”
“I…um…”
“Don’t turn me down and break my heart before you’ve even met me in person. I don’t bite. Well, I don’t bite very hard.”
“I wouldn’t dream of turning you down, Mr. Morrison.”
“Mr. Morrison is my daddy. Call me Hutch.”
“I’d love to meet with you, Hutch.”
“Wonderful. How about next week at Morrison Hotel?”
“Great.” I frowned at Beckett who had my laptop open and was furiously typing something into the browser.
“I’ll have my people get with your people to arrange schedules.”
“I am my people.”
“See, I knew I’d like you. I’m half in love with you already. I’ll see you soon, Miss Catherine.”
I set the phone down and shook my head. What the hell had that been? On the computer, Beckett had pulled up an image of Hutch Morrison. It was similar to the one he’d texted me—a tattooed, muscled guy who was sexy as hell. Beckett grabbed my hand. “Tell me everything.”
“He’s working on a cutting edge e-book project, and he thinks I’m perfect for it.”
“Of course you’re perfect for it!”
“He’s seen my work—the Fresh Market billboards and the spread in Chicago Now.”
Beckett fell back on the couch. “I cannot believe this is happening. I’m so lucky!”
“You?”
“Yes! If you meet Hutch Morrison and work with him, it’s just a matter of time until I meet Hutch Morrison, and look at the guy. He’s fucking hot.”
“What about Alec?”
“Alec will have to find his own celebrity chef crush. Hutch is all mine.” Beckett gave me a serious look. “Besides it’s just a crush.” His fingers were flying over the keyboard again. “You have to get this job, Cat. You have to. Hutch Morrison is the shit. Look at this.” He’d pulled up some sort of curriculum vitae and read the highlights. “Hutch Morrison is thirty-three, an internationally known culinary genius. Look at this.” He jabbed a finger at a list of awards.