Page 44 of Extended Bridge (Passionate Beats #2)

W ant to go on another tour with my first rockstar hero, Cole Manchester? Read the trilogy that set the standard for Passionate Beats!

Succumb to Cole Manchester—talented, witty, charming, sexy and oh-so flawed—a womanizing rock star whose shallow life is transformed when he experiences love for the first time.

From the outside, Cole Manchester seems to have it all: looks, fame, money, awards and women.

When tragedy strikes, he realizes how hollow his life is, and opens the door to the one thing he’s never considered …

finding love. He’s inexplicably drawn to the quiet wallflower who works on his team, a line he knows he shouldn’t cross.

After devastating heartbreaks, all Rose Morgan wants is to blend into the background.

Working at her dream job as a publicist, she’s safely hiding in plain sight.

Until her client, the irresistible Cole Manchester, notices her.

Rose must ignore her desires in order to protect her bruised heart … and keep her prized career.

Cole needs Rose to teach him how to love. Rose needs Cole to teach her how to trust. Together, they form a bond ignited by passion but fueled by insecurities. When her mother’s interference collides with his fan’s twisted plot, Cole and Rose may find themselves with No One To Hold.

Somehow I endure the first hour of the party.

No. Not party. Wake.

Two hours ago I placed a blood-red rose atop my mother’s casket on this freezing February day. Now, I’m trapped in my parents’ house, choked by a tie, listening to stories about her while pretending everything is okay. It’s not fucking okay.

When I can’t take it anymore, I collapse onto the step at the foot of the stairs, looking at all the people milling around the family room.

They are eating catered food off Mom’s good china.

Swilling drinks from her favorite wine glasses.

Photos of her are displayed everywhere, some in frames and others in the scrapbooks she spent hours creating.

Reaching between the spindles of the banister, I pick up a frame off the closest table. It’s a photo of Mom and me at the Grammy Awards a couple of years ago. She’s beaming, clearly enjoying herself. I trace her beautiful smile with a calloused fingertip.

A bunch of Mom’s high school students surround me like yipping hyenas, giving me little choice but to put down the photo, stand up and join them.

They’re on the cheerleading squad Mom coached.

They all seem to be talking at once, making it impossible for me to follow their conversation, and a few of the girls seem star struck to be near me.

Some even cast what they obviously think are flirty, seductive glances in my direction. Seriously?

One girl points her cell phone at me while the others titter. My hand flies to block my face in a gesture I’ve perfected after years of protecting myself from the paparazzi.

Rose Morgan, my ponytailed and bespectacled account rep with the Greta VonStein PR Agency, appears at my right. I take my first deep breath since being surrounded, knowing Rose will take care of the girls.

“Ladies, a word,” she says. She’s wearing what she always wears—a skirt and blazer—this time in black.

Ushering the group deeper into the family room, Rose says something I can’t hear and then takes the would-be photographer’s cell phone.

After pushing a few buttons, she returns it to the girl, who mouths the word sorry to me.

Quickly, the cheerleaders disperse. Rose to the rescue. Again.

Returning to my side, Rose places her hands on my cheeks. My breath catches at the contact.

In a low voice, she says, “It’s all taken care of, Cole.”

Behind her glasses, her blue eyes are filled with compassion and some other emotion I can’t identify. They seem like they belong to someone much older and wiser than me, not to a woman who’s a few years younger than me.

I close my eyes to block out everything except the feeling of her hands on my skin and the comfort they’re pouring into me.

The intensity of the sensation startles me back to the present, causing my eyes to pop open.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Thanks for the save. It’s kinda weird being fangirled here. ”

Rose drops her hands and I immediately crave her soft warmth.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she finally says.

“Your mom is—was—a wonderful lady. I remember the first time I spoke with her, right after you’d signed with Greta.

She couldn’t believe you had a publicist.” She shakes her head.

“Her exact words were, ‘I can’t believe other people will really follow what my Cole does.’”

I laugh. It’s a rusty sound. “I can hear Mom saying that.”

Smiling, Rose says, “After you took her to your first Grammys, she sent me a lovely thank you note and gift basket. She was so proud of you.”

“Mom never got tired of talking about when she met Adam Baret there.” Mom’s teenage heartthrob sent a very nice arrangement to the funeral. I’m sure she’s looking down on us from above, blushing.

“Take some time and stay here with your father and brother.”

My gaze follows hers to the kitchen, where Jayson and Dad are hugging. It’s just us now. And Jayson’s boyfriend, Carl. “I plan to.”

“Family is so very important. Lean on each other.” Her tone leads me to believe she’s speaking from experience, although I wouldn’t know. Up until now, all of our conversations have been strictly business.

I nod. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say, “Thanks for making the trip from Los Angeles.” I pause at my use of the city’s formal name. Everything’s taken on an odd sense of formality over the past days. “And I appreciate how much you’ve kept the paparazzi away from us.”

“I wanted to be here for you.” She reaches out like she’s going to touch me again, which sends a flicker of anticipation through me, but her hand stops and returns to her side. My disappointment shocks me.

She continues, “And don’t worry about all the cards and gifts your fans are sending to the office. We’ll make sure everything receives a response, and the stuffed animals and other presents will be distributed to children’s hospitals.”

I shake my head at her use of “we.” That idea has Rose’s signature, not Greta’s, all over it. “My fans are really sending stuff?”

“You mean a lot to them.” Her lips quirk into a small smile, and I feel my mouth move upward in response.

“I left a card from Josh with the others over there.” She motions toward the front hallway table. “Thought you’d want to see it.”

“Thanks.” I first met Josh four years ago at a meet-and-greet. His love of music reminded me of myself at his age, so passionate. His single mother was unable to pay for a violin coach, so I arranged for him to have private music lessons. He must be fourteen by now.

She nods, sending her ponytail swinging. For the second time today, I find myself ensnared by her blue eyes. They’re an icy blue, yet they’re bright with emotion behind the thick lenses of her glasses. How have I never noticed their remarkable color before?

After a beat, she says, “Let me know when you’re planning on returning to LA, and we’ll set up some appearances for you.

In the meantime, Greta wants me to issue a release on your behalf, thanking your fans for their support and letting them know you’ll be spending some personal time with your family.

” She gives me a quick hug and walks off in Dad’s direction.

Business never stops for long.

My agent, Russell Waldock, and his wife fill the void left by Rose. At fifty-five, he’s one of the most powerful men in LA, yet he’s also very down-to-earth, which drew me to him. “I appreciate your coming all the way to New Jersey for Mom’s”—my voice breaks—“funeral.”

Russell claps me on the back. “Julie was a great lady, Cole. Always looking out for you. And she was fierce. The way she scolded me about your music video for ‘Prowling’ made me feel like I got caught rifling through my father’s Playboy collection.” His wife smiles at him.

I chuckle. “She always called it my ‘racy’ video.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong there,” Russell agrees. No, she wasn’t.

His wife picks up a photo of Mom and Dad holding hands on a beach in Hawaii and then returns it to the side table. She asks, “How’s your father holding up? This has to be hard on him.”

I glance over at Dad. “He’s okay. It’s been . . . rough.”

How is Dad going to handle this? Mom’s touch is everywhere in this house, in his life. They were married for so long they used to complete each other’s sentences. “I’m trying to do whatever I can. Of course, Jayson and Carl live nearby.”

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” Russell says.

“Thanks. I’m grateful you arranged for the label to give me an extension on recording my next album.”

Russell nods. “Call me when you’re ready to go back to LA. No rush.”

They each give me a hug. “Thanks again for coming,” I say. “Will do.”

I circulate around the room, numbly making small talk with acquaintances I haven’t seen in years.

I’m standing in the dining room with some family friends the next time Rose crosses my line of vision.

She’s in the front hall, running her fingers over the framed photo of Mom holding me when I was a baby.

She wipes a tear from her cheek and looks up.

Our eyes meet.

We both freeze.

After a long pause, she retrieves her coat and walks out the front door. I catch a breath as if my heart just restarted.

I continue circulating and reminiscing about Mom. Around nine, Jayson and Carl leave to take care of their new puppy. Only Aunt Doreen and her family remain. “How are you doing, Cole?”

“I’m okay,” I lie. Yanking off my tie, I ask, “How about you, Aunt Doreen?”

“About as well as I can be. I want you to know you can always count on me, whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”