Cassie Mint

  Ear Candy

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-88-5

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Verity

  2. Kamran

  3. Verity

  4. Kamran

  5. Verity

  6. Kamran

  7. Verity

  8. Kamran

  Teaser: Coffee Crush

  About the Author

  One

  Verity

  I have this routine. If I tell you about it, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but here goes: I start at nightfall, when the stars come out over Prickly Pear Springs and the cries of wildlife echo across the desert. Bats flap their leathery wings overhead, and steam from the town hot springs billows into the air, and the whole area seems magical. Kind of unearthly.

  Does that excuse my being a weirdo every night? Probably not.

  Oh well.

  When I moved here four months ago, I rented this tiny cottage on the edge of town so I could be as close as possible to the desert. After spending my whole life in the city, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers in steamed-up public transport, I wanted space. Wide open skies.

  But it also means I get lonely sometimes in the evening with no company but my own thoughts. So every night as it gets dark, I put in my earbuds, and I click play.

  I’d never heard his voice before coming here. What are the chances of that? Kamran Zahir is a world-famous narrator, the kind of man who gets screamed at and begged to sign t-shirts at readers’ conventions, and yet I never heard of him before moving to Prickly Pear Springs. Then, as soon as I’m within a three mile radius of the man: bam. I hear his voice on a library audio book… and I’m done for.

  Because Kamran…

  His voice is deep. It’s smooth and rich and decadent. It’s the type of voice that publishers must fight over, bidding and outbidding each other to get him on their books.

  Because if Kamran narrates it? Instant bestseller.

  He’s that good, believe me. And that delicious.

  So anyway, the routine: I’m in my cottage at nightfall, tying back my hair before slipping in my earbuds. Sometimes I listen to Kamran reading ghost stories and murder mysteries; sometimes non fiction and biographies. My favorites, though, are when he narrates romance books. Dirty romance books.

  Oh, yeah. Listening to Kamran Zahir reading a smutty vampire novel—that was my freaking sexual awakening. I’ve never felt that tingly before.

  Mostly, though, Kamran’s voice keeps me company as I wash the dishes after dinner; as I go through my yoga stretches and check online to see whether anyone from back home has realized that I’ve left yet.

  Nope. Radio silence.

  And that hurts, it sets off a dull ache in my chest, but Kamran’s smooth, deep voice in my ear makes it all better.

  I didn’t realize the job was with him when I applied a month ago. Not sure if that makes it better, but I need to put it on the record. All the ad said was ‘Temporary assistant needed: office duties’ and a generic email address, so I sent in my resume and went on my merry way.

  On my first day at work, I didn’t recognize his face. I thought he was gorgeous, sure, with that thick black hair and those chocolate eyes, but I didn’t realize it was him until Kamran spoke, reaching out to shake my hand.

  Oh, lord. I nearly melted into a puddle right there on his front step, our joined hands bobbing in the air between us.

  “I’m a narrator,” he’d said, as if I didn’t freaking know, “and I get sent a lot of projects. I need help sifting through them to find the good ones.”

  I’d nodded along, squeaking awkward replies as he showed me the desk he’d set up for me in his home office; where I could find the bathroom; the tea and coffee supplies in the kitchen. Every single word from him made my insides quake.

  I couldn’t have set myself up to be more freaked out if I tried. This man was my routine. His voice murmured in my ears each night; he joined me as I slid under the covers. And now he was here? Unfairly gorgeous and in the flesh?

  “Is that acceptable to you?”

  His formality snapped me back to the moment, because I may have been losing my shit, but my new boss was all business.

  I should have quit right then. Should’ve walked away before I got tangled up.

  “Sounds good,” I said instead, like an idiot.

  Now, when I listen to his voice at night, I do it with a healthy dose of shame. He’s my boss, temporary or not. I’ve got no business fixating on him like this. But habits are hard to break, and my nights spent listening to Kamran are the only times I’ve felt truly settled here.

  After I started work with him, I tried other narrators for a while. Podcasts, too. I did.

  But no matter who I tried, I found myself coming back to him.

  So: Kamran Zahir. My boss. My secret crush. He’s speaking in my ears, his voice lowered like he’s talking just for me, and tonight it’s a crime novel. I should be on edge, what with the gory murder from two chapters ago, but I’m not. I’m listening to Kamran, so that means I’m gooey and warm and calm as I slide between my bed sheets.

  The room is dim, a shaft of moonlight breaking between the bedroom curtains. I rest my palms on my stomach, my skin hot beneath the thin fabric of my vest top.

  Kamran’s speaking more urgently now. This is a tense moment in the book—the killer’s on the prowl again. My eyelids fall shut, and I keep my palms studiously glued to my stomach as my boss reads to me in his deep, honeyed tones.

  I don’t want to admit what I used to do with my hands at moments like these, especially when I listened to him read that smutty vampire novel.

  I don’t do that anymore. Not since Kamran became my boss.

  But my body burns with the memory of it, with what I desperately want to do when I think of him, until I’m shifting against the lumpy mattress and chewing on the inside of my cheek.

  There.

  The killer strikes again, and it’s a gross enough scene that I settle down again, the arousal cooling in my veins. Kamran narrates it all, his voice always drenched in exactly the right emotion, and soon enough, my breathing starts to slow. The covers rise and fall with each deep breath, and I hover on the edge of sleep.

  This is how my routine ends each night: with me telling myself that I’ll take out my earbuds in just a few seconds. I won’t fall asleep with my boss’s voice in my ears again, no way. It’s so inappropriate.

  Kamran must know somehow. Must notice when he sees me in the morning, the guilty truth splashed over my face.

  Kamran must see how I shiver whenever he speaks—

  Too late.

  Two

  Kamran

  It’s five past eight, which means my harried assistant will clatter down my front path in three… two… one…

  “Sorry!”

  I swing the door open as Verity arrives, and she barrels inside without slowing. She’s a whirlwind of red hair and freckles and a stripey black and white top. Like a French mime who’s gone on the run.

  “Sorry!” she yells again, her voice echoing through my house. “I’ll be on time tomorrow, I swear!”

  No, she won’t, but I don’t care. Verity works so hard once she’s here that it would be ridiculous of me to bitch about five lost minutes.

  “Coffee?” I don’t yell like she does, but I know she hears me. There’s a squawk of agreement from the office, and I stride into the kitchen and set the water boiling.

  This is our routine. We fell into this rhythm from the first week Verity started working for me, and there’s so much comfort in it now. She’s late; I make coffee. I can’t settle; she chatters until the tightness in my gut goes away.

  Then we both drift into quiet for a few hours, tapping away at our laptops.

  In the afternoon, I disappear into my recording booth. It’s definitely weird how much I miss her during those hours, but I don’t mention it. I’m not insane.

  Because she’s my assistant, and at least ten years younger than me. If I make her uncomfortable, she’ll walk out that door and never come back. And though this arrangement was always meant to be temporary…

  No. I can’t stomach that thought.

  Verity’s extra flushed this morning as she sinks into her desk chair, her hands trembling as she digs through her tote bag. She pulls out her notepad and pen, her water bottle and the case for her reading glasses, nearly dropping them on the floor in her haste.

  “Verity?”

  That blush spreads farther across her cheeks. She’s rosy, now. A sweet, freckled red apple. The wall behind her is papered with a huge calendar and her endless To-Do lists; travel schedules and publisher contact de

tails and printed out flight tickets.

  “Yeah?”

  I smooth my smile away and watch her steadily. “Are you alright?”

  Maybe it’s extra hot out this morning, or maybe she slept through her alarm. Who knows what has my beautiful assistant on edge? All I know is I can’t take my eyes off her.

  It would be hard anyway. Our desks are so close together that when I lean against the edge of mine, I can reach out and ruffle her hair.

  There’s a pause before Verity replies. She reaches for her coffee first, cupping the mug between her palms, and frowns at her laptop screen instead of at me.

  “Vee,” I urge quietly.

  A shaky gust of air. “I’m fine, Kamran. I just had strange dreams, that’s all, and they’ve left me all frazzled.”

  “Tell me about them.” My order is stern. Verity’s cheeks flush impossibly brighter.

  “I don’t really remember them,” she lies, and I straighten in my chair. What does this imp have to hide? “And even if I did—” she throws me a knowing look “—my dreams have nothing to do with your next project, Mr Zahir.”

  Ah. Yes. I’ll probably regret giving Verity free rein to choose which books I narrate, not even glancing over the options myself. But I’ve known her for a month now, and in that time I’ve become rather pathetic. Every book I read, each project I take on—as of a few weeks ago, I do it all for her.

  Verity might as well handpick them. My greatest hope is that one day she might listen to one.

  “Which did you choose?”

  She swivels away from me, chair squeaking, and starts typing madly on her laptop. There’s no way she’s forming any words. “Another romance.”

  I can’t hide my grin this time. “Another one? Verity, are you trying to have me typecast?”

  “It’s—I’m not—your voice suits them, that’s all, especially the—”

  “The dirty ones?”

  Her shoulders go stiff, and the glare she shoots me could incinerate a man at twenty paces.

  “Yes.”

  It’s barely past eight, and this is already the best day I’ve had in a long time. I’m puffed up and grinning, stealing glances at my assistant across the office, and she thinks I have a good voice for reading hot romance stories. Would she ever listen to me narrating one of those? Fuck. I hope so.

  “Do you like those stories?”

  “It’s not about what I like.”

  Yes it is. “But do you?”

  “Yes,” Verity snaps, clicking at her mouse like it wronged her grievously. “I read them non-stop, okay? Are you happy now, Kamran? God, you’re insufferable.”

  “Very happy.” I wait until she’s cooled off a bit, until not every exhale is an irritated huff, and then I tell her: “I like those stories, too, by the way. Since you didn’t ask.”

  She ignores me outright. I suppose I deserve that. But this office is small, without much space between us, and she can’t hide the amused twitch of her mouth.

  I should stop tormenting her, really, especially since I can’t bear to think of Verity leaving.

  But I’m weak. And I can’t resist that red apple blush.

  * * *

  I never planned to become a narrator. I never planned for a lot of things. In fact, if you’d told twenty-year old Kamran that he’d wind up here in a small town on the edge of the desert, reading books for a living, he’d have called you a liar to your face.

  I’m not mad about it. It’s nonsense to try and predict how life will go, I know that. All those years spent keeping my grandmother company at her bedside, hearing her life story and the tale of how my family came to this country—I listened well. Took her words to heart.

  Because sometimes fate laughs at our plans. She taught me that.

  And sometimes, if we’re lucky, fate has something even better in store.

  I hadn’t felt that way about Prickly Pear Springs until I met Verity. Now I think I’m in exactly the right place at the right time. Some days I can barely tear myself away from her for a lunchtime walk into town, but I still force myself to go.

  I should give her space. The last thing that young woman must want is me, looming over her shoulder and panting all over her.

  The town may be small, but the center is bustling at midday. Shop doors are propped open, their glass panes sparkling in the desert sun, and the scent of freshly baked tortillas drifts out of the bakery. Wooden signs hang over the sidewalk, hand-painted logos cracked from the heat, and I head for the sign with two white mugs and a heart made out of coffee beans.

  Whole Latte Love is always lively, but especially during the lunchtime rush. I wait in line, relishing the cool air wafting over my cheeks, and try not to obsess over what my assistant might be doing.

  Does Verity wander around my house when I’m not there? Does she steal bites of food from my fridge?

  I hope so. I love her mischievous side.

  Maybe I should lay traps. A perfectly smooth dish of fresh hummus, or a wedge of that fancy cheese she likes so much.

  “Next, please.”

  Our line shuffles a few inches further along the cabinet. Rows of iced cupcakes, squares of brownies, and piles of cookies wink at me from behind the glass. Which would Verity like? Would it be strange if I brought one back for her?

  In front of me, a redheaded giant of a man leans down, brow crinkling as he frowns into the cabinet. With the bulk straining at his flannel shirt and his scarred, meaty hands, I can’t help stifling a smile at his order.

  “Hot chocolate and a cookie, please.”

  That’s an interesting voice. Deep and gruff, more of a rumble than anything. Would this guy ever consider narrating?

  “S-sure, Mr Erickson. Right away.”

  The dark-haired barista gazes wide-eyed at the giant, tripping over her own feet as she rushes to the cabinet. She agonizes over which cookie to give him, stealing glances at her burly customer, before settling on a heart-shaped cookie with pink icing and sprinkles.

  Oh. Oh, dear.

  My chest squeezes with second-hand pain, because the barista is practically vibrating with longing for this man, and he’s peering around the coffee shop, so oblivious. It’s difficult to watch, and by the time the giant has left with his drink and I’ve stepped up to the counter, the barista is downcast. I glance at her name tag: Thea.

  “Uh.” I’ve forgotten what I wanted. Is that what I look like when Verity leaves the room? Probably. The thought tastes sour. “Black coffee, please, and—”

  And what? What am I gonna do, bring Verity one of those heart-shaped cookies and go through that? No, thank you.

  “And that’s all. Thanks, Thea.”

  I’m not some lovesick barista. I’m Verity’s boss.

  Bring her a cookie?

  What the hell am I thinking?

  Three

  Verity

  The text comes in the late afternoon. I’m tipped back in my desk chair, staring at the ceiling and trying not to pine after Kamran like an abandoned puppy. He’s ensconced in his home recording booth, tucked away behind padded walls and soundproofing, and he’s busy reading a book I chose.

  Not sure how I feel about that.

  It’s… it’s too much power.

  I’ve been working flat-out all day, sending emails to all the publishers and audio companies and indie writers Kamran works with, planning his schedule and reading samples of suggested projects.

  He’s been invited to a reading con in the fall. A journalist called asking for an interview, too. The woman was breathless, asking about Kamran.

  Man. We live in totally different worlds.

  See, total strangers care about Kamran Zahir. They know his business; they fly hundreds of miles to meet him. And me? I left my home city and no one even noticed.

  The text arrives, my phone rattling against the desk. I tip forward in the chair with a huff, prodding at the screen.

  The name makes me freeze. My heart thumps harder in my chest. It’s my sister, and she’s finally noticed I’m gone. She does care after all. This is–

  Vee, can you feed Percy this weekend? I’m going away on a work thing.

  She wants me to feed her cat.

  I stare at my phone for what feels like hours, but it’s probably only a few minutes. My eyes are so dry.

 

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