by Elise Faber
Chapter Twelve
Tammy
For fuck’s sake.
I was waffling more than a . . . well, a waffle.
One second, I was critically embarrassed, ready to run (not screaming) from this house and get the fuck back to my own life, one that was far, far away from all things Talbot Green related.
And the next—
“What, Tammy?” I muttered, shampooing my hair with a product that looked like it would cost more than my car—and that was just the sample size. “Because the truth is that you got all squishy and happy, and your spine turned to Jell-O when the man got a little flustered.” I shoved my hair into the stream. “Because he wanted to take care of you.”
Look, I got it, okay?
That was my weak spot. I’d always been the one to do the caring, and when someone wanted to look out for me for a change (something that never happened—okay, something that had perhaps happened a half-dozen times, all courtesy of my asshole ex-husband), I went all gooey inside.
Stupid, huh?
More capital S.
Sighing, knowing it was only a matter of time before I headed over the cliff to absolute heartbreak, I decided that I was just going back to that fantasy.
Talbot was guy number twenty.
And it had been fabulous.
Now, I was ready to exit Stage Right.
“Exactly, Tam,” I said, smoothing some luxurious conditioner into my hair. It felt like the expensive stuff my hairdresser used on my bi-annual appointments, the stuff I never splurged for because I spent ninety percent of my life with my hair wrestled back into a ponytail or bun, and the other ten letting it air dry straight out of the shower. It was drugstore shampoo and conditioner, all the way, no matter how much she tried to convince me to treat my hair to something special.
I didn’t even treat myself with something special.
Why would I binge on my hair?
“Maybe I should steal the container,” I muttered. “Ferret it into my pocket and slip out the front door with it.”
I wouldn’t do that. Of course, I wouldn’t (maybe). But I wanted to (definitely). No, no. I wouldn’t. It would be wrong, and Talbot had been nice, and even though I wanted to jump on the man like a monkey, to beg for another round of orgasms, I knew that I wouldn’t survive a second interlude.
The man had already reduced me to goo almost effortlessly.
“I thought that stealing and illicit drugs are right up there together on the list of bad things bad guys do.”
I froze, having been almost mesmerized by the feel of my ends after I’d rinsed out the conditioner. They were softer than I’d ever felt before, and maybe my hairdresser wasn’t just trying to hawk me expensive product after all.
Talbot’s voice was . . . a warm blanket, the sunshine coating my skin on a warm summer day. It was—hell, it was amused and laced with a little bit of heat, and it was the absolute sexiest thing I’d ever heard. It was also something that I shouldn’t be hearing.
Because the man had promised he wouldn’t look.
“You said you wouldn’t,” I exclaimed.
“Tammy—”
“How typical,” I muttered, both to remind myself that this was my common experience with men—that they didn’t keep their commitments—“of a man to not follow through.” Also, maybe I wanted to push him away. Just a little bit. No, I wanted to push him so far that he realized now what he would realize eventually.
That he didn’t have any interest in sticking by one Tammy Conners.
It was as simple as that.
Which was to say, it wasn’t simple at all.
Such an idiot. Why had I decided to embrace the fantasy?
Stupid. Capital S.
“Tammy.”
“Promises are so easy to make,” I grumbled, shutting off the water and cracking the door to the steam shower I really didn’t want to get out of. I hadn’t had a chance to play with the body wash, and it had actual gold flakes in it. Gold flakes!
“Tam—”
I yanked a towel off the heated rack, wrapped it around my head, which I had to say was a fair shade more difficult with the rubber-plastic-sleeve thing around my arm. But I managed, just like I managed to continue my tirade.
Inside, I knew I was being ridiculous, that it was his house.
That it wasn’t like he hadn’t just seen all I had to offer a bare half hour ago.
But deeper inside, I was grasping onto every straw that would make it so the man stopped being nice and sweet and funny and kind and an excellent giver of double orgasms—a fate that most men in my collection of twenty had definitely not been able to achieve.
“Look at me,” he snapped, firmly enough that my gaze drifted from the fluffy white towel over to the man in question. “Tammy,” he growled. “Are you looking?”
I was looking.
Probably very confused.
Because Talbot was in the bathroom, but his back was toward the shower stall. He’d pulled on faded jeans that clung to a truly glorious ass and a tight heather red T-shirt that seemed to kiss each muscled inch of his back. His hair was still a mess from my fingers tossing the shower-damp locks this way and that during our escapades, and I felt an actual itch in my fingertips to straighten it.
Or perhaps, to mess it up all over again.
“Tam—”
“I’m looking,” I wheezed out, unable to believe I could still want this man so much after I’d had him.
That wasn’t usually the case with me.
Typically, I was searching for more feeling, more sensation, for something to cling on to.
That clearly wasn’t a probably when it came to Talbot.
“Good,” he said. “Are you decent?”
I’d wrapped a towel around myself during my muttering. “Yeah,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said again, spinning to face me. “Clothes,” he said, plunking down the bundle in his arms onto the counter. “Hairbrush,” he added, setting it on the stack. “Courtesy of another gift bag. Do you want me to help you take off the cover?”
Clipped words.
Distance, I’d wanted.
And fuck me, distance I didn’t.
I nearly groaned out loud, because seriously, what in the fuck was the matter with me? Why was I tormenting myself? Why was I taking my own past and insecurities out on Talbot when he’d only ever been nice to me?
“Tammy?” he asked again, his tone still chill.
I was cursing myself every which way, so I didn’t have the energy to summon words.
In their place, I just nodded.
He crossed to me, long legs eating up the large space in mere heartbeats, and then his body was next to mine, the spicy, male scent of him filling the air, reminding my nerves, my lips, my nipples, my pussy of exactly how much it had liked being this close to him.
But, if he noticed my reaction, he didn’t comment on it.
Instead, his hand lifted, fingers gentle on my skin as he eased the cover past the stitches on the outside of my arm, down its length, and then off.
My breath froze in my lungs when he bent close, pressed his lips to the red marks encircling my biceps, where the cover had been tight to my skin.
Then he straightened, and those golden eyes locked with mine. “For the record,” he said, the words sharp and scalding over my body like a lash from a whip, “I’m not like other men.” That, I knew. That, I could have told him. But any words died on my tongue, because the man came closer, his lips a millimeter from mine. “I keep my fucking promises.”
With that, he was gone.
And I was left staring at his back, knowing that I was absolutely, irrevocably sunk.
Chapter Thirteen
Talbot
I’d left a flabbergasted Maggie back in the kitchen after she’d followed me around my house as I’d searched for another gift bag I’d shoved in some closet or another—before finding it in a cupboard above the washing machine.
I’d known it was so
mewhere around, knew that Tammy’s hair was too long and thick for my comb to be of any use, so I’d ignored Maggie’s words as I’d searched.
I’d ignored them long enough that her snapped out rebukes and sighs had evened out, until she’d gone absolutely quiet as she’d followed me, until she’d finally burst out, “What are you doing?” just as I’d entered the laundry room.
“Looking for something,” had been my response.
Which had led to more grumbling, more rebukes.
But by then, I’d found the brush and had disappeared back into the bathroom.
Now, however, I didn’t have any bags to be searching for, any products to unearth. It was just me and my publicist, who was, without a doubt, the person who knew me best in the entire world.
Her arms were still crossed, but her toe wasn’t tapping, which was why I knew that the worst of the storm of her temper had passed.
Maggie didn’t get mad often—fuck, I hadn’t even realized she’d had a temper until we’d worked together over a year. I’d just gotten my quote-unquote big break, and some gossip columnist had done some digging into my past. My juvenile case had been sealed, and I’d changed my name.
But no data in this world was ever safe, and he’d connected the dots.
The story had blown up in the absolute worst way.
I hadn’t been prepared for the attention, hadn’t been ready to face those memories. I’d had no security, no system, no backup.
Except Maggie.
Who was looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.
Ouch. That fucking hurt.
I needed to be doing something. Right now, I needed to find something to do with my hands, something that wasn’t looking at my friend, who was looking at me like I’d let her down in the absolute worst way.
Food.
Yes.
I was hungry. Tammy would be hungry, too. And she needed to eat in order to not get an upset stomach with her antibiotics and painkillers.
Dr. Stevens had said so.
And food was something I could make happen.
I crossed to the fridge, started pulling out ingredients for omelets. It was still early, definitely early enough for brunch, and omelets were brunch.
“Do you know if Tammy likes onions?” I asked, grabbing a pack of bacon, along with several peppers from the drawers. I glanced at the bacon, realized something else. “Is she a vegetarian?”
I’d been too busy with other things at the party the night before to see if she’d eaten something, and then she’d left, and I’d followed her—
So, yeah, I didn’t know if she actually ate bacon.
Or eggs. Or peppers, onions, and cheese.
Quiet for a long, long moment before she finally answered.
“She’s not a vegetarian,” Mags said. “And she’s one of the most easygoing people I know when it comes to food. She always says, so long as it’s not mooing, she’ll eat it.”
That made me chuckle.
Because it was such a Tammy thing to say.
Then I bent and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, began cracking eggs and frying up bacon.
Maybe the smell of the latter would lure her from the bedroom.
Or maybe I was slowly losing my mind, the encounter the previous night the final straw.
Also, yay for such happy thoughts before the sun was even at its highest point in the sky.
“You want one?” I asked Maggie, tossing her a glance over my shoulder.
Her mouth twisted, curving up to one side the way it always did when she was displeased with me but wouldn’t actually voice that displeasure until later.
Fine by me, I’d take the reprieve when and where I could find it.
“You want the works?”
More mouth twisting, paired with a begrudging nod, but she crossed to the cupboard where I kept the plates and pulled out three. Then she moved to the coffee maker my interior designer had included in the kitchen, one that I’d never used, and began brewing up a pot.
“I know you and I don’t drink it,” she said, retrieving a mug, “but Tammy needs her sludge to keep her mind functioning.” A beat. “And I’m guessing she’s going to need it, considering the storm that’s about to blindside her.”
I flipped the bacon, turned to face her. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“No, I was too busy.” I shrugged, turned back, thinking this story was the same as any other. It would be front page. It would be blasted around for a few days, but then it would blow over as something much more interesting happened.
“Too busy having sex with my childhood friend,” she muttered, just barely audible over the hissing and groaning of the coffee pot.
Biting back a sigh, I turned to face her. “What is between Tammy and me is between Tammy and me. Neither of us have to explain ourselves,” I said. “We’re both fucking adults, and what happens is our business.”
A long pause, then, “You’re right, of course.”
I nodded, focused on the bacon.
“Of course,” Maggie said, “you’re also wrong, very, very wrong. This is everywhere, Tal.”
I shrugged. “It’s always everywhere,” I said. “It’ll be bad for a bit, and it’ll roll over.”
Silence then, “Where’s your phone?”
“Why?” I asked, flipping the bacon.
“Phone, Tal.”
I pointed to the counter on the opposite side of the room, where I’d plugged it in the night before.
She moved to it, muttering, “That’s why you didn’t pick up when I called.”
To which I replied, “In fairness to me, I did try to reach you last night.”
To which she replied, “In text message, which I didn’t get until this freaking morning.
To which I replied, “I didn’t want to ruin your party.”
Which made her sigh and cross to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and hugging me tight. “You stubborn, wonderful man. I really do love you.” A sigh. “You’re in the absolute shit,” she said. “But I really, truly do love you.” Then she swiped her finger across the screen—because obviously, she knew my passcode after all these years—and began tapping away. After a moment, she held it up so I could see the screen.
She’d pulled up the security cameras for the front of my house, and the view made me wince. “Aw, fuck. The neighbors are going to hate me.”
A nod. “They’re all the way down to Murrieta. Most have their cars positioned on the side of the road, leaving the street mostly clear as they clustered by your front gate, but some are double-parked. I had to curse, meander, and snail’s pace my way up here.”
“Shit,” I muttered.
“The police have already arrived to clear out the double-parkers,” she said. “I called them right when I saw the tangle, and they’ll act quickly considering it’s blocking emergency access. But the group out front of the gate isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
That was to be expected.
“Also, I called the security company. They’ve staffed extra bodies instead of the usual pair of patrols. Already, they’ve had to remove three men with long range cameras from around the property, including one in the back yard.”
My breath caught.
I’d left the blinds open. My bedroom looked out into the back yard.
Fuck, had they—
Her hand covered mine. “This was earlier this morning, much earlier when I couldn’t reach you, so I called them. They reported you were sleeping when they caught the men and that they’d already cleared them out from near the pool area. They also erected a backdrop just beyond all the privacy foliage on the back of the house, just as another layer against prying eyes.” She handed me my phone. “The report is in your email.”
I released the breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. “Shit, Mags,” I whispered, finally starting to grasp that this was bigger.
“It’ll be okay.”
“You ha
ve to say that,” I muttered, pulling the bacon off, and needing to keep my hands busy, I began chopping ingredients while I gave the bacon time to drain. “It’s your job.”
“That’s true.”
I snorted.
She placed her hand on my back. “She’s fine. You’re fine. We’ll sort this out.”
Not feeling much better, I nodded. It would always feel like this—like the end of the world, like it was the worst thing to happen, like a huge tsunami was cresting my direction and it would swallow me under.
“Fucking paparazzi,” I muttered.
“They are a little annoying when they’re parked outside your front gate.”
I muttered and cursed some more.
A nudge on my back. “Good thing you’re moving.”
I snorted again, but this time it was paired with a chuckle, with an absurd sense of humor. Nothing about this was funny, and yet, what else could I do but find that note of comedy in it? “Property values have to go up. A major event happened out front.”
Mags’ lips twitched. “If only your real estate agent had my PR skills.”
“If only,” I said, grating some cheese. “If she did, I’d probably get double over asking.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” She made a grab for the block of cheese. “Go back to cracking eggs. I think we’re going to need all our strength to come up with a plan to handle this.”
I relinquished the block and grater, took up the eggs again, whisking them until they were fluffy—also chef school for a movie role had seriously helped me in this department. “Don’t you already have a plan?” I asked, ladling some of the prepared eggs into the pan.
An edgy silence.
“What?”
“Sometimes I don’t have it all figured out.”
My stomach sank, and I turned to face her. “Wh—” I cut the question off. “Oh, man, you’re evil.”
She patted my arm, topped the eggs in the pan with some cheese, prompting me to get to work with the peppers, onions, and bacon. “I just don’t want you to feel left out, is all. Sometimes you men like to be involved with all the plotting.”
“Hilarious,” I muttered.
