“What did you miss about me?”
“I missed your breath when we kiss. I missed your hands on me, when you touch me with the sole purpose to please me.” He takes his shirt off and tosses it behind him. My eyes lower, awakening other parts of his body. As he works on his belt and jeans, he says, “I missed being inside you and how when we’re like that, I never want to be anywhere else.”
My lips part as my expression surely must reveal my heart. I was never good at hiding my deepest emotions from him. He wants me as much as I want him. He slips off his jeans, then his boxer shorts and climbs under the covers. Lifting the covers on the side where I’m standing, he pats the bed. “Come here.” Then he says, “I miss you when you’re not here with me. I miss the way your eyes form two half-moons when you smile and a small dimple appears at the top of your left cheek when you’re laughing.” While I undress, he watches me, letting his gaze roam freely over my body. “I miss spooning you at night.”
I slip under the covers next to him. As we lie there in the room, naked in each other’s arms, we don’t move. We listen—with each of our breaths becoming shallower, harsher, and unsteady.
I turn to the side, our eyes meeting. With my finger tracing imaginary swirls across his chest, I say, “I missed kissing you and touching you. I missed you being inside me and feel half of a whole when we’re apart.” Reaching up, I touch his cheek. “I missed the way you watch me when you think I don’t see. I missed laughing. No one makes me laugh like you do. And I missed you spooning me. I just missed you.” I kiss him. “I’m so glad you’re home.” Moving even closer, our bodies become entangled together.
Reese Carmichael feels like my future wrapped in my arms. The girls I posed with during the shoot in the Maldives were gorgeous, but superficial. Reese has depth and beauty, the kind of beauty that I, despite my popularity, feel I would never have. And she loves me. She loves me as much as I love her. Yes, Reese is mine, but more importantly, she will be mine forever.
Thinking about the ring I saved up for, New Year’s couldn’t come fast enough.
Positioned between her legs, I push in. A breath is pushed out and I drink her in. While I kiss the underside of her chin, she says, “I’m so glad you’re not leaving again anytime soon.”
I still. Not wanting to ruin this moment for her, or me, I start moving again, ignoring the inevitable conversation I’ll be having with her soon.
A few hours later, the heat is on, but Reese is cold. She’s wearing pajama bottoms and my sweatshirt, fluffy socks and she’s drinking coffee as she studies at the table.
I watch her from the sofa, burning my burdens into her back. Honesty has never been an issue between us, but it suddenly feels like an insurmountable obstacle to me. I can tell her the truth and risk her wrath or worse, a breakup. I can lie to keep the peace.
But dishonesty isn’t a part of my makeup, especially when it comes to Reese. I would want to know, so I feel she will as well. “I kissed a girl.”
Reese’s head jerks around until her gaze lands heavy on mine. “What?”
“It didn’t mean anything. I had to do it for the campaign I was shooting.”
She sits there, stunned into silence, so I continue, releasing all the truths as my shoulders sag down. “We had to make out on the beach, in the water… in a bed. It had to look real.”
A line forms between her eyes as she turns her body to the side to face me. “Was it? Real?”
Standing up, I shake my head. “No. No, it wasn’t. I thought about you the whole time.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better, because right now I feel sick to my stomach.”
Hurrying over, I kneel next to her and put my hands on her legs. “It wasn’t real. It was all on set. Nothing more, but I did it. I did it because I had to for the job. But that’s all it was—a job.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.” Kind of. No. Fuck! I feel sick over that lie no matter how tiny it is. That kind of makes me reevaluate what I’m becoming after only one job. “I felt nothing for her.” That is true. She wasn’t my Reese. The model in the Maldives was a chain-smoking narcissist. No one was worth losing Reese over, especially not that model.
I wake up from the sun burning the back of my lids. Last night “something stronger” led me to do bad things… bad things like drinking tequila and tequila never leads to anything good from my experience. Okay, that one time in Ibiza was pretty damn good—Ouch!
My body hurts and my head is pounding. I roll over and right off the edge of the couch. When I hit hard, bright white tiles, I realize I’m at Luke’s. Fuckin’ tequila! Rolling onto my back, I lie there and close my eyes again. An image of how good Reese looked in that tight black skirt competes with the pounding in my brain. Shit. The whole reason I was drinking tequila in the first place was so I wouldn’t think about her and here she is the first thought I have in the morning. I thought I had successfully tucked her away with the other heartache she caused, but just one face to face and all those old emotions resurface. Fuck!
I sit up and rub my temples. When I see Luke passed out in a lounge chair on the patio, I start laughing, until that hurts my head, so I stop. Grabbing a pillow from the couch, I toss it as hard as I can and hit him in the head. He doesn’t budge.
After rolling my eyes, I stand up slowly and put on my sunglasses that are conveniently located on the coffee table next to me, and make my way into the kitchen. I grab two bottles of water from the fridge and search through the cabinets until I find Ibuprofen. Armed with what I hope is quick relief, I go back into the living room, pick up the pillow again and hit Luke over the head. “Wake up, princess.”
One eye, then the other opens and one side of his face scrunches together. “What are you doing here?”
“I was asking myself that same question.” Right after I was thinking about Reese’s hot little ass. I leave that part out of the conversation. Luke will never let me live it down if I don’t. I set down the pills and water, but remain standing. “What happened last night?”
“Beers. Shots. The pub. More beers. Tequila. Pancakes, I think. Janet—”
“Don’t you mean, Jenna?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve got one word for you—Jane.”
“If I could have Jane, I wouldn’t need Janet or Jenna.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” I ask, walking toward the door. “Maybe Janet and Jenna are the reason you don’t have Jane.”
“You’ve got all the advice in the world except when it comes to yourself. I’ve got one word for you—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Reese.” He laughs. “Hey look. I said it and nothing happened. The Earth didn’t open beneath your feet and swallow you whole. The apocalypse didn’t happen. The sun is still shining. Too brightly I might add, and guess what?”
“You’re an asshole?”
“We all know I’m an asshole. Guess again, Dan Man.”
Checking my watch, I realize I need to go if I want to get some Zs before the dreaded dinner tonight. Done with this conversation, I turn around and ask, “What? Just say it.”
“You survived hearing her name.”
“Whatever. I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, Danny?”
“What?” I shout over my shoulder as I open the door.
“You also talk in your sleep.”
With my hand on the handle, my gaze lands hard on the wood of the door and I glare straight ahead, freezing in place. He doesn’t need any encouragement from me. I just gave him plenty of ammo, and like the best friend he is, he’s not afraid to use it. “You won’t let me say her name, but you’ll mumble it all night long. How does that work when you have a lady friend staying the night?”
“You were right about one thing.” He doesn’t say anything, so I do. “You are an asshole.” I walk out to my Jeep. Sitting there I pop the pills and down the water. I start my engine and drive home, annoyed the whole way back. What the fuck ever with her
and my so-called best friend? I don’t need that bullshit spewed back at me. I can take advice, even my own occasionally. It’s just not wise to do so. I learned that the hard way ten years earlier.
Move on.
Yep. That’s what I’ll do. Once again. Just like she did so easily from me.
So tonight is only business. I’ll lay it on thick, wine and dine them, seduce them with charm and make them never regret hiring me. I park at the curb out in front of my house and with a firm plan in place, I go inside and crash for a few hours.
My dreams are heavy, my past back to haunt me.
5
REESE
The gardens around the hotel are lush, the room brightly decorated in florals, evoking the Southern Californian vibe. The French doors are wide open letting the sunshine in while I stand in front of the minibar debating if the rosé or the pinot grigio complements the swarm of butterflies that have invaded my stomach.
I was prepared. Hell, I planned the meeting. As soon as he entered that room earlier today, I discovered I wasn’t prepared at all.
Tall. So tall. I’d almost forgotten how he eclipsed the average man, burying them in his shadow. His smile brightens any room. Two small—and incredibly sexy—dimples that captured more than my imagination, they caught my heart. My thoughts were fuzzy under the warming gaze I hadn’t been privy to for far too long. His eyes were never just one shade of brown, but twenty shades from molasses to maple syrup. Even all these years later I discover in an LA office that caramel plays a part, instantly throwing all my insides into a complete tizzy as if I were still my twenty-year-old self.
With an enviable jawline covered with more than a night’s dusting of beard, he’s sexy in spades, and regret immediately fills my chest for thinking I ever stood a chance getting over that man. But his looks were never the issue.
It’s not right for him to look so damn good after all these years. Doesn’t he age like the rest of us? Surely whatever he’s doing to stay young, that hot, just like he did so long ago has to be black market. Me in my corporate black suit—Ugh! I’m so embarrassed.
The blue dress. I should have worn the blue dress. We’re in LA, not Manhattan. A glass of rosé is poured and I stand on the balcony, sipping, and looking out over the pool. The peace and serenity of the hotel doesn’t ease my regrets or whatever else this feeling that has invaded is—mortification? No, too strong. Shyness? No, too weak. I down another sip to douse the doubts creeping in. I’m caught in the middle of an emotional landslide when there’s a knock on my door. The glass has been emptied, so I set it down on my way to answer the door.
As soon as I open it, Vittori rushes in. “You’ve got to tell me everything. Everything. Every. Last. Detail.” His accent seems to have slipped away and a New York dialect has replaced it.
“C’mon in,” I say, waving my arm like I’m rolling out the red carpet, though he’s already passed me.
He walks right for the balcony and looks out. When he turns around, he looks satisfied, and says, “Nice view.” He shrugs. “Mine’s better. I’m over the garden and apparently some nearby neighbors have decided to have a pool party. The guests are naked and playing with their balls.”
“What?” The door slams shut behind me and I stand there with wide eyes staring at him.
“Beach balls, dear Reese. My, your innocence is charming.”
Rolling my eyes, I walk to the bed and sit on the edge. “Did you want to discuss the campaign?” I have no idea why he’s here.
“No,” he replies sitting down next to me. With his hand patting my leg, he looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. “I want to discuss that hunk of man that couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“So you’re not really Italian?”
“No.” He swooshes his hand in the air. “Pfft. Of course not. As an Italian from Brooklyn I couldn’t get the internships I wanted at the big fashion houses in Manhattan. They have stereotypes in the industry and I didn’t fit what they were looking for back then, so I created it.” Standing in flourish, he spins around before landing heavily back down next to me. “But keep that our secret.”
“If it’s a secret, why are you telling me?”
Another shrug is followed by his arm cradling me to him. “Because I like you. I think you’re wonderful.”
“You don’t really know me.”
“I know you enough to see we’re cut from the same cloth.”
“Nice fashion reference there,” I say sitting up. “But I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Standing he walks to the minibar and looks in. “We need champagne.”
He’s a whirling dervish of frivolity. I love his energy, but I’m shocked by this whole new side of him. “Go on. Order the champers.”
“Okay, fancy pants. Settle down.” I pick up the phone and order a bottle of Veuve from room service, then join him on the balcony. “Ordered. I think your view sounded more interesting.”
Perking up, his smile grows. “Yes, send the champagne to my room.” He hooks his arm in mine and says, “Lots of good eye-candy there. Let’s go.”
I call and have the champagne sent there instead and we head to his room. The champagne arrives when we do. I watch Vittori eyeing the cute delivery guy who is popping the bottle open and pouring it for us. He tips the guy big lingering his hand in his until the guy smiles and thanks him. The delivery guy is obviously straight since he seems completely clueless to the major come on, but it is amusing to watch.
His room is larger than mine and has a balcony with lounge chairs. We take up our positions, pretending to get some rays when we are both enjoying watching the pool party over the large hedge and brick wall.
Vittori clinks his glass to mine and says, “My real name is Vincent. My mom calls me Vinnie. You don’t have to call me Mr. Vittori.”
“Can I call you Vinnie?”
He nods. “Vinnie it is. Now that I’ve let my hair down for you, I want to hear about Model Danny.”
Bubbles clog in my throat and I spew the champagne. Hacking. Coughing. Grabbing my throat, I cough again to clear it. My voice is jagged, not sounding like me at all when I try to speak, “Excuse me?” I cough again and try taking a deep breath to relax my throat to get control of my breathing.
He’s laughing. At me. “I rest my case.” Sipping his champagne, I see one perfectly styled eyebrow rise in a clear, I told you so arch.
When my breathing evens out, I say, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You sure about that, Candy?”
“Candy?”
“I see beneath that hard sugar coating of yours. I get vibes from people and yours are good. A little damaged, but whose aren’t, so let’s drop the deep and dive into the shallow. The sparks flew between you two. I stepped back to make sure I didn’t get burned.”
I scoff and turn so I’m facing forward, unable to hold eye contact with him. Anyway, he’ll see right through me if I don’t. “We barely said two words to each other.”
“No words would have sufficed. Fire I’m telling you. On fire! So this whole campaign is just a ruse? You know, to get the man?”
“No,” comes rushing from my mouth. “I would never do that.”
“Oh, calm down, Candy.” He waves me off. “I’m teasing about the set up. I’ve seen you in action for months now working on this project. I know how dedicated you are to the finished product.” Eyeing me devilishly, he smacks my arm playfully and leans in. “But he was hot, right?”
“So hot.” Fine. I admit it. Danny Weston is hot.
Refilling my glass, he looks up. “Super hot. Now I understand why he’s a supermodel.”
“I think he’s going to make the menswear line look amazing. Not that it’s not amazing on its own, but on his body…” I swoon a little inside. Damn him and his incredible body. My mouth dries as I try to remember if his shoulders were that broad in college, but I struggle to push down the pain that comes with the memories.
“You can keep tryi
ng to change the subject, but I’m really great at dragging us right back to Danny and your connection. You felt one, right? It looked like you did.”
The speed of his words, mixed with thoughts of Danny, make my head spin. Maybe it’s my emotions that feel like they’re spinning out of control. The story of us… “Not all fairy tales end with a happily ever after.”
“Tell me more.”
Drunk.
This is what drunk feels like, though I’ve only had the two glasses. “I’m not feeling well.” I put one foot down to ground me and then level my eyes on something still—my Fitbit.
Hooting and hollering distracts him and Vinnie rushes to the railing to get a better look at the men at the party next door. As he fans himself, he proclaims, “Good Lord, have mercy on my soul, this is what fantasies are made of.”
“Maybe you should join the party,” I suggest, enjoying his reaction to the buff men. Until I sit up and get a better gander. “Whoa!” I stand and join him at the railing. “I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention. My oh my.”
“My oh my is right.”
Another minute passes, then he turns to look at me, lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, and really looks at me. “You’re really pretty.”
A blush floods my cheeks from the unexpected compliment. “Thank you.”
“What are you wearing to dinner?”
Ten minutes later I walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, and then twirl for him. “I only have this dress with me.”
“I love it. Fits you perfectly. But I don’t want you dressing for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“This dress is great for functions—business, cocktail parties even, the theater,” he says, switching his accent to mimic upper social circles of Manhattan. “I want you to dress to knock socks off.”
With a hand to my hip and a look that backs my attitude, I say, “And let me guess. You have just the someone in mind that you want me to knock the socks off of?”
He nods enthusiastically, and answers with a huge grin, “Danny.”
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 262
