He looked her in the eyes, trying so hard not to feel anything. “There’s nothing there that I can’t replace.”
He didn’t feel like crap when she choked and buried her face in her hands. He didn’t feel like the world’s biggest ass when he slid into Eli’s car. He didn’t feel like he was as bad as Levinson, or worse.
As Eli put the pedal to the metal for parts unknown, J.R. only knew one thing.
He didn’t want to feel anything.
Fifteen
“Can I get you a snack, sweetie?”
Thalia did her best not to roll her eyes at her mother. As if another bowl of potato chips would make everything all better. “No thanks, Mom.”
She’d been visiting, as Mom insisted on calling it, for a week now, and Mom was doing everything but coddling her. Mostly, it was driving her nuts. She’d lived by herself for so long that having to share a bathroom with a woman who had a shaky definition of privacy and having to sleep in a twin daybed with a ruffled duvet seemed like insult on top of injury. However, homemade meals, a shoulder to cry on and the kind of unconditional love that didn’t exist in Hollywood went a long way. Thalia could use a little coddling after her collapse, so she worked on overlooking the irritating parts.
Only two weeks had passed since life as she knew it had ended on the sidewalk outside a club. She’d tried to stick it out in Hollywood, but with each day that passed, it had become that much clearer that there was no fixing the mess she’d found herself in. Even the baristas at her favorite coffee shop had looked at her funny. No one took her calls. The only person who responded to her emails was Levinson’s personal assistant, Marla, and that was mostly out of fear that she was next on the chopping block.
Levinson was so enraged that he’d had a mild heart attack, which was another thing he was going to sue J.R. for. Apparently, the list of legal claims he had against J.R. was quite long. Not that Thalia knew firsthand, but Marla had taken to sending her private emails with hour-by-hour updates. The movie had fallen apart after her public character assassination. Clint and Morgan had both backed out as word of the fight spread around town, and once that news hit, Denzel wasn’t far behind. She was taking more than her fair share of the blame, but, according to Levinson’s assistant, other deals were in danger. The untouchable producer was suddenly vulnerable.
Not that the thought gave Thalia much comfort. At this point, not even Mom’s homemade chocolate chip waffles did much to improve her outlook. She’d messed up in every possible way. She knew—and Mom kept reminding her—that she’d get past this. She had once before. But she was almost thirty, for God’s sake. She felt a little too old to be starting over. At the age where most of the girls she’d gone to high school with were going to soccer games and school parties, Thalia was living with her mother again, unemployed and broke. The only assets she had were her high-end clothes, which she was auctioning off on eBay to the highest bidder. She tried to use the money to help buy groceries, but Mom wouldn’t hear of it. Thalia had left almost everything else behind. Like J.R. had said, there wasn’t much there that she couldn’t replace.
The question she couldn’t bring herself to answer was whether or not he intended to replace her.
So she was approaching middle age, single, unemployed, living with her mom and had $429.34 in her bank account. This was going to go down in history as the most miserable Valentine’s Day ever. “Getting past this” seemed as easy as climbing Mount Everest in flip-flops. She couldn’t see how she was going to do it.
Not to mention that her heart was broken. Why hadn’t she planned on the contingency of Levinson using the affair against her—against J.R.? She knew the answer. She’d let her feelings for J.R. blind her to the real danger Levinson posed to both of them.
She’d tried to keep J.R. from going to Hollywood. She knew she had, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have done something more. She shouldn’t have let him get on that plane, but she couldn’t see how she would have kept him off it. When J.R. made up his mind, there was no unmaking it. And then he’d decided that he hated her, just like that. She knew she wouldn’t be able to change his mind, but again she had that nagging feeling that she should have tried a little harder.
He hadn’t listened to her when she told him not to come, and he hadn’t listened to her outside the club. At some point, a girl had to cut her losses. And sometimes, there was nothing left to cut.
Thalia had lost everything. That was the sort of realization that made getting up in the morning hard to face, no matter how great the bacon smelled.
The doorbell rang. Thalia cringed, wishing she could be more invisible. Some resourceful reporters had tracked her down to her mother’s house outside of Norman, Oklahoma, and were persistent—bordering on stalking—about getting details for resale.
“I’ll get it,” Mom said, casting a motherly eye over Thalia’s yoga pants and sweatshirt outfit.
Hey, Thalia thought at her mother’s back, at least they’re clean. Why, she’d even showered today. She felt almost human.
She was headed back to the kitchen, to make sure that no one was trying to sneak in the back door while Mom was distracted at the front one, when Mom hissed, “It’s him!”
That tripped Thalia up so fast she stumbled. “Him who?” Because it couldn’t be the one him she wanted to see. It couldn’t be J.R. He’d made up his mind about her.
“Him!” Mom was panicking, her hands flapping like a goose failing at takeoff. “That man!”
“I’m not here.” Even as she said it, she hurried to the front door, peeking through the sheer curtains that covered the side window.
J. R. Bradley—complete with hat—stood on her mother’s front porch, looking as stoic as she’d ever seen him. He was studying the tips of his boots, his expression unreadable. His face looked odd. He was growing his beard out again, and he hadn’t quite got it matched up to the goatee. She looked around. No truck, just a car that was probably a rental.
Part of her ached at the sight of him. He was dressed well, in nice jeans and a heathered blazer that matched his hat. No bolo tie today, but he’d clearly put some thought into his outfit. She knew she’d missed him, but seeing him there crystallized the loneliness into a pain so sharp that she didn’t think she could breathe.
“What do I do?” Mom whispered. How nice that Thalia wasn’t the only one panicking.
“Tell him I’m not here. I’m out.” She had on sweats and no makeup. That alone would make her hesitant to go face-to-face with the person who had been, until a few weeks ago, the man of her dreams.
But him showing up, with no other communication since he’d roared off with Eli Granger? What else could he say to her?
Unless he’d come to apologize. Although she couldn’t say why, that scared the heck out of her. What would he say? What would she say back? No. She wasn’t ready for him. Not now, maybe not ever.
Mom cracked the door open. “May I help you?” Thalia had to hand it to her—she was doing a fine job acting not-panicked.
“Mrs. Thorne? You don’t know me, but my name is J. R. Bradley, and I’m trying to find your daughter, Thalia.” Even though he was fuzzy through the fabric, Thalia thought she saw his eyes cut to where she was watching him. She jumped back, terrified he had seen her. “Is she home?”
“No, I’m sorry. Thalia’s not here right now.” Mom even managed to sound a little sympathetic. Maybe that acting thing ran in the family.
“Do you know when she’ll be back? I’ve got some things to say to her, and I’d like to say them in person.”
Thalia’s mouth ran dry as she waited to hear what her mother would come up with. Was he here to apologize? He’d said so himself—he wasn’t real good at apologizing. It didn’t seem likely that he’d come all this way to tell her off again. The J.R. she knew had a short temper, but he wasn�
�t intentionally cruel. He wouldn’t have come a few extra thousand miles to break her heart a second time.
She hoped, anyway.
“She’s at a job interview at the local television station. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
Not shabby, thought Thalia. Probably better than anything she would have come up with.
A moment of silence followed, and Thalia realized she was holding her breath. What if he wouldn’t leave? Or worse, what if he did?
J.R. cleared his throat. “Will you tell her I stopped by, please? Tell her to call me? My number hasn’t changed. She should still have it.”
“I’ll pass the message along.” Mom shut the door, then sagged against it. “Was that okay?” she whispered.
Thalia nodded, but she was paying attention to what was going on outside. J.R. stood there for a moment before he glanced back to where Thalia hoped the curtains were hiding her. Then he turned around, took two steps down the stairs—and stopped. There, on the sidewalk, stood a man with a camera. The flash was going at top speed.
Paparazzi. In Oklahoma. Snagging photos of a cowboy. Everything about this seemed wrong.
The words were muffled, but she could piece together what was happening. J.R. was telling the photographer to stop, the photographer was ignoring him and J.R. was getting mad.
“Damn it,” she muttered, shoving her feet into the closest pair of shoes she had, a ratty pair of sandals that perfectly complimented her look. She knew where this would end up. J.R. would wind up breaking the man’s camera, and there’d be another lawsuit. “When will he realize the whole world is not a honky-tonk?”
“Honey?” Mom hadn’t moved from the door. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep the cops from getting involved.” With a final reproachful look, Mom stepped to the side.
Thalia was out the door, trying to ignore her vanity. It wasn’t hard, given that J.R. was actively attempting to grab the man’s camera. Was physical violence far behind? “Hey!” At the sound of her voice, both men froze in mid-lunge-and-dodge. “What’s your name?”
“George,” the man said, taking a cautionary step away from J.R.
For his part, J.R. was dumbstruck. His mouth hung open as he watched her close the distance between them. She wanted to think that he was happy to see her, but she wasn’t sure.
“You got a buyer for this photo?” she asked George the paparazzo.
“TMZ,” he replied, looking nervous. Must be new at this, despite the expensive camera, she thought.
“Here’s the deal, George. You get one photo of the both of us, and then you get off my mother’s lawn. If I see your face around here again, well, I can’t be responsible for what happens next.” She pointedly looked at J.R., whose hand still hung midgrab. “Deal?”
George shifted from one foot to the next, not sure if this was something that was done or not. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look serious? Here.” She stood next to J.R., lowering his hand and placing it around her waist. “One shot, George. Make it count, because he’s a card-carrying member of the NRA.”
George lost a little of his color, and Thalia noted with satisfaction that his camera shook as he focused the shot. “Is smiling part of the deal?” he asked, the terror in his voice obvious.
“No,” J.R. said.
“Thought you used to be this great actor,” she muttered under her breath while she tried to strike a pose that would hide everything about her appearance. Which was a colossal waste of time—nothing about the way she looked right now was salvageable. But this was the deal.
J.R.’s hand pressed against her side, and she swore she felt the heat through her sweatshirt. “You’re home,” he said through clenched teeth while George focused his camera.
“You’re here,” she replied.
Then George said, “Smile?” and took his one shot. “Thanks.”
J.R. half lunged at George. “Get,” he growled, and George got. Fast.
Which left Thalia and J.R. standing on her mother’s lawn, arm in arm. For a second, neither of them moved. Moving would mean dealing with what had brought him here, and she still didn’t think she could handle it. Whatever it was.
J.R.’s chest rose with an extra-deep breath. “You’re good at that.”
“Good at what?” She refused to look at him, even though she was touching him.
“Handling those kinds of situations.”
What the hell. If this was an apology, it was a piss-poor one. Suddenly, she realized why she wasn’t ready to talk to him. She was freaking furious with the man. “You mean the kinds of situations where people treat you like a commodity instead of a person? Yes. I’m familiar with the protocol. Unlike some people I know.”
She felt, more than saw, his shoulders slump. Fine. He’d attempted to apologize, and she’d, well, she’d heard him out. They could be done now.
She disengaged herself from his arm and headed back into the house. She wasn’t surprised in the least to hear his footfalls behind her, but she was too mad to care.
“Ma’am,” J.R. said behind her, and she swore she heard him tip his hat to her mother.
“Hello again. Thalia, I’ll...get some coffee?”
Right. A grown woman probably didn’t want her mother in the room while she hashed out her last failed affair. “Thanks, Mom.”
For lack of anything better to do, she sat down at one end of the dining-room table. She was so mad at J.R. that she was having trouble not yelling at him. But she was familiar with the protocol, so she waited until he took a seat. Of course he took the one closest to her. “What brings you down to Norman?”
“You.”
At that moment, Mom bustled into the dining room with coffee and fresh cookies on a silver tray. “There you two go. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Mom,” Thalia said, feeling like a fifteen year old again.
“Mrs. Thorne, thank you. This is wonderful.” J.R. looked to her for approval. Well, what did she know—he could pull off some social graces when he put his mind to it. “You have a lovely home.”
Hand to God, Mom blushed like a schoolgirl. Thalia was seconds away from rolling her eyes. “Oh, you’re welcome, Mr. Bradley. I’ll just...be in the kitchen if you need any more coffee.”
Neither of them said anything until Mom was out of sight. Thalia knew she was still listening, but at least she wasn’t hovering over them.
They sat in silence, neither of them apparently knowing how to start. Thalia was still reeling from the realization that she was mad at J.R. She’d spent the last two weeks being upset with herself for not doing a better job of controlling the situation, and she hated Levinson. She hadn’t allowed herself to put some of the blame on J.R.
Until now, that was.
“I got a box of my things.” J.R. took one of the cups of coffee off the tray, but he didn’t drink it. “No return address, no note.”
She’d mailed his stuff to him on her second-to-last day in California. She’d almost thrown it all in the trash, but she couldn’t get rid of him that easily. “You were expecting a note?” He nodded, and that made her mad all over again. “If you think I’m going to apologize, well, think again.”
“Wasn’t expecting an apology.” Then he got up and stood in front of the large picture window. Not looking at her, she noted. Maybe now they were getting somewhere. “I was kind of hoping for an explanation.”
“What was I supposed to do, J.R.? If I told you that I’d had an affair with Levinson, you would have thought less of me—which you did when you found out. If I didn’t tell you, you’d think I was lying to you when you did find out—which also happened. There was no way for me to win in this situation. Either way, I come off looking like Levinson’s whore, when what happened nine-plus years ago was none of you
r business anyway.”
When he didn’t say anything, she kept going, if only so she didn’t have to hear the painful silence. “I had an agent who was getting me into parties. I met Levinson. Of course I knew who he was, but you’ve got to remember—there were no smartphones back then, and if I wanted to get on the internet, I had to go to an internet café. I couldn’t even afford dial-up. I had no way of knowing he was married. Yes, I slept with him, of my own accord.” She couldn’t believe her own ears. Despite the fact that she didn’t owe him an explanation, here she was, explaining anyway. “I had no idea that was what he did—take advantage of eager, innocent women like me. Then his wife showed up and got me blackballed. No one would hire me. Even my agent dropped me like a rock. I was broke and clueless because I believed him when he told me he loved me and promised he could jump-start my career. If you want to hold my naivety against me, so be it. But I will not apologize for it.”
He stood there, staring out the window so hard that Thalia began to wonder if George the paparazzo had come back, if J.R. was even listening to her. Then he said, “You don’t owe me an apology. I’d like to know how you wound up working for the man who ruined your career. Can I ask that?” It could have come off as snotty or snarky, a cut meant to draw blood from someone who had seen her naked, but it didn’t. It came across as an honest question.
So she gave him an honest answer. “I was about to be evicted. Days away from having to come home to Oklahoma, tail tucked between my legs. I used my last ten bucks to bribe the security guard to let me into his office, and I told him that he had to give me a job or I’d make him pay.” She thought she saw J.R.’s mouth curve up in a smile, but he wasn’t exactly facing her, so she couldn’t be sure. “He called security on me, but by the time they got there, he’d taken pity on me, which may have been the only time he ever took pity on another living being in his entire, miserable life. Gave me a job as a gofer. I didn’t sleep with him again after that, and I earned my place at the table.” Had he taken pity on her, or had he seen another innocent, vulnerable young woman he could control—except instead of through sex, this time through a paycheck? Had her life ever been her own since the day Bob Levinson walked into it? “I lost my career because I made a mistake. And you know what happened to Levinson?”
Harlequin Desire February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: The King Next DoorMarriage With BenefitsA Real Cowboy (Kings of California) Page 50
