I told myself I wouldn't let a woman get in the way and derail my dreams, and I was adamant about that, until Elle. She's a force I hadn’t been expecting.
"She," I respond, "has been helpful in my recovery. The sooner I heal, the sooner I can get back to the grind." I look across the room again and back to Elle, who's standing at the bathroom counter rubbing lotion all over her perfect face. My stomach twists into a giant knot when I think about leaving here . . . not seeing Elle every morning and every night, not curling up to her in this bed, my nose pressed to her neck.
"What's the address, Kas? I'll have it delivered to you first thing in the morning. This is it, this is the one." His voice hitches with excitement. "You need to do whatever it takes to get you back to one hundred percent . . . and fast."
The bathroom light flicks off, and Elle saunters across the plush carpet toward the bed, looking like a vision. Her natural beauty on full display.
"You got it," I say, lowering my voice. "I'll text you the address. You know, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make it, Dom. That's why I'm here, this is my dream." As Elle approaches the bed, she cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly though the rest of her face is expressionless.
What is she thinking?
Dominic's voice pulls my thoughts away from Elle and back to our conversation.
"That's what I like to hear. Don't let your ankle or any other distractions get to you. This role is butter in your hands. It's yours to lose." He actually lets out a sly laugh just as I disconnect the call.
Nine
Elle
It hits me then. Really hits me.
The hottest man I’d ever seen was in my bed, and he was actually kind of a nice guy, sweet and charming and thoughtful and oh so wrong for me.
It was never more obvious than when I realized he was on the phone talking with his agent.
This boy was an actor.
And actors? They acted, and the only thing I could do as I stood there was wonder if all that sweet, caring charm was just a part of the scene. The scene where the good-looking man manipulated the stupid, foolish girl.
I didn’t want to be her.
Not ever again.
He placed his phone back on my nightstand and turned a soft smile in my direction. “What are you doing over there looking so serious?”
I released a nervous giggle and fiddled with the hem of my tank.
“Makin’ ya nervous, Princess?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m not exactly the nervous type.”
“Is that so? You’re looking awful nervous to me. I won’t bite.”
“That was exactly what I was wondering.”
His brow lifted in question.
“Whether you bite or not,” I filled in his unspoken question.
His laughter was a rumble. “You’re worried about me biting?” He swept a hand over his leg that was propped on the pillows at the base of my bed. “I’m kind of invalid right now. I think it’s you I should be worried about.”
Another eyeroll. “Hardly. I couldn’t hurt you if I tried.”
“Funny, since you’re the one who put me in this state.”
He grinned a grin that tightened my belly into a knot of lust. I came to the quick conclusion that kind of charm couldn’t be feigned. He’d been born with it.
“Are you ever going to let me live that down?”
“I don’t know,” he drew out the tease.
God. This boy made me forget myself. Lose my head. Forget the very promise I’d made myself. Because I was moving that way a bit, loving the way he was looking at me.
“What do I have to do to make it all go away?” So what if I injected a little pout into it, hips swaying just a fraction as I moved across the floor.
His gaze swept me. Head to toe. “You can start by getting that cute little butt in this bed. Maybe then we can talk about it.”
I planted my hands on the bed. “Is that all it is going to take?”
He shifted so he was propped up on one elbow so he was facing me. His abdomen flexed, muscles hard and defined. The very distraction that had gotten me here in the first place.
“How about we start there?”
He reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, hauling me onto the bed. I yelped and then laughed as I hit the mattress. Instantly, his fingers went to my ribs.
Oh my God! Was he actually tickling me?
I howled with laughter, gripping at his hands, trying to pry them away. “Oh my God, Kas. Stop. Stop. I’m going to pee.”
It only encouraged him, and his hands were moving all over, jabbing across my belly, grabbing on to my inner thighs, but then he was over me, tapping his fingers right into my thundering chest.
He slowed, the energy he’d whipped into the air stilling around us, hugging us tight.
Awareness taking hold.
He stared down at me while I stared up at him.
Enraptured.
So close to falling.
My tongue darted out to wet my lips.
He groaned. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why’s that?” I said, so throaty I was pretty sure it might have been a plea. An invitation for him to come closer while the rational side of me was imploring him to stop. To get the few things he had there and get out. Go home.
He’d managed to plant both hands on either side of my head, his body twisted off to the side as he hovered over me to keep his foot guarded.
“Because if you do, I’m going to kiss you.”
He held his weight, pushing up so he could let his eyes trail over my body.
Lust shimmered. A glimmer from his smooth, olive skin.
Would one kiss be all that bad? A mistake? It wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to handle a man.
Gazing up at him, I wondered if I could really handle this one.
He was every single thing I’d promised myself I’d never go for.
The epitome of what I was guarding myself against.
When he looked back, a smirk had taken to his face. “And if I kiss you, you’ll be begging me not to stop.”
There it was.
The evidence that I really couldn’t handle this man.
I wiggled out from beneath him, searching around in my brain for the same kind of commitment I’d had when I’d party until six in the morning back at UCLA and still dragged my ass out of bed in time for my eight o’clock class.
It was brutal and hard, but I did it because I knew that, in the end, it was going to pay off.
Kas huffed a little sound, his expression telling me he had no idea how to read me when he plopped back onto his side facing me.
He hesitated for a second before he said, “I meant what I said this morning.”
“I did, too,” I told him, a bit of regret making its way into my words. “I told you I don’t date actors.”
He pursed his full lips, as if he’d immediately put a lid on all the flirty teasing. “And why’s that, Elle? Seems to me it narrows down your options, considering you live in Hollywood.”
“Actors are assholes.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
He rolled onto his back and weaved his fingers through his soft hair.
Something shivered through me.
The urge to do it for him.
Damn, had he slipped right under my skin.
I mean, God, he’d basically shacked up with me, and I didn’t know a single important thing about him.
All except for the one that mattered most.
He rolled his head toward me, brown eyes narrowed. “I have to admit, I’ve met a few assholes out there, but it’s a pretty bold assumption for you to make about every actor.”
“Is it?”
“Hello.” He waved his hand dramatically in the air. “Hugh Jackman. Tom Hanks. Nicest guys in the world. Tell me you wouldn’t date Hugh Jackman.” He grinned when he said the last.
I giggled, rolled to my side. I couldn�
��t help but be drawn to his outlook. The way he was so easy-going. Maybe this city hadn’t had the time to go to his pretty head.
I rolled onto my side so we were facing each other, both my hands pressed under my cheek as my gaze wandered over his face.
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” he said, still smiling.
“And what brought you here?”
He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the windows overlooking the city. “That Hollywood sign you have such a great view of? Could see it all the way from Illinois.”
He let his gaze glide to the ceiling. I could almost see him picturing the sign as a child.
“Really?” I chewed at my bottom lip, looking at his profile.
“Really.” He nodded before he shifted his face back in my direction. “You know, through the television.”
Laughing, I reached out and smacked his chest. “You jerk.”
He grabbed at my hand before I could pull it away, pressing it flat across his chiseled, strong chest.
Nope, he did not fight fair. Not at all.
“No, but seriously, all I ever talked about growing up was moving here one day.” His voice turned wistful. “The day I turned eighteen, I packed a bag, hopped into my car, and drove straight through until the sign came into view.”
Maybe he was different, after all.
He shifted to look back at me. “What about you?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Ah, so you’ve probably run into your fair share of actors.”
Regret and the last vestiges of hurt that reminded me to never make the same mistake again pulled tight against my ribs.
“You could say that.”
He stared, waiting, still holding my hand over the pound, pound, pound of his heart.
“I dated one once,” I quietly admitted.
“He was no Hugh Jackman?”
A bluff of laughter filtered out. “No, he was no Hugh Jackman. He was just using me until he didn’t need me anymore.”
Blindfolding me with his beauty and charisma and promises, using me as a step stool. One to get to my daddy.
It’d hurt in the worst way when I’d found out.
“You want me to kick his ass?” He grinned. So sweet.
Beauty. Charisma. Promises.
What if Kas was the same?
“Stop that,” he chided.
I frowned, and he reached out and smoothed the pad of his thumb between my eyes. “Stop thinking I’m just like him. I promise that I’m not,” he answered for me.
“But what if you are?” Like a fool, I asked, the question nothing but an admission of vulnerability.
“And what if I’m not?”
“I’m not sure I know how to tell the difference.”
He blew out a resigned breath before something carefree took to his expression. “Come here, let me cuddle that cute butt of yours.”
“We are not cuddling.” Of course, it was nothing but laughter echoing from my walls when he wrapped me in those ridiculously strong arms and tugged me against his chest.
He smacked my bottom.
I yelped again.
“Oh, Princess. There’s so much more to you than another pretty face.”
I buried my face in his neck, my arms bent and pressed between us, as if I were subconsciously putting a barrier between him and my heart.
Because I was starting to wonder if there wasn’t so much more to him, too.
Ten
Kassius
Elle and I have fallen into a sort of routine. She goes to work, and I stay at her place, reviewing scripts that Dom sends me and making sure dinner is ready and waiting when she gets home each night.
Yesterday, she fulfilled her end of the deal and took me to get my cast. Since the swelling started to subside, it doesn’t hurt so damn much, which makes it easier to get around. Only I’m not ready to let Elle know that.
I still have her help me shower, tuck me in every night, and she makes us breakfast every morning before she leaves for work. While she’s gone, I do my best to get some sits up in, plank work done, and I think I did eight-thousand arm curls with Elle’s tiny ten-pound dumbbells I found tucked away in her closet. I was so fucking bored yesterday, I popped in one of her yoga DVDs and did yoga for an hour. Shit’s hard, who knew?
Guilt kicks me in the stomach every night when she walks in the door, looking tired. The last thing she needs is to be taking care of my ass, but here I am. I’m not ready to let her go yet.
I’ve basically become a goddamn domestic goddess, ordering groceries online and planning menus. I was prepared to clean, too, until the cleaning lady showed up and scared the living shit out of me. Elle forgot to tell me she had someone come every other week to clean her condo, do her laundry, and change her sheets. The older lady was just as surprised to see me propped on Elle’s couch in my underwear as I was to see her bounding through the door with an armful of cleaning supplies.
Once the awkwardness of our introduction wore off, we laughed about it, and Camila was all too kind to do my laundry as she was doing Elle’s. Her interrogation told me she was genuinely invested in Elle, and I appreciated that about her. It was also nice to have some company during the day, and she let me practice my shitty Spanish with her while she laughed her ass off at my pronunciation of basic words like pollo, or chicken. Who knew it wasn’t pronounced po-lo?
Camila helped me prep the marinade for the chicken I was going to grill tonight and she chopped vegetables, too. She kept shooing me away and telling me to, “Sit, Mijo. You’re hurt,” and pointing at my ankle. I was hoping to pick up some additional pointers from her, but she insisted on making me prop up my foot while she finished prepping our dinner. I gave her some extra cash, as I know meal prep is outside the duties Elle hired her for.
Knowing that my days are numbered before Elle catches on to my bullshit, I decide to make tonight count. I pull out the big guns—candles, placemats, wine . . . the whole nine-yards. The chicken that marinated all day is grilled to utter perfection, and the veggies are seasoned and roasted perfectly. I even have a goddamn cheesecake delivered from that high-end grocery store down the road.
I open a chilled bottle of pinot grigio and pour a glass of beer into a frosty mug for me. Never been a big wine drinker.
Elle stumbles in the door around seven thirty, just like she does every night, dropping her purse on the floor next to the door. She kicks off her heels, which she doesn’t need because she’s already long and lean.
Her eyes dance around the kitchen, and I swear I see a flash of disappointment before she finds me sitting at the table in the dining room that most likely never gets used.
“Kas?” I have the lights off, and the candles add just the right amount of light to the dining room. Enough to see everything but dim enough to make it perfectly romantic.
I tap the glass top dining table next to her place setting as she saunters over. “This is amazing,” she remarks, taking it all in. The candles, flickering brightly. The glass of wine that sits poured and waiting for her, the food all plated and ready to be eaten. All for her. Because she deserves it, and the look on her face makes me happier than I’ve felt in . . . dare I say, ever?
“I’m glad you like it.” God, I’m an idiot. I make it sound like I ordered her a fucking pizza. “I mean, I wanted to do something special for you, Elle. You’ve been really helpful . . .” I pause, lost for what I want to say next. In caring for me? By letting me stay here?
“I did run you over,” she cuts in with a hearty laugh. She slides into the seat next to me and reaches for the glass of wine. “I mean, the least I could do is help you, right?” Her lips pull into a tight smile.
I nod and take a sip of my beer.
She waves her free hand across the table. “You really did all of this?”
“Well, I did have a little help from Camila,” I tell her and her eyes grow wide, and she slaps a hand over her mouth.
“
Oh my God, I forgot about Camila!” She gasps and chokes on her wine.
“Well, she walked in and I was sitting on the couch in my underwear.” I gesture over my shoulder with my thumb toward the living room where that god-awful couch sits.
“No!” she says loudly, stifling a laugh.
“Yes!”
“I’m so sorry.” She finally laughs. That beautiful face of hers tipped back and a smile so wide it pulls at the corners of her eyes. She’s simply stunning.
“Eat.” I point to her plate. “Before it gets cold.”
She proudly tells me all about her day and the new account that her team just landed and I can’t help but smile as I listen to her. She finally pushes her plate away, when she can’t take another bite, rubbing her stomach in discomfort.
“That was amazing. Seriously. I haven’t had chicken that was that delicious in a long time.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I pull her almost empty wine glass from her hand and refill it. “It’s the least I can do.” I catch her looking at me. Her face somber, her eyes a little glassy. “What?”
She shakes her head a little as I hand her back her drink. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
She takes a sip. “Really, it’s nothing.” We look at each other for a long time. Something unspoken passes between us before I finally push my chair back.
“Come on.” I reach for her hand. “Let’s go out on the patio.”
She takes my hand and stands, her other hand gripping her wine glass tightly. When I should have dropped her hand once she was standing, I decide not to. Instead, I lace my fingers through hers, giving her soft fingers a little squeeze, guiding her to the patio.
“This view,” I say as we sidle up to the glass railing of the patio, “is unbelievable.”
She nods and points to the lit-up downtown Los Angeles skyline. “This view is what sold me on the condo,” she says. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in West Hollywood, but this”—she stares out over the sky—“makes it worth it.”
One Wild Ride: A Hollywood Chronicles Novel Page 5
