by Sorcha Grace
He’d said his good-byes to his friends. Neither of us knew it was the last good-bye. I couldn’t remember what we’d talked about in the car. Maybe we’d talked about Dax—how every time we saw him he was with a different girl. Maybe we’d chatted about Slater or Kai and their latest moves and how Jace could beat them at the Whalebone Classic in Australia the next month. And then, there’d been the bright lights and the sound of someone—me—screaming. The screech of brakes. The unearthly crunch of metal. The silence.
The police had done a thorough investigation. I wasn’t at fault. The truck’s driver had been drunk. Really drunk. He had several DUIs and had been driving on the wrong side of the road at high speed. We’d come around that blind corner and never had a chance. But oh, how I wished I hadn’t swerved. The passenger side, where Jace was sitting, had been hit head-on. Jace and the other driver had been killed instantly. I’d gone to the hospital with minor injuries.
I knew Jace was dead at the scene. When his parents arrived from San Francisco the next day, his mother had stood over my hospital bed, pointed at me, and said, “You killed my son. It should have been you who died.”
In the following months, I’d wished it had been me. Jace’s family blamed me, many of his friends blamed me, and I had to change my phone number and my email address because Jace’s fans wouldn’t stop harassing me. It didn’t matter that the other driver was given ninety-five percent of the blame. Jace was dead. I was alive, tormented by that five percent. I had alcohol in my system. My license had been expired. I shouldn’t have been driving.
My mom and dad stood by me. They tried to comfort me, but they couldn’t understand how much it hurt to be vilified by those who had mattered so much, by those whose support I needed. Most of Jace’s friends barely spoke to me at the funeral. His parents had nothing but hate-filled words. And his brother…
I wouldn’t think about Jace’s brother.
I truly wished I’d been the one to die.
Sometimes, I still felt that way, even though Chicago was a long way from Santa Cruz, away from the memories and the people who hurt me. I’d needed a fresh start. I’d needed a place where I could feel anonymous, where no one had heard of Jace Ryder or the ASP World Tour or a young, stupid girl named Cat Ryder.
Here, I was Catherine Kelly. Here, I could forget, for a little while, how my life had been perfect, and how I’d ruined everything.
It seemed bad decisions weren’t solely the domain of Cat Ryder. Catherine Kelly had been the one stupid enough to start a relationship with William Lambourne. It was no one’s fault but my own. I’d been warned he was a commitment-phobe. Had I really expected him to be honest? Did I have a right to be outraged and hurt that he was playing me the entire relationship? That what I had thought was something special between two people was carefully orchestrated with the end in mind?
Or maybe, what really pissed me off was that I was his second choice. It had seemed like a fairy tale—destiny had brought us together. Really, it was just a patch of ice. If Jenny hadn’t slipped, William would be seeing her now. If Jenny had called another photographer—Jessica Willis or Tiana Jackson—William would be seeing one of them now. I was nothing special. I was just in the right place at the right time.
It made me angry, but it didn’t hurt me. What hurt was that he’d known my secrets from the beginning. And still, he’d let me confide in him. He’d even had the gall to act shocked and surprised. All the while he’d gone on and on about breaking rules—what rule? His blond rule? He hadn’t shared himself with me. Every time I’d asked about his family, he’d shut me down. He hadn’t even shared anything innocuous—his schooling, his work, his past relationships. I knew almost nothing about him, while he knew everything about me.
And still, I’d held on, clinging to the little he did reveal, hoping he might open up. Hoping we had a future. Our “relationship” had been a farce—secrets, lies, and sex. That’s all it had ever been. Just sex. No intimacy. No love. No commitment. An easy fuck. That’s what I was.
Not anymore. It was over.
And the decision made me cry harder. I buried my head in my pillow, closing my eyes against the images that refused to fade—bright headlights, the scream of metal, the smell of pain au chocolat, William’s blindfold over my eyes, the feel of frozen grapes and William’s warm mouth on my body, the taste of William’s skin.
I pulled another pillow over my head and cried until I fell asleep.
*****
I woke the next morning and felt like someone had hit me with a camera stand. I stumbled out of bed and stared in the bathroom mirror at my puffy eyes and my red nose. I could feel pressure at the front of my skull, and my throat was scratchy. I was coming down with a cold. Perfect. My life couldn’t get any better.
I had to pick up Laird, so I took a quick shower and pulled on old clothes. By the time I was ready to walk out, my nose was running, and I’d sneezed half a dozen times. I opened my door and almost stepped on the padded yellow envelope in front of it. My chest clenched, and my hand shook when I lifted it. It was from William. I knew it was from William.
I ripped the envelope open and slid my phone into my hand. No watch fell out, so I shook the package again. A slip of heavy, cream-colored paper floated to the floor. I lifted it and stared at the initials, WML.
You’re better off without me. I’ll never forget the taste of you.
I had to press my hand to the wall to keep from falling to my knees. It was over. It was really over. I’d known this, but William’s message confirmed it. A small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t let me walk away. He’d come after me and tell me it was a big mistake. He’d explain everything, and like a fairy tale, it would turn out to be a big misunderstanding.
But now, I held the end of my fantasy in my hand. William wasn’t coming after me. I hadn’t misunderstood. I straightened and told myself he was right. I was better off without him. Then why was I so miserable?
Weary to the bone, I climbed into my Volvo and drove to Allison’s. Laird was excited to see me, but after the kids had hugged him good-bye, she pulled me aside. “What’s wrong, Catherine? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m getting a cold,” I told her, not making eye contact. I couldn’t tell her about William. Not then. Not after we’d had dinner the other night, and I’d gushed about my new relationship. “I need to go back to bed.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m fine. And you’ve done enough. Thank you for watching Laird.”
She frowned. “The kids adore him. I’m pretty sure they wore him out. He’s welcome anytime.”
“Thanks again.” I was backing up, trying to escape before I burst into tears again. “Bye!”
“Bye. Call if you need anything, Catherine.”
“Okay.”
By the time I got home, I wished I’d taken Allison up on the offer of medicine. I felt even worse. I’m sure the crying didn’t help. I collapsed on the couch and closed my eyes then my phone buzzed. I didn’t look at the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Cat? Is that you?”
“Beckett.” Relief spiraled through me. “Yes. I have a cold. And… and…” I couldn’t get the words out. I sobbed again, and Beckett told me to calm down and explain. I couldn’t calm down. My mind chanted It’s over. It’s really over.
“I’m coming over,” Beckett announced.
“You don’t have to do that.” But I was glad. I felt awful—in body and soul.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” And he was. Beckett had a key, so it seemed like one moment we were on the phone and the next he was standing over me. “Cat, you’re burning up,” he said, pressing his hand to my forehead the way my dad did when I was a kid. “Have you taken anything?”
“It’s over, Beckett,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “With William.”
“Oh, Cat. What happened?”
I tried to tell him, but I was crying so much I didn’t make sense.
&
nbsp; Finally, in the middle of my blubbering, Beckett said, “Do not move. I’m going to the store for supplies.” Laird took Beckett’s place on the couch, and I must have dozed.
When I woke, Beckett held a small plastic cup of cold medicine to my lips. I drank it along with the tea he’d made and promptly began crying again.
“Cat, you need to sleep. Come on.”
It was a monumental effort to drag my weary, pain-filled body to bed, but I did it with Beckett’s help. “I’m worried about you,” he said after tucking me in. “I’m going to hang here awhile. Make sure your fever doesn’t spike.”
“No, Beckett,” I groaned. “You’ve done enough.”
“Oh, this isn’t as selfless as it seems, honey. I’m using your AGA to try out a few recipes. Now go to sleep.”
I slept a dreamless sleep, half awake at times, but too groggy to get out of bed. When I woke, it was dark, and I wondered if Beckett had finally gone home. My clock read almost seven, and I groaned. I’d slept the entire day.
I rose and stumbled into the living room, shielding my eyes against the bright lamplight. I heard Beckett in the kitchen and followed my nose. Something smelled delicious, and my empty stomach rumbled. My mouth was watering by the time I spotted Beckett. He was washing pots and pans and looked up when I entered. “You look like hell,” he said.
“I feel like hell,” I rasped. On the stove, soup bubbled, the aroma irresistible. It was a rich broth, and even my stuffed nose detected the scent of herbs. “Beckett, I can’t believe you made me soup.”
“I didn’t.” He gestured to a cooling rack filled with cupcakes ready to be frosted. “I made the cupcakes. William brought over the soup.”
“What?” Just the mention of William made my heart beat faster, and pain lanced through my chest.
“I answered your cell while you were passed out. Your friend Allison called and then William. He was pissed when I wouldn’t put you on, so I told him you were sick and asleep. Ninety minutes later he showed up with soup.”
I blinked. “William was here? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Cat, you were out. William said he couldn’t stay. He handed me the soup and said to tell you he hopes you feel better soon.”
I stared at Beckett. William had been here. He’d brought me soup.
“Are you sure he knows it’s over?” Beckett asked.
“I don’t know what to think.” I was still confused by William and by my own reaction. One part of me was thrilled he had been so close, another part was still furious. No way were we ever getting back together. Not after what I’d seen in his study. But I couldn’t help wondering—if I could have smelled anything, would I have picked up his scent? Would my body have known he was here, even if my mind rejected him?
“So,” Beckett said, indicating the soup. “We’re not letting this go to waste, are we?” He pulled two soup mugs from my cabinet. “I mean, we can still hate the guy, even if we eat his soup.”
“Oh, we’re eating the soup,” I confirmed.
We sat at my dining table, and Beckett had three bowls while I managed to put away two. It was delicious. I wasn’t big on soup—felt like I was drinking my meal—but I could have eaten this for the rest of my life.
“Either I was starving, or that was the best soup I’ve ever eaten,” I told Beckett.
“It was the best soup I’ve ever eaten. I need to find out where he got it.”
“I’m sure he made it,” I said, sitting back contentedly. “He’s a great cook.”
“Is there anything the man doesn’t do?” Beckett asked.
“He doesn’t do normal.”
Beckett leaned over and gave me a hug. “He’s a great gift-giver. Remember that bracelet?”
“Beckett, I didn’t tell you about the watch. I forgot it at his penthouse, but it was beautiful.” I described it, and Beckett pulled out his phone as I talked.
“A Patek Philippe?” he asked. “Like this one?” He turned the screen toward me.
“Exactly.”
“Cat, that’s a sixty-thousand-dollar watch.”
“You know what, Beckett? It could be a million-dollar watch, and I wouldn’t care. I can’t be with someone like him.”
“You’re too good for him, Cat, but I do wish you’d kept the watch.” He ruffled my hair. “I’m going to walk Laird and then head home. Do you need anything else?”
“You’ve already done too much.”
“Nothing is too much for you. Take more medicine, and I’ll call you in the morning.”
I did. Beckett took Laird for a quick walk, and I drifted into another cold medicine coma.
I woke to the sound of Laird’s snoring and my ring tone. Figuring it was Beckett making sure I was alive, I answered. Rather, I croaked. My throat was raw and raspy.
“Catherine?”
It was William. I shot up, my head spinning.
“Catherine, how are you feeling?”
I was miserable, but I took a deep breath and held it together. “I’m okay. Thanks for the soup. It helped.”
“Is Beckett still there?”
“No.” I closed my eyes, picturing William. I could see his wavy hair, making me want to curl my fingers in it. His long, aristocratic fingers held the phone. His stormy eyes narrowed as I spoke. I swallowed and clenched my hands.
“You sound awful. Are you eating?”
“I’m not hungry.” I paused for a coughing fit, and I fumbled for my cold medicine—time for another dose.
“Catherine, I’m coming over.”
“No, you’re not. I just need another dose of medicine.”
“Have you seen a doctor?” He sounded a bit frantic.
“It’s just a cold.”
“Beckett said you had a high fever. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“What? No.”
“It won’t hurt to have a doctor look at you. What meds are you taking? Have you checked your temperature?”
“William…”
“Are you drinking enough? You can easily get dehydrated.”
“William, stop, okay? Just stop.” Silence. I would not start crying. I knew he was trying to take care of me, and that was sweet, but there was another side to him. “Thanks for the soup and for your concern, but I don’t want to see you.”
“I’ll send George to check on you then.”
“No. I don’t want you or your people to check on me. I’m not your concern anymore, and I can take care of myself. I can’t be with you, William. I can’t be with someone who isn’t honest. There are too many secrets. And even if I could get past that, I can’t get past the cruelty.”
“Catherine—”
“The way you deal with people, with relationships. Exit strategies. Dossiers. I can’t be with you.”
“You’re right.”
I was? It didn’t feel right. It felt like the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.
“You’re better off without me. You should stay away.”
I really didn’t know what to say in response. Was this reverse psychology, or was he serious? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t allow myself to be drawn into William’s seductive, bewildering world again. “I have to go.”
“Get well soon.”
“Thanks.” I hung up and threw the phone down. New tears spilled over my cheeks, and I buried my face in the pillow. Laird moaned and nuzzled me with his nose. I hugged him and sobbed. Everything inside felt bruised and tender. The weight of the breakup coupled with the miserable cold pressed down until I felt crushed. I curled back up into a ball and sobbed.
Seventeen
By Wednesday I finally felt better. I still wasn’t back to normal, but I was out of bed, and my head didn’t feel as heavy as a pumpkin. Yesterday I’d worried I wouldn’t be up for the Fresh Market shoot. This morning I thought I would be okay. When I’d looked in the mirror, my face hadn’t been red or blotchy for the first time in five days. My Saturday morning break-up with William felt far away—dreaml
ike. The last couple days had given me perspective.
One benefit of being my own boss was that I could work when I wanted and how I wanted. No one cared if I worked in my pajamas or put in barely an hour in the morning, a couple hours in the afternoon, and several more in the evening as long as the work got done. I’d dragged my tired ass in front of my computer yesterday to work on the ad campaign for Fresh Market. We were shooting spring foods for the Fresh for Spring ads. Beckett and I were styling and shooting cherries and asparagus. If we nailed these two, Fresh Market might ask us to do the rest of the Fresh for Spring line—foods like apricots, oranges, and my favorite, strawberries. But we had to sex up the cherries. The asparagus I felt good about. Beckett and I had a lot of ideas for making the asparagus look phallic and yummy. The cherries were a little harder, and I still hoped inspiration would strike.
I checked my phone while I dressed for the shoot. William had texted me a few times since our last conversation on Monday, but I hadn’t replied. He hadn’t called me again, and the texts had petered out. I was checking my cell because I wanted him to call. A part of me still missed him, still felt incredibly sad, still wanted him back. There was a deep ache inside where he was missing. I hadn’t realized I’d been touched so deeply by our relationship, and I knew the wound would take time to heal.
It was healing already. I was keeping it together. I might be sad, but I knew I could get through today and the shoot. It would be a grueling day, but I looked forward to the distraction of hard work.
Another aspect of the Fresh Market shoot I looked forward to was the chance to work in the studio. I’d done so much shooting in the wild that working under controlled conditions was a dream come true. Plus, I’d be working with Beckett, and he was the best food stylist in the city. I knew the food would look amazing.
Alec Carr met me in the foyer of the studio Fresh Market had booked for the morning. These studios were in demand and ridiculously expensive. Alec had generously asked Beckett and me how long we needed. We’d said four hours and understood it was a testament to Fresh Market’s commitment to my work that they’d agreed without argument. The shoot was costing them a small fortune.
