by Layla Hagen
“I’ll gladly give you one, Summer.”
“What makes you think I want one?” She narrows her eyes and plants her hands on her hips. I get the feeling she can be a downright little minx.
“Touché. Want anything to drink?" I motion to the leather couch on our left. "You can sit if you want."
"Thanks. A glass of soda would be good. By the way, this is a very nice house."
"I like it too. My sister found it for me, furnished it too," I explain while I head to the small bar in the corner and pour soda in a glass.
"Oh, your family lives in San Francisco? Sorry, I'm prying."
I chuckle. "You don't have to walk on eggshells around me. I don't mind curiosity, as long as whatever I say doesn't get to the press."
Her smile fades as I hand her the soda. "I'd never do that."
"I meant in general, not you specifically."
She takes a small sip from the glass. "Okay. I didn't get to thank you for agreeing to visit the kids at St. Anne's, by the way. It means a lot to them."
"Sure, no problem. That's one of my favorite parts about this gig. How did you get into volunteering there?"
"Well, Daniel and his wife adopted two kids from there. One thing led to another...." She lowers herself on the couch while she explains to me about St. Anne’s, and her skirt lifts a few inches. Nothing indecent, but enough to reveal beautiful, toned upper thighs, making my mouth water. Christ, she's pretty, sitting there, legs crossed, her rich dark hair pulled to one side, baring her neck. Swallowing hard, I look away.
A honk resounds from outside, startling Summer. She nearly spills the remaining soda on her, but catches herself in time.
"That'll be the movers," I say. "I'll just ask them to unload the boxes, and then we can go. It'll take five minutes tops."
"Okay."
"Mr. Fulton," one of the guys says five minutes later. His voice drips sarcasm. He recognized me right away. "I need you to sign extra for this last box. It contains valuables. You need to open it and confirm that all items on the list are inside."
They've offloaded all fifteen boxes, and the guy just laid the last one at my feet, holding a list.
"What valuables?" I ask.
He glances over the list. "Philip Patek watch, Omega watch, eight-carat diamond ring encrusted with emeralds."
I freeze, feeling like someone punched me straight in the gut. Amy sent me the engagement ring with the movers? Jesus Christ. I didn't even want the damned ring back.
"That's fine, you can go," I say in a composed voice.
"I need you to open the box and sign the list before."
If he realizes the ring is our engagement ring, he doesn't let on. Crouching down, I open the box. Two watches, a ring box. I don't bother opening up the box. Standing up, I sign the damned list. "Everything's here. You can go now. Thank you for your business."
I feel a vein pulsing in my temple as the movers’ truck pulls out.
"We should go," Summer says quietly, stepping past the boxes in the living room. When I meet her gaze, I realize she knows exactly what was in that box. Women put two and two together much quicker than men, and she's looking at me with pity.
"Yeah. Let's go." My voice comes out low and harsh, making her wince.
"I'm sorry. That... that was the engagement ring, right?"
"That's none of your business."
She flinches again, harder. Fuck, what am I doing? This isn't her fault.
Rolling her shoulders, she juts her chin out. "That's a shitty thing, what just happened, but I'm not the one who sent you the engagement ring with the moving company, so don't bite my head off. If you want to reschedule the trip to St. Anne's, I can arrange that. Don't want you blinding the kids with your sunny disposition right now."
Well, well. It's been a long time since someone called me out on my shit.
"I'm going to wait in the car for ten minutes, give you some space. Call me if you want me to reschedule."
And without another word, she walks out of the house and slips out through the gate. I scrub my hands down my face and take a few deep breaths to calm down. That was a dick move. But rescheduling would be an even bigger dick move. I know how much kids look forward to these things, and I don't want to disappoint them, or Summer.
I'm an actor. It's my job to smile even when I don't feel like smiling. So I grab my leather jacket from the hanger and head out.
Summer is looking pointedly out her window when I climb into her car. We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.
"I'm sorry, Summer. I was out of line."
“Yeah, you were.”
I touch her bare forearm, and the contact zings me. Her skin is soft, enticing. Damn, I have no business being enticed. I let her go as she snaps her head in my direction, looking a little wary.
"I was taken by surprise," I continue, needing to explain myself. I want her to know I'm not a dick, someone who treats others badly whenever he's in a funk. "I don't usually act like this. The ring was just... unexpected. I’m really sorry for jumping down your throat.”
She sighs. "Fine, you're forgiven."
That makes me smile. "Just like that?"
"It's one of my many faults. I forgive easily. Staying angry takes up too much energy. And well, that was a shitty thing. Anyone would snap. Are you sure you don't want to reschedule?"
"Nah, I don't want to let the kids down. I can entertain people even when I don't feel like it, I promise. Acting's my job."
She narrows her eyes, as if considering something. Then she reaches in her back seat. That's when I see the huge box with a cake as a label, with an identical smaller box on top. She takes the smaller one in her hands, opening the lid, revealing three cupcakes.
"Here, have a cupcake."
"What?"
"It'll lift your mood a bit. The sugar rush sends endorphins in your blood."
"Why do you have a stack of sweets in your car?"
"Well, the large box is for St. Anne's. This one's for me, but your need is greater than mine."
I check her face for any signs that she's pulling my leg, but either she's a stellar actress, or she's serious.
I take one cupcake, wondering how many more ways she can surprise me. Summer Bennett is different from the people usually surrounding me. Different in the best kind of way. Honest, not afraid to call me out on my shit, or to own up to her quirks. She has an inner warmth I haven't encountered in people in years.
"This is really good," I exclaim through the first mouthful.
"I know." Her longing tone is delightful.
"Don't worry, I'm only eating just this one. I’ll leave you the rest."
She shakes her head, smoothly bringing the car into motion. "No, no. They're yours. I eat too many anyway. My scale will be thankful if I skip the cupcakes today."
"Forget that. You're beautiful, Summer."
She peeks at me, quickly returning her attention to the road. The pale skin on her neck turns a delicious shade of pink as she clears her throat.
"Thank you." She shifts in her seat, drumming her fingers on the wheel. Part of my job as an actor is to analyze body language. And right now, Summer's body language tells me she's not used to receiving compliments, which is a shame.
I close the lid on the small box, leaving the two remaining cupcakes untouched, then place the box in the back.
"I insist—” she starts, but I cut her off.
"I won't eat all your cupcakes, Summer."
"You’re bossy.”
"I was actually aiming to be courteous."
She grins. "Some shit actor you are, then. I knew it! They're plastering you on every poster only for your pretty face and to-die-for body."
“To-die-for body? That’s a lot of appreciation from someone who doesn’t want my autograph.” I burst out laughing, feeling more at ease than I've felt in weeks. More alive, too.
Chapter Three
Summer
Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a glance at
him. I can’t help myself. Alexander Westbrook is in my car. I estimate the distance between us to be about one foot. I can practically smell his cologne, and it’s just as sexy as every other part of him. Oh, us mere mortals always hope stars aren’t as beautiful as they appear on screen.
Nope, I can say with absolute certainty that he’s even more gorgeous in real life. His green eyes really are that green, and deep and striking. His short, black hair is shinier than any hair in a shampoo commercial. And all that training for his superhero role paid off big-time. He’s pure muscle everywhere.
He’s more approachable and laid-back than I expected. Aside from the engagement ring freak-out, he’s friendly enough. I wanted to reach out and comfort him, but man, did that backfire. Serves me right for poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I may feel like I know him because I’ve seen him on screen for years, but he’s a stranger. A sinfully sexy stranger. When he told me I’m beautiful, my knees wobbled a bit. Thank God I was sitting down.
I tell him more about St. Anne’s on the drive, and half an hour later, I pull the car to a stop in the small parking lot in front of the establishment.
“I’ll get the cupcakes,” Alex offers.
“Thanks.”
He easily carries the box in one hand, and after locking the car, I lead him through the small front gate onto the property. Juniper trees line the cobblestone pathway leading to the main building. I love their smell.
There are six houses on the perimeter. As far as group homes go, St. Anne’s is one of the best. Each house has a supervisor, and there are no more than three kids in each bedroom. This isn’t intended to be a permanent residence for the children, only a place to stay until they receive a place in foster care. But that can take years, so this is the only home some of them know.
The door of the largest house and the institute center swings open and Shawna, the director, waves at us.
“Mr. Westbrook, so pleased to meet you. Thank you for making time to visit us,” she says, almost breathlessly. “I’m Shawna Delaware.”
“Nice to meet you, Shawna.”
Alex flashes her a winning smile. I recognize it from magazines and his movies. I can’t quite pinpoint why, but it feels different than the way he smiled at me when we were alone. That smile seemed warmer, this one more studied. It’s almost too perfect—the way it shows both his dimples and turns his expression into one of pure seduction. I like the real one better.
The kids are psyched when we enter the common room. All of them have gathered here, perched on couches or on the floor. The youngest ones are even dressed in Alex’s superhero costume. It seems to me they start talking all at once, but Alex’s experience with crowds shines through. He has no problem hopping from question to question, flicking his attention from one kid to the other.
“And when you jumped, you were like whoosh. I thought for sure you’d died,” one of the seven-year-old boys says. “Was it hard to jump?”
“Not nearly as hard as it looked.”
The boy’s eyes light up. “Really? I wanted to try, but Ms. Shawna caught me.”
Alex laughs, but I detect a hint of concern in his voice when he answers. “Best not to try it. It took me some training with the stunt master on set to be able to do it without hurting myself.”
“Whoa, you do your own stunts?” one of the older girls asks.
“Yeah. Most of them, anyway.”
A chorus of awestruck “cool” follows.
“Did you always know you want to be an actor?” the girl who asked him about the stunts continues.
Alex hesitates, then says, “Yes and no. Growing up, I wasn’t very good at school, or at sports, or at anything in particular.”
The crowd goes quiet, as everyone—myself included—hangs onto his every word.
“Then one day we had a filming crew at school. They were looking for a kid to include in a toothpaste commercial. Reading those two lines of the script was the first thing that ever came naturally to me.”
His confession feels raw and real. I appreciate his honesty with the kids. It takes a lot of strength of character to admit your flaws, or own up to your failures.
For the next two hours, Alex talks to the kids and shows them a few stunts. They’re utterly charmed. Maybe that charisma he exudes on screen, that inexplicable pull he casts at all times, comes from an inner place of openness and honesty. Shawna hops in and out of the room, checking in periodically.
After showing off yet another stunt, Alex heads straight toward me. I’m standing next to the drinks table at the end of the room.
“Need something to drink.” His voice is so hoarse, his throat must be dry as dust. He’s talked nonstop since arriving. But hot damn, that hoarseness is seven kinds of sexy, making me wonder what his bedroom voice sounds like.
“What’s good? Not water, I need something thicker. Anything with honey?”
“The lemonade,” I say automatically, hoping my voice sounds even. Alex nods, pouring himself a drink, then downing it with large gulps. Even the movement of his throat as the liquid travels down is sexy. He sets the glass down with a plunk.
“What’s your stance on headstands?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“I need to show them how to do a headstand. I’d like for you to volunteer.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m wearing a dress, and I really like my neck intact.”
“Your dress is tight, it won’t move much. And it’s not dangerous. All you have to do is plant your palms firmly on the ground, I’ll do the rest—hold your ankles, sustain your waist. The kids want to see it, but I don’t want to demonstrate it with one of them. They tend to get overexcited and stop paying attention to the instructions. Don’t want them to get hurt.”
He pins me with those gorgeous green eyes of his. They look a little brighter in real life. Well, when he puts it like that, how can I say no? And true, my dress is tight.
“Do you promise I won’t break my neck?”
He tilts his head forward and winks. “Of course, Summer.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I nod, before wordlessly following him to the center of the room.
“Summer here has volunteered to help me with the headstand.”
The next few minutes are not pleasant. I pull my hair into a bun using the elastic band that one of the girls gives me, then plant my palms firmly on the ground. Alex asks me to kick my feet up, which I do, and then he cuffs my ankles, lifting my legs up until I’m a perfect vertical line. He holds me so securely that I don’t even have to rest much of my weight on my palms, but it’s still not comfortable to be upside down, to feel the blood rush to my head. After a few seconds though, I become accustomed to this new sensation. Which is when I become acutely aware of his hands on me. He’s now cuffing both ankles in one hand, and the contact burns me, a delicious, sensual burn. Alexander Westbrook is touching my bare skin. And yes, I’m aware that I’m referring to him by using his full first name and his last name, but I feel like the situation requires it.
With his free hand, he points to my calf, explaining something about which muscles have to be activated to maintain a headstand without any help.
When he brushes his fingertips along my right calf, my entire skin breaks out in goose bumps. Not only on my legs, but also on my arms and chest. The kids are far enough away that they can’t see this detail, but I’m 100 percent sure Alex sees them. When he places my feet back on the ground, helping me up, I avert my gaze, embarrassed. How can my body react so strongly to such a simple touch? Well, he is Alexander Westbrook.
“You’re an excellent assistant, Summer.” He pats my arm, which is when the second wave of goose bumps erupts all over me. Holy Pop-Tarts and cupcakes! I risk a glance at him and find him flicking his gaze from my lips to where he’s touching my arm.
“You’re a good teacher. I didn’t feel unsafe at all.”
After the performance, I take refuge near the drinks table again, watching him. Over the n
ext hour, our gazes cross repeatedly, and he holds mine with merciless intensity. I’m the one who breaks eye contact every time.
It’s late in the evening by the time we bid the kids goodbye.
“That was great,” I comment as we make our way to the car.
“They looked like they were having fun. How is St. Anne’s financed? Public money?”
“Nah, all private donations.”
He nods. “Can you send me their information? I want to make a donation. I’ll add the ring to it too.”
“Great idea. Turning that into something positive.”
“Uh-uh.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, I get it. I won’t prod, I promise.”
“Amy and I can’t talk about it, other than the obligatory ‘we grew apart.’ Literally. Our contract forbids it.”
“Wow, that must suck. Talking is one of my top coping mechanisms. Just putting it out there, but whatever you say tonight won’t get out. Just in case you want to get something off your chest.”
He’s silent for a beat and looks away. “She fell in love with someone else. The way she says it, she didn’t start anything with him until after she broke up with me, but I flew to LA two days after our breakup conversation, and there he was already.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry.”
“The good part? I finally had no strings keeping me in LA. I wanted to move near my sister and my nephew for a long time.”
“And now you have. You had fun tonight, right? I thought I saw a real smile back there, so it wasn’t all an act.”
He grins. “You made your opinion clear on my acting skills on the way here. But yeah, I did have fun.”
“Okay, just to clear the air, I do think you’re one of the best actors around. I was just teasing you.”
He stops in his tracks, cocks a brow, expression solemn. “One of the best? Not the best?”
Shrugging one shoulder, I come to a stop too. “Sorry to bruise your ego, but no one can top Humphrey Bogart for me. Been a sucker for him ever since I saw Casablanca. Favorite movie of all time.”
His faux-solemn expression morphs into an ear-to-ear smile. “Well, if that’s my competition, my ego’s safe.”
