by Evie Claire
His eyes are all navy-rimmed, robin’s-egg blue perfection. Intense enough to pierce right through all the bullshit and lies we’ve spent too long living. Tonight, they show me and the entire world exactly what we mean to each other. What’s a girl supposed to say to something like that in a moment like this? I decide words are a waste of time and energy.
Closing the distance between our lips, I answer him the best way I know how. Chaos devolves into nuclear meltdown, for the crowd and for my love-starved ass. It’s been too long since I’ve felt these lips, and the sensation they send fluttering through me is too much. Tears of happiness spring into my eyes. A fat one finds its way to Devon’s cheek. He pulls away, unable to keep a smile off his face.
“Marry me,” he whispers into the space between us. The crowd goes deathly silent. Whispers travel down the police barricade line. No one, and I mean NO ONE, can believe what they’re hearing. I hang in his arms, wanting to remember every single moment. The way the setting sun gleams against his gloriously salt-and-pepper hair. The sense of home that radiates into me from his touch. The overwhelming love that could break me if it weren’t the only thing holding me together. Everything is branded into my brain.
This man. This perfectly perfect, sex god of a man is mine. And now, the whole world knows it. Relief of no longer having to hide slices my heart wide open, and I swear some ghostly doves fly up to heaven from the dusty depths of my once-dark soul.
“I already did,” I answer with a smile. The crowd erupts in a hysteria of Vesuvius proportions.
“Oh yeah,” he teases like this might be something he could forget. One hand on my waist, the other on my neck, he leans further into me. Our lips meet. The crowd stills, obviously wondering if it’s real or if it’s all for the cameras. But when we don’t stop, instead taking the kiss so far I’m seconds away from throwing my legs around him and fucking him on the red carpet, they know it’s not. The resulting hysteria will turn our love story into a legend.
With the world watching, Devon Hayes lays a classic Hollywood kiss on the hottest mess this town has ever seen. His hot mess. Our happily-ever-after.
In Hollywood, they say love and fame don’t mix. One is selfless, the other self-obsessed. They say real love is only found on the silver screen. They say a girl like me can’t love a guy like him. They say love will ruin my career. A career spent making the world believe in impossible love stories while remaining content to never create my own.
Bullshit.
They are a bunch of liars.
The truth is, a fallen angel can walk away with her shining star if she’s willing to fight for her own happy ending. For this fallen angel, the only impossible part of love was pretending it didn’t exist.
Epilogue
Soul-soothing sounds of a Mediterranean afternoon wash over me in the gentlest of kisses. It’s about a billion miles away from the mass paparazzi chaos we left in L.A. They wouldn’t leave us alone. One incessant photog was so desperate for pictures he ran Tiny off the freeway. We weren’t even in the car.
Demand for every dirty detail of our love story became too much for India to handle with us in town. She banished us to the island so she could restore some sort of order to her newest prized possession. We packed up and fled in the night. Literally.
Fine by me.
I’m naked, basking in the sun’s warm rays like a sleek lizard. Every time I open my eyes the golden statuette resting in a neighboring lounge chair blinds me. Ask any winner and they’ll tell you the truth. It’s so hard to believe you’ve actually won, you carry the damn thing around everywhere as a reminder. Mine even went to the bathroom with me that first day. You need that kind of reality check. Life gets too surreal without a golden reminder of how fucking fabulous you are.
“Mind if I sit down?” Devon asks. I open my eyes to answer, thinking he’s talking to me. When I sit up, I realize he was actually asking my statue.
“Ha, ha,” I joke, and grab the award before he can. I sit it safely on the table between us.
“I’m starting to get jealous of a hunk of gold.”
“Whatever. You practically kiss yours goodnight.” In the days that followed our wins, I was smacked with the stinging reminder of an interview I did eons ago. The one where I boldly stated that if Devon were such a good actor, he’d have a legitimate award to prove it. Yeah, I’ve had to eat some serious shit-pie now that he’s won and everyone knows the truth about us. What an insufferable idiot I used to be.
Devon shrugs and chuckles, admiring the way my sun-drenched skin is darkening to a golden tan. He licks his lips and runs a hungry finger down my arm.
“Again?” I ask, squinting in the sunshine. He’s still dampened with sweat from a fuckening we finished minutes ago. I call it a fuckening because I’m pretty sure they felt at least one of those orgasms on the mainland. Hell, my crotch was such a live wire I couldn’t bear the thought of anything else touching it. I feared the soft brush of cotton panties might send me into fetal-position aftershock spasms. That’s why I’m lying here naked in the first place. My body needs time to recover. His old-man ass should take days for that after the love we just made. But here he is, primed like a stallion all ready to go.
“I can’t help it. This is new to me.”
“New how?” I roll onto my side. His eyes follow my breasts in a delectable way.
“Being with someone I actually love and not having to hide it. Even when we were here before, the danger was always there. A constant reminder that I didn’t really have you. And now that you are mine, I want you every way I can have you.”
“You, Mr. Hayes, are insatiable.” With a flirtatious smile, I cross my arms behind my head and lean back, knowing how amazing my tits look pushed forward like this. Devon sucks air through his teeth and I worry he might actually pounce on me. My crotch really is in flames. Still. But in that used-to-the-last-delicious-drop way only body-rocking sex can. Who am I kidding? We’re so hot for each other right now it wouldn’t take much to convince me to go again. It really is nauseating how in love we are.
“I told you everything would work out. What more could we ever want?”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth we both frown. It’s still there between us. What we lost. The thing we don’t talk about. It’ll happen when it’s supposed to. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I was so mind-fucked by the thought, I couldn’t imagine I would ever be. But these past months have been all about me. I’ve left all the drama and bullshit of my old life behind to really focus my future. That kind of focus got Devon and me to his island with golden statuettes in hand and a ridiculously satisfying happily-ever-after.
It also made me see what I have to do if I’m ever going to be ready to regain what we lost. Really ready for it. Like spit-up stains on my Lululemon and cleaning projectile poo off the nursery wall kind of ready. I refuse to be one of those stars who has a kid to make good press and then leave it for nannies to raise. I won’t be an absent parent like mine were. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to be all in. We’re going to be all in.
He asked me if I’d thought about going off birth control the other night. At his age, he must be feeling a ticking biological clock. Secretly, I can’t wait to carry his child again. But there’s one more thing I have to do for me first.
“Devon, I’ve been thinking.” I lie on my side again, and his head falls from the sunshine over to me. “I’m going to testify against Melvin.” The name lodges in my throat like a splinter. I scratch a fingernail over the wicker weave on the side of my chair, nervously awaiting his response.
He says nothing, turning to face me and giving me his full attention. I take a deep breath and nod, needing to convince us both that I’m ready for this. He knows how fiercely I’ve fought to keep my past a secret, and if it weren’t for him, it’d never see daylight. But now that life feels safe, dra
gging around the old chains is exhausting.
“I’m ready to deal with this and forget it. I’ve thought of a million different ways to come clean and the only way that feels right is doing it in court, under oath, so that son of a bitch will fry for what he’s done.”
Devon nods, taking it all in. He worries a few fingers over his lips, the way he always does when he thinks. His toned chest is bare, aside from the platinum necklace that holds the key to my bracelet. That, he never takes off.
“Would you seal the records or finally let America know?” Months ago he told me I needed to do this. At the time, I didn’t want to believe him.
I nod. “Yeah.” And drag in a rough breath. “I’d let it go public. It’s ugly, Devon. Really fucking ugly.” I blanch at the memories. “And I don’t want to do anything that could possibly hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about me.” He takes my wrist, twisting our bracelet in the way he does. “I’m a big boy.” His tone verges on sexy. Yes, yes he is a big boy. I shake away the mental image that pops into my mind.
“I know, but you might not...” I don’t know how to say that after all this time I still worry that my secret makes me horribly unlovable. I work my teeth over my lip.
“Carly.” He takes my chin in his fingers and pulls my face up to meet his. The look in his eyes tells me he already knows and that I’m being ridiculous to even think it. “Your past made you into the woman I love. Tell me you know that.” His tone is pleading and I nod against his cupped hand. I do know it, but it’s nice to hear him say it. “Then I support you 100 percent.”
“India’s going to hate the idea.”
“No, she’ll see exactly what I see.” He shakes his head and moves over to share my chair. I scooch to the side and rest my naked body against his, trying to ignore the sparks that sizzle in my belly at his touch. I’m trying to be serious here, but sprawled over him naked is not helping. “You are the victim. He is the monster. Under her guidance, sharing this with the world is going to turn you into the biggest sexual abuse advocate ever.”
“It still makes me a victim. You know I can’t stand to look weak.” The mere thought of being that fragile sours my stomach. I’ve always prided myself on being such a tough bitch. Victims aren’t tough.
“There is zero weakness in testifying against a man who sexually abused you.” I inhale sharply at his words. The easy thing to do is to keep quiet. Keep pretending it didn’t happen. That’s the weaker man’s way out and I now know it. Suddenly, my nakedness is discomforting. I push off the chair and grab a nearby towel, wrapping it around my body and sitting down in the opposite chair. I fire up a smoke, even though I’m trying desperately to quit.
“You’ll go with me, won’t you?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” He strokes my statue with enough admiration to make me giggle. His hand reaches for my cigarette. He drops it into an ashtray with a smile and wink. “Come on, Sunshine, you’re getting burned.” He takes my golden man in one hand and offers the other to me.
“I’m going to need help preparing my testimony. There’s so much I’ve repressed.” I take his hand and he pulls me from the chair, leading me inside.
“India knows people.”
Of course she does. India seems to know everything. It’s beyond annoying. I follow him through the house, into my bedroom. The sheets lie in a rumpled mess, as do his across the hall, a blanket that’s probably still somewhere on the beach and a pile of pillows that once covered the couch. We have to find some way to pass the last twenty-four hours, am I right? I go to the closet and slip into the light cashmere bathrobe from the Beverly Wilshire. I’m slightly obsessed with it.
When I emerge, Devon stands at the porch door, his back to me, tanned and bare from the waist up. Damn if his backside isn’t every bit as sexy as the front. I meld into the vast expanse of it, pulling him into me, wrapping my arms around his taut waist and burying my nose in the dip at his spine. A hand snakes back and embraces me for a brief second.
I release him enough to rise onto my tiptoes. Sliding my cashmere-cloaked body up his back, I peek over a mountain of shoulder. The view is everything from here. All blue and white and sunshiny perfect. In this place, with this man, the moment feels magical. Like the end of a fairy tale once the wicked witch has been slain.
“Does life get any better than this?” I ask wistfully, closing my eyes to drink in the smell of him carried on a warm ocean breeze. His body tightens under my touch, like some unseen danger has found its way into our moment. I pull further away and look to Devon with a curious frown on my face. “What?”
His gaze falls to his hands and he steps farther away. My stomach rolls with fear. There’s something clasped in his hand. Something he can’t quit staring at. He turns away again, then back to me and kneels down. On one knee, in the billowing curtains of a room where he once spent hours begging me to marry him, he holds a familiar blood-red box. My rolling stomach somersaults and lodges somewhere near my throat. Breathing is overrated. I’m living on sheer adrenaline.
The box top springs open to reveal a radiant blue diamond the same color as his eyes. I stare at the rock, at him, at everything, feeling so dizzy I may pass out.
“Carly Klein—”
“Yes!” I don’t even let him ask the question this time. Instead, I leap into his arms with such force we crash to the floor. After a million sloppy kisses, he takes my hand and slides the sparkler onto my left ring finger. In the sunshine it’s as hypnotizing as that smoldering Sexiest Man Alive gaze ever was.
“For real this time. The right way.” He seals it in place with a kiss. “Forever.”
“Baby, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
* * * * *
Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
And they all lived Happily Ever After.
Xoxo,
Evie
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to EarthFare, Two Story Coffee, Dunkin’ Donuts and Panera—without your Wi-Fi and coffee this book would not be.
To Kerri Buckley and the amazing people of Carina Press—you always manage to craft my meager words into ones I can be proud of. Thank you for everything.
Sarah Younger—you are a god among agents. Thanks for your tireless work!
To John Mayer, Jason Isbell, The Stones, Van Morrison and Dolly—thanks for being my soundtrack and inspiration.
To my readers—it’s all for you.
Also available from Evie Claire
and Carina Press
Hollywood Hot Mess
About the Author
Evie Claire lives in Athens, Georgia, with her husband, two daughters and one very spoiled rescue dog. After graduating from the University of Georgia she worked as a pharmaceutical sales representative before becoming a writer.
An avid equestrian, devoted wino, coffee snob and occasional runner, Evie is in a monogamous relationship with her favorite yoga pants. When not chasing toddlers or writing, Evie can be found nursing her online shopping addiction, planning elaborate DIY projects that never happen and discreetly eavesdropping on the juicy conversations of local college students for inspiration. She can tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue, counts afternoon naps among life’s great indulgences and randomly belts out the whistle solo from GNR’s Patience...because why not?
Evie obsessively stalks her favorite Hollywood gossip sites and lives life by one simple rule: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit next to me!”
To follow Evie’s latest musings:
www.evieclaire.com
www.facebook.com/authorevieclaire
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