Risky Return

by Nicole Helm

  All for some acting roles. All so she could be not just a star, but the exact kind of star she wanted. He wanted to believe that was silly and frivolous, that Hollywood had made her that way, but she’d shown her hand completely.

  It was all so she didn’t have to remember.

  At the end of the day, putting away the tools, he still didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know what to do with her. Or with the next five days. He had to stop obsessing. None of what she’d revealed this morning mattered. It couldn’t.

  He should have known this could never be easy, but it was for Harrington. He had to remember that. This was for Vivvy and Nate and their show. This was for the family who had accepted his coming back, accepted his help. This was for a tribute to Gramps, no matter how far-gone he was. These people, this place, were all he had and he’d give them everything.

  He heard heels against the concrete and glanced up as Vivvy crossed over to him. “Have you seen Celia?”

  “No. Don’t you have a watchdog on her?”

  Vivvy chewed on her bottom lip. “She said she was going to the bathroom, but Ellen said she’s not in there. And she’s not here.”

  “We’ve wrapped for the day. Maybe she’s waiting at my car.” Or maybe she’d run away. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were one meltdown away from her bolting altogether.

  “I’ll have Hank go check.” She walked away, heels clicking against the hangar floor. Most of the crew was already gone, just one lone sound lady wrapping up a cord in the corner.

  Ryan wasn’t sure why he thought of it, why the little flicker of memory would take that moment to pop into his mind, but he glanced at the cluster of trees across from the runway. He almost convinced himself he saw a flash of the pink shirt Celia’d been wearing.

  Hank had disappeared. Vivvy and Nate appeared to be in deep discussion, and the sound woman was gone. So without saying anything, Ryan exited the hangar. If he didn’t let himself think about where he was going, his strides were quick and even, but once his brain started to acknowledge it, he slowed down.

  He didn’t want to go here, but the flash of pink was unmistakable now. Celia was inside the cluster of trees, the ones he’d always considered theirs.

  When he forced himself into the clearing within the cluster of trees, Celia was crouched down at the base of their tree. Her hands traced over the spot where he’d once carved their initials. She’d teased him for being a sap and a romantic and he’d taken it good-naturedly. One, because there was no one else around to make fun of him, and two, because he’d wanted to be that. He’d wanted to be romantic and make her feel special and loved. He’d wanted and believed in a movie happily ever after because it was his goal. Ryan did whatever it took to achieve his goals.

  But he’d failed at that stupid, childish goal, and he finally learned something from his parents. Some Harringtons weren’t cut out for a happily ever after.

  “I hacked the hell out of it once I figured out you weren’t coming back or dead in a ditch somewhere.” And if he had an ax, he’d hack it again right now for no other reason than she was bringing this back up to the forefront. The pain. The failure of not giving her what she wanted or being what she needed.

  The want. The idiotic attraction that curled through his muscles every time she was close.

  She touched the scarred wood that had grown over itself. Ryan had believed his heart had the same kind of defenses, but in this little world of trees where’d they’d basically played house as teenagers, his heart hurt. And damn her for that.

  “I never meant for you to think I’d been hurt.”

  “What the hell did you expect me to think? No good-bye. No note. Not a damn thing, until that stupid postcard with nothing but your name on it a few weeks later.” He’d promised himself not to go here, not to walk down this particular memory lane. But next to the tree they’d once huddled under, making out, sneaking beer, promising everything, he couldn’t fight.

  “I didn’t know what to write. I just wanted you to know—”

  “I’m heading home, so if you don’t want to walk the three miles back to my place, let’s go.” He wasn’t about to stand here and talk about this anymore. None of it mattered. It was all too long gone.

  “You’re not even going to ask why I came out here?”

  “No.” He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know anymore. He just wanted to survive the next five days, get their annulment, and never deal with Celia Grant again.

  “Because it hurts, doesn’t it? I’m not crazy thinking this hurts you, too?”

  Yeah. Hurt. Ached. Burned. This all was a trip down memory lane he thought he’d be able to avoid. He’d been sure he wouldn’t feel all this again. He was an adult now, and he’d moved on.

  But she was here, and, yeah, it fucking hurt. Because of their past, sure, but also because something about her now drew him, too. And he was blackmailing her, essentially using her, and when he was near her it was hard to remember that Harrington, Gramps, Nate, and Vivvy were all worth that.

  She touched the spot on the tree again. “Every memory. Every reminder. It’s like being cut open all over again. I can’t be feeling that alone. I wanted to believe I was, but I’m not, am I? You’re hurting, too, and we can’t escape it. It’s everywhere.”

  He took a deep breath, to temper his response or to maybe not respond at all, but her blue eyes were staring right at him and he couldn’t power his way through this one. Not here. “Of course it hurts me. You might have created some alternate universe for yourself where I was an asshole, but I loved you.”

  …

  Why did she keep putting herself in a position to be utterly slayed by his words? Cut down, knocked over, brokenhearted all over again? A lovely little glimpse at exactly why she’d never wanted to come back. Not for anything.

  No matter what good parts had been, all that really rooted and grew here was pain.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” But her gaze fell on the scarred-over words, their initials gone. Gone. And she couldn’t force herself out of this place or this moment.

  He’d brought her here with blackmail. They couldn’t stop arguing with each other, and he kept telling her what to do. Wearing her down, trying to convince her to see things his way, just as he used to.

  But the things he’d say, in those rare bursts of temper, reminded her of the parts of him she’d cared for. And in being reminded and beat down and here and messing up everything, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was some healing to be found.

  Maybe something good could come out of this disaster of a visit. Putting their past to rest. Maybe? Was it possible? Could she scar over like this tree? Heal and move on, and have little more than a bump left?

  “You better not be thinking about disappearing. I might understand why you did the things you did, but I’m not giving up—I can’t give up—this show.”

  Well, so much for healing. “Yes, I know.”

  “So, you’re not thinking about going back to LA?”

  She sighed. There had been a few moments last night, tossing and turning, where she thought about leaving. Calling his bluff. Because for the briefest moments last night he’d acted as though he cared and if he did, surely he wouldn’t hurt her by putting her reputation on the line. Surely after last night he understood how important her reputation was.

  No, not just important. Her image was everything.

  “Celia, let me tell you right now—“

  “No, I don’t plan on disappearing.” For the moment. One step at a time. And right now, she didn’t have a clue as to what that step was. Not until she knew what kind of deal Brad had to make with her mother. “But you need to understand, if my mother catches wind of me being here… Being in her orbit like this, being within touching distance, it’s got all the potential to end everything.”

  That one little secret had all the power in the world over her. In Hollywood she could pretend it didn’t. She could pretend a lot of
things. She could arm herself with Aubrey and lawyers, but if her mother knew she was here, there would be no way to avoid a face-to-face meeting. Celia didn’t know how to fight her mother in person. She didn’t know how to protect herself against her mother’s accusations, or the sureness in her mother’s blame.

  She couldn’t handle her mother here. Here, where she couldn’t manage half a damn facade because every memory, every hurt, was carved into the landscape just like the damn tree Ryan had once carved their initials in.

  Then hacked it off. Angry and hurt.

  “I know you loved me,” she whispered, not sure where the sentiment came from. Which was a lie. She knew exactly where that sentiment came from. I loved you, too.

  He turned away, as if he were going to leave her in the little cluster of trees that had once been their sanctuary. “What does it matter now?” But he stopped short of disappearing altogether.

  “I just mean, I know it wasn’t all you making the decisions or maybe I understand why you did. I know you loved me. I know you weren’t some evil dictator, if that’s the impression I’m giving. But you have to understand I can’t be here. I can’t go back to that place—those memories. As many good pieces as there are with you—the bad of everything else outweighs it all. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want all this pain to come back. I’m free now.”

  He turned, his look grave and grim, and was it her imagination or was pity mixed in there too? “Cee,” he said in that low rumbly voice he’d developed with age. The voice that danced along her skin like a touch, like an embrace, promising something she couldn’t allow herself to have. “As long as you’re running, as long as you’re pretending…you aren’t free.”

  She couldn’t breathe. The utter truth of it, no matter how hard she tried to deny those words, the reality, it was there, banding around her lungs.

  Tears sprang unbidden, and he touched her. Just the brush of a thumb to a cheek, and it broke away all those reserves that were already crumbling.

  More tears slipped over. Defeat. Despair. She’d never be free. So what was the damn point? She wanted to lean into him, to find comfort somewhere. How badly she missed comfort. Fighting had kept her going for so long. Aubrey’s drive, her own dreams, but now she just wanted to collapse. Into someone. Into Ryan.

  So she let herself lean, and his other arm gingerly held her there. An awkward embrace, really, but it had been so long since she’d had a hug that had any kind of genuine feeling behind it, no matter how confused that feeling was.

  “I can’t believe you’re not telling me what to do. How to fix it.” She sniffled, giving herself this moment of weakness. To lean against his strength, breathe him in. She let herself wallow in the feel of his arms around her until it wasn’t awkward. Until it felt right when his hand cupped the back of her neck, holding her face against his shoulder.

  She sighed, because the brush of his fingertips across the back of her neck triggered something she hadn’t felt in a while. A spark. A pang. A longing or awareness or something she had no business feeling. Because it wasn’t just a memory, a wish to go back. It was this man in front of her, right now, in their present, making her feel these things.

  So she let herself. Just this once, then she’d build back her defenses and fight. She would just keep fighting until what she wanted was permanent. Until who she wanted to be couldn’t be undone.

  “Trust me, I’m biting my damn tongue in order not to.”

  She laughed, which felt kind of weird and rusty and uncomfortable, but it was a laugh, and when she looked up at him she managed a smile as he let go of her neck. But the thank-you died on her lips.

  He was going to kiss her, maybe, the way his head was angled? Or she was going to kiss him because she wanted to? She wanted to press her mouth to his and forget everything else except that he was a man and she was a woman. She swallowed because as much as she wanted to look away, as much as she knew this was wrong, a part of her ached for it, for him.

  For someone to touch her and know her, and really Ryan was the only person that could ever happen with.

  There was the briefest brush of fingertips, as though they were both reaching out to each other, and maybe they were. Maybe despite all the ways she knew it was wrong and he had to know it was wrong, they were still reaching for each other. Always.

  Then his phone went off, and the spell was broken. Just like that. He stepped away. She stepped away. Even as a kind of disappointment seeped through her limbs, her mind knew what she should feel. What she’d make herself feel.

  Relief.

  Chapter Seven

  He didn’t like it. That moment replayed in his head as he shoved the casserole dish of macaroni and cheese into the oven.

  He’d thought about kissing her, imagined what it would be like. Would she feel the same? Different? He’d touched her, just a hand to her neck, and it was like being burned. Burned with what he could not, even for a second, allow himself to have.

  He swore, slamming the oven door shut. This was not part of the plan. This was not acceptable. No matter what emotions or attraction she managed to play on, he couldn’t lose his self-control.

  She was here to make Celebrity Air a bona fide reality. Anything that he’d thought about in that little place that had once been an oasis wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was unacceptable.

  Celia emerged from the guest room, looking as run-down as he’d seen her in the few days she’d been here. She had little bags under her eyes, a paler hue to her skin. Even her makeup was worn away, so that she looked…not so much like a celebrity. Not a star. Not Celia.

  Had this afternoon done that? Admitting to them both that he had loved her instead of continuing to pretend he’d been some kind of dictator. Had the truth washed away all her pretending?

  He shouldn’t want that. He’d prefer the polish and shine and pretending right now. The act. He knew well enough not to get messed up with the Hollywood version of her. But when she looked like a woman at the end of a long, hard day, his gut clenched. Some little glimpse at what might be. Do not go there. Never.

  “How’d the talk with your lawyer go?” he asked, focusing his attention on the oven. He’d watch the pasta dish bake rather than watch her look at him with expressions he couldn’t read or weren’t sure were real. She was an actress. He needed to remember that any emotion she showed him might be fake.

  “My mother’s taken care of for the time being. She…doesn’t know I’m here.”

  He was not relieved because he didn’t care. This part was inconsequential to him as long as it didn’t cause her to go.

  And if she went…would he really enact the threat he’d brought her here with? Discomfort banded in his chest, because somehow in a few short days his determination on that point changed. What hadn’t seemed like a very big deal at the time now seemed huge. Asking for a divorce instead of annulment, making it public and messy. Could he really do that to her?

  I have built the life I dreamed about when I was being beaten, and I won’t give that up. He might not love her anymore, but he had loved that girl and it seemed unfathomable to break that dream, even with all it might give him.

  “I just want to forget about it right now.” She marched over to his TV. “I want to watch a movie,” Celia announced, as if that would solve the world’s problems.

  Maybe in her world, it did.

  “You keep your movies in here?” she asked, pulling open the first drawer. It was only then he remembered…

  “No!”

  She glanced over at him and it bought him some time to circumnavigate the couch and slam the drawer shut. “Look, why don’t you watch something on my computer? I’ve got Netflix.”

  Celia wrinkled her nose. “What are you hiding in there?”

  “Nothing.” His voice was about an octave higher than normal. Damn it. Why hadn’t he moved these? Sure, he hadn’t expected her to go poking around his stuff, but he should have been smarter about this.

  “I’m not goi
ng to be offended if you have porn in there.”

  “I don’t have porn in there!”

  “Wow, it must be really kinky stuff if you won’t even let me look.”

  Not funny. So completely not funny. He clenched his jaw to keep from smiling or, worse, laughing. “I do not have porn in there.”

  She fisted hands on her waist, glaring up at him. “Then move.”

  “No.”

  Then that defiant, determined look softened. “Oh my God. You have my movies in there, don’t you?”

  “You’re in nothing but chick flicks,” he scoffed. He knew he was going to lose, but he couldn’t give up the ghost yet. Maybe he could find a way for this not to be embarrassing.

  “Ryan.” She shook her head, her smile surprised and baffled and, damn it, beautiful.

  “Which ones?” She tried to push past him, but he put his hands on her shoulders and kept her firmly out of reach. “Oh, you have all of my movies in there, don’t you?”

  “I can’t believe this,” he muttered, and no matter how hard he was trying to scowl, his lips kept quirking up. He stepped out of the way because what else was there to do? She pulled the drawer open and in the little corner along with action flicks and comedies was every single movie she’d ever been in.

  “Every single one,” she said, her voice cracking as her finger trailed across the spines of each case.

  “Oh, so what if I have your movies? It doesn’t mean anything except I was married to a movie star. Or am. Or whatever.” Her shiny eyes, her pleasure, left him feeling rattled, off-balance. Humor was one thing, but those were emotions he couldn’t stand in himself.

  “It means something,” she said quietly, so quietly he almost didn’t hear. “Maybe this all means something.”

  “What could any of this possibly mean?”

  For the first time since she’d been here, she touched him. She initiated the contact. She pressed her palm to his shoulder and let it slide down his arm. And then back up, as if she were testing something, looking for something.