When Holliday moved to New York, my Aunt Maggie introduced the two of us and we became fast friends. Like me, Holliday wasn’t into the Manhattan club scene, she preferred solitude and for good reason. Her trauma and the fear kept her a prisoner in her own life.
When she felt up to it, the two of us would spend weekends here in The Harbour. In the summers, we’d attend a few events, which were relatively low-key, but it helped her recovery process. I felt responsible for her safety, and desperately wanted to help her gain some sense of normalcy.
“It’s not just that, our talk before I left for Malibu . . . you gave me a lot to think about where Ronan and I are concerned. I miss him so much that it hurts.” She swiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “He’s texted and left voicemails, the pain in his voice . . . it’s tearing me up inside.”
I focused on the ocean waves crashing into each other and then disappearing until another set appeared as I listened to Holliday. The way she was feeling was familiar, I had been there. The only difference was that when my ex, Aiden, and I were done there were no calls or texts. It was just . . . over. Memories were all that remained. Occasionally, those memories were right there at the surface.
There were times that I’d see Aiden’s reflection in the mirror. When I’d brush my teeth, I’d remember his muscular body wrapped in a towel and his dark hair slicked back, wet from the shower. Other times when his face appeared, I imagined what it was like to slap that scruffy cheek for hurting me.
Holliday dragged a hand through her hair. “And, after all that, I want to understand why he did what he did but I’m also afraid of the answers.”
There was nothing I could say to Holliday that I hadn’t already said. She needed to figure this out on her own. I knew that she was scared, it was no secret that fear was her worst enemy. Deep down, I believed that she knew what she wanted. The answer was so obviously painted on her face, especially when she said his name. Me on the other hand, I only hoped I’d find someone to love and love me as deeply as Holliday loved Ronan.
“MATT.” DONNA’S VOICE CHIRPED through my Bluetooth speakers. “Tomorrow morning, you are all set for Wake Up with Stacy. I’ve emailed you all the details.”
I flipped my turn signal and maneuvered my Range Rover through the rainy streets of Manhattan. “Great, thanks, Donna.”
I was less than thrilled about being Stacy Carlton’s co-host. The chick was a gossip hound, but her show was ratings gold. It was a good opportunity for people to see me in a new light aside from action star—personable, laid back Matt. The side I rarely showed the public, other than a few seconds in an interview before a premiere.
“Have you heard anything about the movie yet?” I asked, pulling my car into the parking garage of my apartment building on the Upper West Side.
“Nothing yet, but I expect that the final contract with come through in the next seventy-two hours.”
“What is taking so damn long? Is it the salary? I told you I thought it was too much.”
“The salary is what you deserve. Don’t you worry—that is my job. Now, get a good night’s sleep. The car will be there to pick you up at five a.m.”
I wanted that deal closed so that I could announce it on television tomorrow. This role. This movie. It was a game changer.
“I got it and I will be ready.” I ended the call and slid into my parking space. I was looking forward to a quiet night in, Netflix and pizza. Marco Polo was my current binge, although I’ve been hearing good things about Bloodline.
I hit the up arrow on the elevator and then stepped inside. After inserting my keycard, I punched my code into the panel.
When I stepped off the elevator onto my floor, my cellphone rang. “Hey, Ronan. What’s up, man?”
“I need a drink, are you available?”
He sounded pained. This more than likely had something to do with his relationship with Holliday. As much as I tried to avoid the gossip rags, it wasn’t easy.
“Yeah, man, how about Murphy’s in thirty?”
“Thanks, mate, I’m buying. See you there.”
“Man, you look like shit.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out so harshly, but they did.
“Piss off,” he grumbled in his Irish brogue running his hands over his face.
I laughed and settled back into my chair. Our server approached the table. Her hands trembled when she tapped the pen against the notepad. She was star struck, but I was going to do my best to put her at ease. My eyes drifted to her nametag—Ginny.
“I’ll have the boneless wings, twelve with extra hot sauce and another beer, thanks, Ginny.” I lifted my empty bottle and she nodded.
Ronan ordered a basket of regular wings and a glass of whiskey, although something told me he was going to buy the bottle.
“How many times are you going to tap the screen, Connolly?”
“What?” he asked, shifting his gaze towards the baseball game on TV.
I jutted my chin. “Your phone.”
Our server, Ginny, arrived with our drinks, and he downed the whole thing before I took my first sip. He called Ginny back over to the table, handed her his AMEX, and instructed her to charge him for a bottle. Predictable.
She hurried back to the bar, her red ponytail and hips swaying in time. Ginny reminded me of a model I used to fuck on a regular basis. Fuck. I needed to get laid. The only thing that seemed to get me hard these days was the thought of Tinley Atkinson’s sweet lips wrapped around my cock. I jerked off nightly to the fantasy of fucking her into my mattress.
Ronan signed for the bottle of Jameson 18 and then proceeded to slam back another drink. By the twisted look on his face, I could tell he was relishing that burn.
“Man, you should be on cloud nine. You fucking landed the Van Wyk picture.”
“I did, and I’m elated,” he replied, grinning as wide as the plains of Texas.
“Well, then I guess the rumor in the tabloids is true.”
“What rumor?” he asked, lifting the glass to take another drink.
“The one about how you and Holliday are over.”
He swirled the contents of his glass before taking another long sip. “We’re not over. I went and fucked things up, but I am determined to make it up to her.”
“Speaking of fucking things up, I’d like to anger-bang our waitress. Think I have a shot with Ginny?”
“What do you have to be angry about?”
I tossed back more of my beer, savoring the taste before swallowing. “Nothing. She just reminds me of a bitch model I was once screwing on a regular basis.”
“Well, then go screw the bitch model, not that fine thing.”
Ronan was torn up over this woman. I wondered what the fuck went down between the two of them. I wanted to ask him about Tinley. I knew this was not the time so I redirected and pulled my shit together. He needed a friend right now.
“I was only joking. I don’t have it in me to be that kind of asshole.”
“You are sort of an asshole.” He laughed, tracing the rim of the glass with his finger.
“I know you’re hurting, man. And judging by your appearance, I suspect that you haven’t slept or had a solid meal in days.”
“I love her, and every day I spent with her . . . I fell in love with her over and over again.”
“Jesus, Connolly,” I huffed. “Look, I feel like a giant pussy talking about this flowery relationship stuff, but if it’s any consolation, when I saw the two of you together a few weeks ago at Ella’s party, I could tell she was the one for you.”
“Fuck.” He slammed his hand to the table.
“So, Connolly, what are you going do about it?”
Before he could answer my question, Ginny dropped our wings off with a bottle of hot sauce.
He shook his head. “I’m hopeful, but I think it might be too late. Holliday hasn’t called or texted me. It’s been nearly two weeks.”
I’d never seen this guy so worked up over a woman. He was in deep—it was defi
nitely love. Good for him.
I grabbed a fry from the basket. “Man, it’s never too late. It’s time for your Hail Mary pass.” My Irish friend raised his brow, confusion painted all over his face. I could see that he needed more convincing so I spread my arms wide. “The grand gesture”
“Propose to her?”
I shook my head. “No. Despite the fact that women love jewelry, she will hate that. She’ll kick you in the balls for sure. You said you were determined, so quit moping and go win her back.”
Ronan busied himself with his phone. After a few moments his head fell back and I saw a glimmer of relief.
“Good news?” I asked, and poured more hot sauce over the wings.
“Yes, very good news.” He stood up. “She wants to talk, and . . . she misses me.”
“Good luck, man.”
“Thanks, buddy.” He grasped my shoulder and headed out the door in the pouring rain. I finished my basket of wings and settled the bill. I tried and failed to persuade Ginny to let me take the bottle of Jameson home.
By the time I downed the last drops of my beer, the rain had stopped. As I walked to my Range Rover, the smell of spoiled garbage and wet pavement fused together in the air.
I hated New York. The smells, the crime, and the people were the worst. I missed Los Angeles and the scent of citrus from the orange trees in my backyard hanging in the air. I’d give anything to be back in California. Right now, I’d be on my motorcycle zipping through the canyon and then hitting the waves on my board. Hell, at this point I’d rather be in Texas—out on the ranch riding my horse across the dusty landscape.
As I opened the door to my vehicle, the reality that I wouldn’t be back to either place anytime soon hit me. Once this current movie wrapped, I’d be heading to Montana and I couldn’t wait, but it would be nice to have some downtime before production started. The film was about an ex-NFL player who dropped out of the spotlight at the top of his game to live a quieter life in a small mountain town. It would be a more challenging role, equal parts drama and romance. I’ve had my fair share of action movies, but this would be something out of my wheelhouse. When I’d nailed the audition, I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t been this stoked about a movie in a while. I needed the change, to up my game and prove that my acting had more to offer than thrills and spills. This is why I was hoping the contract was final so that I could tell the world in my own words tomorrow.
My fingers tapped against the steering wheel when the sounds of “With or Without You” by U2 gently piped through the speakers. As I exited the parking garage, I slammed on my brakes as a tall blonde wearing a bright red trench coat darted in front of me. Mouthing “I’m so sorry” she waved and skirted around the right side of my car. Then, all that blonde hair and the color red had me back to thinking about Tinley Atkinson.
MY PALMS SMOOTHED OVER the black fabric of the form-fitting dress, as I took in my reflection in the mirror.
“This is the one, Tinley. It hugs you in all the right places,” my stylist, Brianne, said from behind me. “Let’s add the Saint Laurent leather Jane sandals and the Alexander Wang cross earrings. It will be sleek and on trend for morning television.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, that didn’t take too long.” I took up my hair so Brianne could unzip the dress. In the morning, I’d have to manage this task alone.
This was an important interview. I was going on Wake Up with Stacy to talk about the Elizabeth Atkinson Foundation. Each year we held several charitable benefits for the art and theatre communities, two causes, both near and dear to my mother.
As Brianne busied herself with packing up the garments and accessories, I walked into the Butler’s pantry in search of tea but then changed my mind opting for hot water and lemon instead. Brianne had been my stylist for over a decade. The year after my mother died, the Tonys, the Oscars, the Emmys, and the Golden Globes all had tributes in her honor. Being the daughter of a famed Broadway and film legend, it was my responsibility to accept any and all accolades in her honor. It didn’t hurt matters that at the time I was the breakout star of daytime’s longest running soap opera, Barrington Shores.
“Everything is packed. I called Ricchetti Designs to let them know I’ll be dropping off the clothes tonight.”
I grabbed a mug off the counter filling it up with hot water from the espresso maker.
“Thanks, Brianne, I really appreciate you pulling the looks and taking care of everything.”
“Good luck tomorrow morning, although you won’t need it,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’re a pro around the cameras.”
“I’m not entirely sure about that, and a little luck never hurt anyone,” I called out, adding in a squeeze of lemon.
“I’ll make arrangements to pick up the clothing from you tomorrow after the show.”
“Very good. Thanks again!”
Brianne showed herself out of my suite at the York Hotel and I swiped open my email on my phone to confirm the morning schedule. Blowing across my beverage, I noted that the car service would be arriving at seven to take me to the studio.
A new email appeared as my inbox updated. It was from my former agent, Johanna Kerber. She wanted me to meet for drinks this week. That meant one thing—she had a movie or television show to pitch. A million times, more like a million and one times, I’d told her that I would not be doing any more movies or television shows. Maybe she wanted to catch up, we were friends after all.
Curiosity had the better of me as my finger hovered over the reply button. It couldn’t hurt to hear what she had to say. Between running things at the foundation and the art gallery, my schedule kept me busy. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t miss aspects of the television and film industry. But, then again, I was happy being creative in other ways, like dancing. Modern, tap, jazz, and ballet, I loved it all. Art and theater, it fed my soul, just like it did my mother’s.
When I told my mother I’d wanted to minor in dance at Columbia, she was over the moon. My father was elated that I’d elected to major in Business, calling me “a chip off the old block.” Taking a deep breath, I walked to the window, stopping to admire the city bathed in colorful lights stretched before me. My mother loved this city and New York loved her right back.
“Darling, I love Manhattan, I’ll take Park Avenue any day.”
A smile pulled at my lips as I wrapped my arms around my body. “I’m going to make you so proud, Mom.”
I SAT BACK IN my chair staring at the sheet of paper with the show’s agenda, more specifically her name. My finger traced over the black ink—Tinley Atkinson. Now, more than ever, I believed in fate. As the hair and makeup team buzzed around me, I considered the fact that Tinley was sitting in one of the three guest suites just down the hall.
I thought back to my previous encounters with Tinley. I wondered if she was dating that Avalon executive—the guy she’d left with the night of Ella Connolly’s welcoming party.
If she was single, today, I’d make my move.
Stacy warmed up the audience with a basic Q&A session giving away a few prizes. I watched on the monitor from backstage, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tinley before the show.
“Matthew, as you requested, your mug will have Lavazza Classico medium roast,” Gil, the show’s producer, said grasping my shoulder.
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“She’s the best,” he added, folding his arms over his chest.
I stole another glance down the hallway that led to the guest suites. The crowd erupted at Stacy’s mention of my name.
Shaking his head, Gil huffed a laugh. “They love you, man. Today’s show will be one for the record books.”
“Yes, they do,” I reaffirmed, feeling confident and perhaps a bit cocky. Why not? I was a ratings ploy for him, and I had my own reasons for agreeing to do the show.
“Thanks for being here,” Gil said, tapping his phone screen to life.
“Thanks for having me.”
&
nbsp; Nodding, he placed his phone to his ear and then strode up towards the control room. The monitor switched to local news for a weather report. More rain. This spring weather was depressing. I needed a vacation—sun, sand, and surf.
“Doesn’t look like this rain will let up anytime soon, keep those umbrellas handy.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, my eyes flashed to the left, and I stopped listening.
Tinley.
Fuck. She was insanely beautiful. She stopped midstride her blue eyes connecting with mine. A small smile played across her pink lips. “Matthew Barber, we meet again.” She laughed under her breath and I loved how her blue eyes twinkled when she said my name.
With my hands shoved into my pockets, I strode towards her. The black dress she had on fit her like a glove. It was cut so that one of her shoulders was exposed, and my fingers itched to feel her skin.
She reached up her fingers adjusting the waves of her ponytail. “Tinley Atkinson, if I didn’t know better I’d say that you were stalking me,” I said, surprised, when she stiffened, her hands pausing for a moment.
“You wish that I was stalking you.” She turned away from me, taking up her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Help a girl out, be a dear and zip me up.”
My mind went into overdrive at the sight of her sun-kissed skin exposed just above her lace bra. I wondered what Tinley would look like spread beneath me, all that hair fanned against expensive Italian sheets. The only answer—beautiful.
Grasping the zipper between my thumb and index finger, I took my time watching as the cool metal slid up and over her skin.
“All set.”
“Thank you,” she replied, turning back to face me, her eyes taking me in with interest. “I didn’t see your name on the call sheet. Are you a last-minute guest?”
“Actually, I’m Stacy’s co-host today. Looks like I’ll be interviewing you. I may even throw in some personal questions. We can get really intimate.”
A dark blush spread across Tinley’s cheeks. I wondered if she flushed like that when she came. Over the past few weeks, I’d spent a fair amount of time wondering how she moaned during sex.
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